If you're a Moslem you have to go to Mecca before you die. If you're a Hindu, you have to have your ashes scattered on the Ganges. If you're a Flyfisherman, you have to cast for Atlantic salmon before you die. Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, Scandinavia, and Kola Peninsula of Russia, and the Maritimes of eastern Canada were all locations of many of my dreams. In Scotland and Ireland, you can live in a castle and fish private waters that have historically been the playgrounds of royalty. Price Charles is an ardent salmon fisherman on those snooty waters where a tie, tweeds, and waxed Barbour jacket differentiate the Brittish anglers from us less genteel Americans. The fishing is good, if expensive; but one can do better. In Iceland, the best "beats" on the top rivers may cost you a thousand dollars a day. If money is no object, you might seriously consider these fabulous private waters. In Russia, there's the thrill of going into the Kola Peninsula wilderness, previously off-limits to everyone because it was their entry-forbidden submarine base. Historically, if you snuck in, you risked being shot, so the fishing was exceptional, and limited to a few Communist mucky-mucks. Until recently, its total inaccessibility made it the best salmon fishery in the world. I received reports from the great outdoors writer and naturalist, Ted Williams, that it is tragically suffering from over fishing and poaching. In Scandinavia, big fish are exceeded only by beautiful blondes. Norway, especially, is noted for salmon over 40 pounds. Big waters and heavy, two handed rods, 12 feet and longer are common. It may not be remote wilderness, but it offers opportunities for some of the largest salmon on the planet. Incredibly, my understanding wife, Helen, who once gave me a hunting trip for red stag, Himalayan tahr, and chamois, in the new Zealand Alps for our 25th wedding anniversary, gave me another unforgettable Christmas present this past year: a week of salmon fishing during the peak of the run on the fabulous Flowers River of northern Labrador.

With help from Jim Bender of the Lower Forty Orvis flyfishing shop in Worcester, and great salmon fishing friends like Felix Stolilonis and Ted Williams, I chose the equipment I'd need for the trip. A nine-foot Sage graphite rod for a nine weight line. A big salmon reel with a smooth, reliable drag and a lot of backing. New neoprene waders. A fly-box full of Blue Charms. Bottles of insect repellent. And a ticket to Goose Bay Labrador, via Boston, Halifax ,and St. John's, where I'd be met by Jim Burton, bush pilot, and owner of the Flowers River Lodge, and flown north, by float plane to one of the most remote and pristine salmon fisheries in the world.

Like an excited child at Christmas, I went to bed restlessly, that night at the Labrador Inn, the hotel that sooner or later hosts most of the world's serious salmon and giant brook trout fishermen. We were all eagerly anticipating the following morning's flight. Painfully, the opening of this Christmas present was going to be delayed. Substantially. Fog. Record fog. More fog than any Labrador residents could ever recall. We were able to fly into Goose Bay in huge planes that could operate blindly on instrumentation. But float planes all fly by visual flight regulations. Nobody could see far enough to safely get into or out of any of Labrador's salmon lodges. Even with helicopters. Picture multimillionaires, seemingly multi-digits of them, crammed up, waiting to get in or out. CEO's used to snapping their fingers and having mountains move. There was nothing they or I could do about the FOG. Nobody remembers it ever being this bad. 14 straight days of isolation. It's always bad in Labrador, but never like this. After an untypical, beautifully warm, sunny, dry, spring, summer just refused to emerge. Rain. More rain. High winds. Cold. More fog. Bizarre weather, typical of what seems to be occurring with more frequency all over the planet. After four nights at the Labrador Inn, we were all getting a little desperate. Most of the fishermen by now were on a first name basis with the waitress and bartender.

I was under particularly serious stress, primarily because I was supposed to be leading two safaris to Kenya in August for the annual spectacle of the wildebeest migration from the Serengeti of Tanzania into the Masai Mara of Kenya. I couldn't risk getting stranded. Too many people were depending on me. My thoughts continuously considered the nightmarish possibility of finally getting to the lodge at the end of the week, only to be stranded, unable to leave and make my connections to Nairobi. If you're going to fish Labrador, make sure you have nothing pressing following your trip. If you can afford it, book two weeks to fish.

"I hope I don't see you again today." - A common, black humor, pre-breakfast greeting at the Inn. We were all prisoners. Each drawn here for the same reason. Each confined by the unrelenting east winds that shrouded all of Labrador up to the Ungava Peninsula. When you've prepaid three or four thousand dollars for a weeks fishing, things get pretty tense, each day you lose your fishing time. We were all frustrated and stir-crazy, waiting for the fog to lift, and conditions to permit safe flying of our float planes. Our Seemingly callous salutation reflected our mutual hopes that flight conditions would change, and we would all be on our way.

I was waiting with TSN, Canada's sports network television crew, itching to fly out to the fabulous Flowers River, Labrador's most northern and remote salmon stream.

They were here to film the great river's first runs of Atlantic salmon, fresh from the sea. When a TV film crew selects a river to fish, you know it's special. Tough work. Pressure. Having to catch fish on film. Like having to make love to someone your passionate about, I suppose. Fly-fishermen from all over the world were here, too, like pilgrims trying to get to their Mecca, each group readying to fly out to a special, remote river, either by sea plane or helicopter. For many men, money was no object. But even unlimited expense accounts couldn't get anyone out any earlier. Phone-lines continuously buried with messages to and from the Inn and the offices at the bay, where all the sea planes were floating in wait at the docks.

Like birds, salmon have there traditional time to migrate, to leave the ocean's where they've swum without boundaries, and fed, and grown fat and heavy, ready to spawn. We were all hoping to rendezvous with them. We were all hoping the conditions would be right. Too little water could delay the run. We were all hoping we would hit their movements synchronously. A climatic connection of the civilized and the wild. Everyone had done his homework, calculating carefully that this was the perfect week to catch the run. No one could ever predict that mid July, usually Labrador's sunsets, least tempestuous month, would so disappoint and surprise.

Waiting. Conversations with wealthy sportsmen who Argentina and Uruguay,and from Alaska to the Keys. Sharing adventures about trophies that didn't get away. Dove hunts. Quail hunts. Elk hunts. Sheep hunts. Tarpon. Bonefish. Tuna. The exciting stories momentarily dulling the gnawing urge to get on with it. No need to brag about anything. Everybody here has done it all.

Goose Bay/ Happy Valley. Population 8000. The hub of services for all of Labrador. It was originally built by the American Airforce in the 1940,s. Goose Bay has one of the longest runs ways in the world, with virtually no traffic, and vast stretches of relatively flat, unoccupied space. For this reason it is a flight training area for several countries' air force flying at extreme speeds.

Remoteness comes with a price. $3.75 for a bag of potato chips. $4.00 a beer. Best but in town might be the $10.00 fresh cod dinner, right out of the Labrador Current. With nothing but food, drink, a few shops, and mini-golf course, this was goinfg to be an expense delay. I think in my window shopping, I saw every hand sewn glasswork, soap stone carving, embroidery, bead work, doll, fur, and skin in town, twice. One sporting goods store had a military museum and taxidermy display of locally taken specimens that were fascinating.

Jim Burton with a 16 lb. Atlantic Salmon

Everything from rare and endangered raptors to sea ducks and alcids, deer, moose, caribou, giant brook trout, and SALMON. They only reminded us more of what we were missing out on. You need to be patient to live in Labrador. Come to find out that this kind of weather delay is uncommon. The fishermen waiting to start lose out. The fishermen stranded at the lodge benefiting from extra fishing, if their arms can stand anymore casting and fighting fish.

There are, in fact, always delays in Labrador. Icey cold waters regularly meet warm winds, concocting the foggy brew that anesthetizes the transport system. Titaniclass icebergs ply the coast. A flight to see them is worth the trip. Some as big as a football field. Some just as tall and, on a clear day, quite visible 20 miles away. Nine-tenths of them under water! 2700 feet deep! The odd poplar bear summers here along with an occasional beluga and norwhal. The weather is notoriously miserable. But this year was even more extreme. Many residents couldn't remember when there had been so much rain for so long. They were waiting for the sun, too. Somewhere, far up north, there was a gourmet cook, and guides waiting for us. And a river full of fish run salmon, too. It was getting to much to bear. We had got reports from the Flowers River camp that the salmon had just entered the river in big number. More numerous than ever. Another radio message. Teasingly the fog was thinning, at least momentarily. The bush pilots were going to give it a try. "Hurry up and pack your gear!" It was like God speaking. We were about to be delivered.