What is it that draws salmon fishermen so far and at such a cost? And at suck a risk? Certainly not hordes of mosquitos and black flies that can be tormenting when the winds dissipate. There are stories of big mosquitos mistakenly refueled at Goose Bay Airport. The black flies are even worse: vicious, carnivorous, little, flying piranhas, leaving bloody, itchy bite-marks and eliciting harsh expletives even from a teacher. The there's the hierarchy of increasingly more serious biting flies: horse flies, deer flies, moose flies, and STOUTS. I thought how benign the Amazon was in comparison.

It is certainly not the persistent wind, and cold and rain that beckons us here. The lure, of course, is the possibility of angling for the most intriguing fish on the planet, Salmon sales, "the leaper." To fight in a small river a fish that knows no boundaries, to make a tenuous connection to a metaphor for a tempest. The moment distills to a confrontation between civilization and the wild. To listen to a reel sing as its line races to its backing. To be dazzled by its flash of bright silver as it leaps from the drab grey depths. This is the climactic, definitive moment. The raison d'être of the salmon and the salmon fishermen. Incredible leaps of two, three, four feet. If they were humans they would be Barishnikovs or Jordans. One bows his rod in deference to the strength and style of the leaping fish, lessening the pressure to advert breaking the gossamer leader. It is a practical gesture, symbolic of the respect so deserved by the salmon. It is more than enough to make you forget about the thousands of dollars, delays and discomforts. It is, in fact, hopelessly addictive, incomparable moment of pure passion.

To merely hook a single salmon may require hundreds of casts. Maybe a thousand casts. Some men fish for a week without landing a fish. You don't go salmon fishing to eat salmon. You could buy the produce of an entire fish market for what the trip could cost you. You go for the chance to connect with a magnificent, natural power and aesthetic. To cast for the ultimate.

Of course, now, the primary challenge was just getting out. When word finally came that the renowned float bush pilots were going to attempt penetrating the thinning fog bank give it a try this morning, the reaction was frantic. Rod tubes, duffle bags, cameras, and packs were clumsily rushed down the narrow stairwell to be loaded in Jim Burton's classic, mini-condition Beaver float plane. He's reportedly been offered $500,000 for it but loves it the way some of us love our '61 Corvette, our bird dog, or our wives. Burton is a legend among Labrador bush pilots, having set numerous flight records at a precocious age. If it has wings, he can pilot it, locally, regionally, or nationally. He's simply acknowledge as the best. This would be a flight to remember, just under the lifting clouds, across moose and caribou barrens and spruce forests, just above ancient and worn Precambrian mountain peaks. The deafening roar of the Beavers engine was music to us all. We needed headphones to protect our ears and communicate with each other. But no words needed to be said. We were on our way.

An hour and a half and 166 miles later, we could finally see the orange makers along the Flowers River, delineating the landing areas for the lodge. We were greeted by excited fishermen with tired arms and stories of many fish. Fishermen who missed their wives or girlfriends. Or who needed to get back to business. They had all caught salmon. As the departing anglers loaded up the Beaver, I noticed that several had spots on their shin, remnants of the measly vampire-kisses of the blackflies that sought their blood to nourish their eggs. The mosquitoes greeted us, too. No one went unabused when the wind died down. DEET necessarily replaces cologne here in Labrador.

We had finally entered a very special world replete with fine old scotch, Cuban cigars, money, intellect, stories, passion, and mostly Republicans. I met no one who hadn't previously caught big fish. They were all highly experienced connoisseurs of fishing. Respectful to tradition. Appreciative of what makes salmon special. Their bottom lines didn't matter. We all had one common denominator: a passion for salmon.

The Flowers River Lodge is the fiefdom and brain child of Jim Burton, the architect of ideas for this salmon fisherman's Shangri-la. There are over 200 salmon rivers in Newfoundland and Labrador. For me, discovering the little-known Flowers River was like discovering the New World. It is for now a temporary secret. The Flower River has not only the aesthetics and amenities, but also the second best catch rate of all of them. But what sets this river apart is its wadeable, sandy and gravel bottom. I like to catch fish without risking a broken leg or drowning. Many of Labradors waters are typically difficult to wade, with slippery big boulders. Waters like the Eagle River. This is one gorgeous, pleasurable, safe rivers to fish with numerous honey-hole pools.

You're likely to catch salmon on the Flowers River for several reasons. First, the river is remote, totally unreachable by the general public. Without a float plane, bush pilot, and river boat, you just can't get there. In much of Canada where the public has been able to gain access via new roads, rivers are often crowded and over fished. The fishing suffers and so does the aesthetic experience. I've heard horror stories of anglers needing to arrive at a pool before dawn to insure a spot on a great pool. The Flowers is so remote, even the aboriginal Inuit, Innu, and Metis tribes don't fish it. In fact, it's the most northern scheduled salmon river in all of Labrador. It doesn't even have another lodge on it. Salmon fishermen on the Flowers River literally have the whole river to themselves. What also attracted me to the lodge was the fact that it is the only lodge in Labrador that can boast of three species of game fish: salmon, Aortic Char, and brook trout.

The staff is highly skilled and I value them now as friends. Tom Morrissey, the meticulous culinary instructor at the University of Newfoundland and Labrador in St. John's was non hand to greet us. A true gourmet cook, he is the bush's answer to Julia Child. He makes magic on the wood stove and warranted, I'm sure, the $8000 tip that Bill Gates once give him. I need to go back one day and have seconds on brewis, one of his delicious native specialties, made from the improbably delicious combination of saltcured fish and hard-as- plaster dried bread.

After dinner, and toasts of classic, single-malts, we settled in early. The crackling wood stove devoured a mawfull of spruce logs, keeping the lodge warm and dry. I knew there was a big black bear near camp. I was hoping to get a photo of him. That night I was awakened by a strange, loud banging, several times during the night. I thought it might be the bear. It turned out to be the cabins settling over the permafrost foundation.

There's no urgency to rise early at the lodge, but Barry and I would wake at 5:00am and be out by 5:30am, I wanted to be fishing before the mericless winds picked up, which they seem to do religiously from 8 to 8:30am. By 9 or 10, casting can be an athletic feat and serious problem. As a right-hander, I appreciated Barry trying to position me in pools where the wind blew from my left to my right. The strategy precluded my casts drifting into my body and hooking myself.

I never had anyone tie the knots on my flies before, but Barry wanted to make sure I had no excuses losing a big, acrobatic fish. He loaded up the wooded river boat. They're heavier and more expensive than aluminum, but they bounce off boulders, which are plentiful midstream. Aluminum boats get dangerously stuck on the rocks. Wooden boats are consequently part of the aestheic and tradition of salmon fishing that Flowers River Lodge makes every effort to maintain. Salmon fishermen love tradition. Most of them are Tevias in waders.

As we headed down stream that first magical morning, everywhere we looked there were spruce trees. They are a staple of life here, indispensable for cabins, boats, and fuel. They hide nesting neotropical migrants, moose, bear, and caribou. Two young moose surveyed us among the the alders along the bank.

Barry would take me to Red Bear, Island Pool, and Top Pool. Three gems that I will remember for the rest of my life. I had only three days to fish, but with Barry guiding skills, I'd land twenty salmon. Improbable for such a rookie. Unlike on most of the world's finest salmon streams. Barry took me to school and gave me an education in finding fish. And what fish. Fresh from the sea, that still had ice clinging to them, despite having traveled 16 miles upstream. I had many salmon flies in my vest: Green Butts, Silver Doctors, Green Highlanders: but the only fly I ever needed was the Blue Charm. One morning, I took 7 salmon in a row on one Blue Charm. You'll want to bring a lot of Blue Charms to the Flowers.

I'll remember most my first salmon and my biggest salmon, a heavy 17 pound female. I actually gave that fish a kiss before I released her. I nearly lost her a couple of times. Had she chosen to run down stream, she would have been my " fish that got away" instead of a passionate memory deeply etched in my mind. Her great strength was all my experience and equipment could handle.

Fisherman Mark Blazis (r) and his Flowers River guide hold a 17-pound female Atlantic salmon that they Immediately released to spawn.

Ten heart-throbbing minutes later, as I held her for a photo, I thought how she was going to spawn many more salmon in this special stream. Maybe 10,000 eggs. Since only 5 to 10% of all adult salmon survive to spawn a second time, it was crucial to release her. Rare indeed are the giant that spawn three or four times. They are faunal treasures whose genetic value is incalculable. There is no room for any of them on someone's trophy wall. I treasure the picture of her just before she glided out of my hands, back to her pool.

She and all other salmon that have spawned are known as Klets. They spend the following winter in their stream, blacking and thinning, basically starving, gradually drifting back to the sea the following spring. If they're lucky and survive life in the sea at their recently discovered feeding grounds near Greenland and the Faros, they'll return again in another year and a half, even bigger, eager to spawn again. Many will be caught by Greenland and Faroe Lsland commercial fishermen. They're worth so much more alive than dead on ice.

Most salmon fishermen release all of there fish here. Occasionally, someone will keep a small male grilse, a sexually immature fish under 10 pounds, to poach or grill. The basic feeling among all the real salmon fishermen is that if you want to eat salmon, you should go to a fish market. Today, over 90% of all the salmon we eat are penrasied, off the coasts of Maine, New Brunswick, Iceland, Norway, and Ireland.

Unfortunately. Maine fish farmers have recently discovered a virus, infectious salmon anemia, in their pens. The disease is harmless to people, but devastating to salmon. Since the discovery in March, the fish farmers have been forced to kill over 700,000 of their fish, each worth about $20, to keep the disease from spreading and destroying the industry. They've lost over $11 million in salmon stocks. More appalling id the possibility that the disease could spread, destroying the entire industry and infecting wild salmon, even possibly eliminating the few remaining wild fish in Maine. The worst case scenario is the disease getting into other wild watersheds. Last year, over 100,000 penrasied fish escaped , and it's feared that some of them could breed with endangered, wild fish, negatively affecting their gene pool. Pristine, untouched streams like Flowers River are now, the last bastions and genetic repositories, the Tates and louvres of this magnificent species that we need to nurture with great care.

The TSN/ESPN Outdoor Life Network crew, headed by Canadian fishing celebrity, Atoll Lebanon, caught even more salmon than I. They knew, as I did, that the threeweek peak run is perennially best on the Flowers from the third week in July through the first week in August. If you go, you definitely want to book this time slot. That is, unless you want to hunt caribou with him in autumn. Labrador boasts the worlds largest herd, numbering around 700,000.

I don't know what my wife has in mind for my next Christmas present. I'd never dare to make a suggestion. I know I better not give her a toaster or a dishwasher. Maybe I'll give the Flowers and a Blue Charm.

Mark Blazis
New England Outdoors Writers Association