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2024. 2025. 2026. Time is against the salmon. For the past two years, one question has been constantly recurring in my mind: how much longer does the salmon have before we finally make the necessary decisions? By 2024, many of us were already sounding the alarm. Low salmon runs, increasingly frequent heat waves, low water levels, and the effects of high temperatures on salmon survival were already well documented. Scientific studies existed. Biologists were discussing it. Anglers were observing it firsthand. We already knew that heat waves could jeopardize the survival of released salmon and reduce their ability to reach spawning grounds and reproduce. https://ici.radio-canada.ca/nouvelle/2093710/remise-eau-obligatoire-saumons Despite all this, the measures remained timid. We were told that the rivers shouldn't be closed, that management organizations needed the revenue generated by fishing to continue their mission, and that the presence of anglers helped limit poaching. I understand these concerns. I understand the importance of the work done by the ZECs (Controlled Harvesting Zones), associations, and management organizations. Radio Canada video published May 25 at 8:18 a.m. EDT by Alexandre Courtemanche https://ici.radio-canada.ca/nouvelle/2256401/saumon-eau-chaude-interdiction-peche But I ask myself a very simple question: what will these revenues be used for if the populations continue to collapse? If some rivers soon no longer have enough salmon to support fishing, what will be left to manage? The 2025 season was supposed to bring us some hope. Yet, the fish runs did not improve significantly. Several rivers remained open despite the still worrying returns. Once again, structural measures were postponed. We continued to hope that the situation would eventually correct itself, even though everything indicated the opposite. It's now 2026. This year, nature has given us a gift. Since the beginning of the season, the water has remained high and cold. For salmon, these are almost ideal conditions. After the last few years, this weather gives us a glimmer of hope and offers the fish a much less stressful upstream migration. But this respite is fragile. July is fast approaching. We all know that a single heat wave can turn a river upside down in just a few days. Water levels drop, temperatures rise, and the stress on salmon increases rapidly. Yet, despite what we've learned over the years, Quebec still lacks a truly uniform heat protocol to protect all salmon in all its rivers. The initial data from several fish passes are not particularly reassuring. Yes, the season is still young, and a significant portion of the grilse have yet to arrive. They will likely give us the best indication of what actually happened at sea. Did the smolts that departed in the spring of 2025 successfully complete their incredible migration? Did they find enough food? Did they survive predation, changes in the marine ecosystem, and all the challenges that awaited them? We'll know very soon. I sincerely hope there will be many of these madeleines. I hope they will finally give us back a little hope. But one question haunts me. Are we ready to welcome them... better than we have welcomed our large salmon so far? This question isn't just for sport fishermen. It's for all of us. The ministry. Management bodies. Associations. The Federation. Biologists. Managers. Fishermen. Everyone who, directly or indirectly, makes decisions that influence the future of salmon. Are we finally ready to put our survival before our habits? Are we ready to act before another heatwave hits? Are we prepared to protect the last remaining breeders rather than managing their losses once it is too late? For the past two years, we have known that some populations are extremely vulnerable. We know that high temperatures increase the risks associated with releasing salmon. We also know that, on many rivers, every salmon that reaches the spawning grounds can make a difference for the next generation. So why are we still waiting? Why should salmon from one river be entitled to different protection than those from another river? Why wait until the water reaches critical levels before making decisions that we know are inevitable? In my view, Quebec should implement a genuine heat protocol across all its salmon rivers. A uniform, transparent protocol based on scientific knowledge. Salmon know neither administrative boundaries nor management territories. They all deserve the same protection. I also believe that, as long as the salmon runs remain so weak, the mandatory catch and release of all salmon should be applied to all rivers in Quebec. Not because sport fishing is responsible for the decline. She is not. The problems are numerous and largely lie at sea. But when some rivers have only a few dozen or a hundred salmon left, every preventable death becomes significant. Every female that reaches the spawning grounds represents thousands of eggs. Every surviving adult increases the chances of rebuilding the population. The most worrying thing about all this is that time keeps passing. We have been in discussions since 2024. Since 2025, we hope. It is now 2026. While we continue to debate the same issues, the salmon keep returning in far too few numbers. The calendar waits for no one. Every lost season weakens a generation a little more. Unlike us, salmon cannot postpone their migration to the following year. They only have one chance to complete their life cycle. I refuse to believe that we must wait until some rivers are practically empty before making courageous decisions. If we continue to act only when populations are on the verge of collapse, we will always be a season—and sometimes a generation—behind. The Atlantic salmon is much more than a fish. It is part of our history. It has shaped our rivers, our communities, and our identity for centuries. We have had the privilege of seeing it return from the sea, of admiring it, photographing it, and fishing for it with respect. Today, it is our turn to return that respect. The small salmon that are about to return may offer us a new reason for hope. If so, we will also have an immense responsibility: to welcome them better than we have welcomed our large salmon until now. This will require courage. This will require putting aside certain short-term interests. This will require making decisions that may not be unanimously accepted. But if these decisions allow more salmon to reach spawning grounds today, they will also offer a better chance to future generations. Ultimately, the real question is no longer whether we know the problem. We've known him for a long time. The real question is much simpler. Will we finally have the courage to act while there is still time... or will we continue to wait until the day when salmon no longer need protection because they have disappeared from our rivers?

The Atlantic salmon's arduous journey When we talk about the decline of Atlantic salmon, one question constantly comes up: what is responsible? For years, we've been searching for a simple answer to a problem that is anything but simple. One year, we talk about climate change. The next, striped bass. Then come seals, aquaculture, disease, food shortages, bycatch, or even heat waves in rivers. Each new study adds another piece to the puzzle. Yet, I sometimes get the feeling that we look at each of these pieces separately, without ever taking the time to see the whole picture. It was this reflection that led me to develop a hypothesis that I call Running the Gauntlet . I don't claim to have found the answer to the salmon decline. What I'm proposing is simply another way to observe its journey. A hypothesis that, in my opinion, deserves to be studied. When a salmon smolt leaves its river in the spring, it's not just beginning a migration. It's embarking on what is likely the most dangerous journey of its life. Its instinct drives it out to sea, towards the feeding grounds of Greenland, where it will spend one or two winters before returning to spawn in its native river. Between these two destinations lie thousands of kilometers... and an almost uninterrupted succession of dangers. While observing the downstream migration dates of salmon smolts on several Quebec rivers, one detail caught my attention. In the Saguenay River, young salmon generally leave their home river between late May and early June. On the Rivière de la Trinité, this migration occurs about a week later. The further east one travels, towards the Upper North Shore, the Minganie region, and the Lower North Shore, the later the downstream migration becomes, sometimes extending into early July. This progression is logical: the colder waters delay the development of the smolts. But while looking at this map, another observation came to me. While the salmon smolts gradually migrate eastward, the striped bass also appears to be progressively moving up the St. Lawrence River and the North Shore. Today, it is well established in the Saguenay Fjord and its presence is increasingly common at the mouths of many North Shore rivers. I want to be extremely cautious: I'm not claiming that striped bass follow salmon smolts. I have no scientific evidence to support such a claim. But when two phenomena appear to occur in the same corridor and at overlapping times, it seems legitimate to wonder whether this synchronization could have an impact on the survival of young salmon. This is where, in my opinion, the discussion becomes interesting. The real issue isn't the striped bass. The real issue is the buildup of pressure. The salmon smolt never encounters a single obstacle. It must cross estuaries teeming with predators. It must avoid seals, fish-eating birds, large fish, and possibly large concentrations of striped bass. It must also find enough food to continue its migration. Sand eels, capelin, herring, amphipods, and the other small prey it depends on are also sought after by numerous species. The salmon smolt, therefore, doesn't just fight to avoid being eaten; it also fights to find food. Then comes the ocean. There, too, the challenges multiply: competition for food, climate change, parasites, diseases, shifts in prey distribution, and, on some migratory routes, marine aquaculture operations. After one or two winters, when it finally begins the return journey, the ordeal starts all over again. The seals are still there. Heat waves affect some rivers. Low water levels complicate the migration. Natural and man-made obstacles add to the already accumulated stress. And perhaps that's where the heart of my hypothesis lies. We are studying seals. We are studying the striped bass. We are studying climate change. We are studying aquaculture. We study diseases. But how many studies actually look at the cumulative effect of all these pressures on a single salmon, throughout its journey? In my view, that's exactly what Running the Gauntlet is all about. The salmon doesn't face a single threat. It must survive a series of trials that begin as soon as it leaves its river and only end when it returns to spawn. Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps this hypothesis will one day be completely refuted. And if so, all the better. That's precisely the role of science. But I sincerely believe this question deserves to be asked. Because by constantly searching for someone to blame, we might miss the real problem: it's not a single threat that's causing the salmon to disappear. It's perhaps the accumulation of all the others.

We formalize the bare minimum and are content with that. While the rivers are heating up, protection remains limited. The ministry's announcement regarding the temporary closure of certain rivers when the water temperature exceeds 22°C in the morning is, in my opinion, good news. For what? Because it finally officially recognizes a reality that many fishermen, biologists and managers have observed for years: when a river reaches certain temperatures, the salmon enters a zone of significant physiological stress where its recovery capacity decreases considerably. The ministry itself acknowledges that catch and release can then become problematic and that the survival of salmon can be compromised. This is an important observation, as it confirms what many have been saying for a long time: at certain temperatures, even fishing carried out with the best intentions can have significant consequences for the resource. I fully agree with this measure. But this announcement raises several important questions. Why only four rivers? Why do the Malbaie, the Rivière à Mars, the Petit-Saguenay and the Saint-Jean du Saguenay benefit from a closure protocol when several rivers on the North Shore are experiencing exactly the same realities? I'm thinking of Saint Marguerite River I'm thinking of the Godbout. I'm thinking of Pentecote. I'm thinking of the Aux Rochers River. I'm thinking of Les Escoumins. I'm thinking of Laval. I'm thinking of the Saint-Jean Côte-Nord. I'm thinking of Mingan. I'm thinking of the mighty Moisie. I am also thinking of the rivers of Anticosti and several rivers in the Gaspé Peninsula which are also experiencing significant heat waves. But I am thinking above all of the Trinité. For what? Because the Trinité River is not like any other. The Trinité is a monitoring river. For decades, the Ministry has been collecting essential data on Atlantic salmon there. Ministry employees are present throughout the season. They count the salmon, track the runs, analyze the returns, measure water temperatures, and likely possess one of the best salmon databases in Quebec. When days reach 25°C, 27°C, or even 29°C and the nights remain abnormally warm, the Ministry knows it. It doesn't learn about it after the fact. It observes it in real time. This is precisely what makes the situation difficult to understand. If a reference river like the Trinité, where the most complete data is available and where biologists are present in the field throughout the season, does not automatically trigger a reflection on the application of a thermal protocol, then what conditions must be met before taking action? In my view, the Trinité River should be one of the first rivers used to guide management decisions during extreme heat events, not one of the notable omissions in the current protocol. And if a reference river isn't used to trigger protective measures when conditions become critical, then it's legitimate to question the purpose of all the data collected over decades. The salmon of the North Shore are no different from those of the Saguenay. At 22°C, a salmon remains a salmon. Physiology does not change according to administrative boundaries. If the ministry acknowledges that thermal stress justifies a closure on certain rivers, why is this same principle not applied everywhere where the same conditions exist? The question deserves to be asked. But in my view, the debate shouldn't stop at sport fishing. If the ministry acknowledges that a salmon is stressed enough that releasing it can be fatal, then it must also recognize that any unnecessary disturbance becomes problematic. During periods of extreme heat, salmon often congregate in a few thermal refuges where the water remains cooler. These shelters then become vital zones for survival. Each forced displacement. Each leak. Every inconvenience. Every additional expenditure of energy. All of this increases the stress experienced by the fish. The problem, therefore, is not solely sport fishing. The problem is the additional stress imposed on an animal already at the limit of its physiological capacity. At certain critical times, the best salmon to release is probably the one that no one has disturbed. That is why the discussion should go beyond just sport fishing. When a river reaches critical temperatures, all activities that could disturb salmon in thermal refuges should be reassessed. If the goal is truly conservation, any disturbance must be minimized when the fish are most vulnerable. And this brings us to another topic that is far too rarely discussed: forest cover. You can't discuss heat stress without talking about trees. The trees lining rivers play a vital role in the survival of salmon. They provide shade. They limit the warming of the water. They contribute to maintaining thermal shelters. They stabilize the riverbanks. They contribute to the overall health of the ecosystem. However, over the years, some interventions have sometimes prioritized access to fishing at the expense of riparian vegetation. I'm not saying that all brush clearing is bad. Some interventions are necessary. But in a context where climate change is already increasing water temperatures, every mature tree protecting a pool is probably more valuable today than it was thirty years ago. Across North America, specialists are now talking about restoring riparian buffer strips, protecting forest cover, and creating shade corridors as climate change adaptation measures. For what? Because a river that stays cold requires fewer closures. A river that maintains its thermal refuges naturally protects its salmon. A river that retains its forest cover is better prepared to face tomorrow's heat waves. The ministry's announcement is therefore a step in the right direction. However, it seems more like treating the symptoms than a truly comprehensive strategy. Temporarily closing a river when the water reaches a critical level is a good measure. Protecting the habitats that allow this river to remain cold is just as important. In my view, three priorities should guide the coming years. First, extend thermal protocols to all rivers where conditions warrant it. Secondly, aggressively protect thermal refuges and riparian forest cover. Third, minimize any disturbance to salmon when they are already experiencing critical heat stress. The government now recognizes that heat stress can make fishing incompatible with salmon conservation. He has the data. It has the regulatory tools. He has the means to intervene. So why not apply this logic everywhere salmon live in the same conditions? Because in the end, salmon don't care about administrative borders. He is not concerned with economic interests. He does not concern himself with the debates between fishermen, managers or organizations. He's simply trying to survive. And if we truly want to listen to the salmon, we must begin by giving it peace when it is most vulnerable. Because the real victim of this crisis is neither the fisherman, nor the ZEC, nor the management bodies, nor even the FQSA, whose mandate is in particular to make recommendations to the ministry. The real victim is the salmon itself, the one that continues to pay the price for inaction. The real victim is the salmon itself. And it is the salmon that we claim to want to save.

Nestled in the heart of a wild territory and fed by the crystal-clear waters of the majestic Lake Walker, the deepest lake in Quebec, the Rivière aux Rochers is undoubtedly one of the best-kept treasures of the North Shore. Renowned for the quality of its salmon habitat and the beauty of its landscapes, the river also stands out for its exemplary resource management. For many years, its managers have been pioneers in conservation. The complete release of salmon, the constant adaptation of practices to the challenges of high temperatures, and rigorous management of the upstream fish trap to minimize stress on the fish all demonstrate a clear commitment: to protect Atlantic salmon while offering an exceptional fishing experience. Currently, water levels are high, but all indications are that conditions will be very promising once the river returns to its summer level. With a water temperature of approximately 11°C, conditions are currently excellent for salmon. One of the most appreciated aspects for anglers is undoubtedly the unique pool system. Each pool can hold up to four perch, but only one angler is fishing at a time. This approach fosters a convivial experience where friends and family members can share their day together, chat, observe the salmon, and fully enjoy every moment spent on the river. And the best is yet to come. Prime time is fast approaching. The next few weeks traditionally represent one of the best periods of the season, as conditions often become ideal and salmon continue to enter the river. Whether you are a regular visitor or wish to discover this exceptional river for the first time, now is the time to find out more. To find out about availability, get more information or even participate in the popular 48-hour draw , contact the Rivière aux Rochers team at 418-766-2777 . The Aux Rochers River: a river where quality fishing, salmon conservation and the pleasure of sharing good times with friends go hand in hand.

When the survival of the salmon still depends on us The first week of salmon fishing for the 2026 season is now behind us. Yet, once again, social media is flooded with photos of salmons completely out of the water for a few seconds of fame. What is even more concerning is that many of the most important measures to reduce the impacts on salmon survival during their upstream migration remain unclear, incomplete, or simply unofficial at the Quebec level. Yet, in a context where smolt returns are historically low and the exact causes of mortality at sea continue to be studied, every spawning adult that reaches the river represents a valuable resource. We know that the main factors responsible for the decline of Atlantic salmon are likely at sea. However, until these causes are fully understood and addressed, it makes sense to do everything possible to maximize the survival chances of the salmon that manage to return to spawn in our rivers. Every spawning fish lost today is a fish that will not participate in tomorrow's reproduction. Meanwhile, clear messages on best practices are slow to arrive. The Federation's (FQSA) only significant announcement so far concerns the crushing of barbs. Yes, you read that right. The measure that probably has the least impact on salmon survival when compared to fight duration, out-of-water handling, heat protocols, or the use of appropriate equipment has become the first major awareness campaign of the season. For its part, the Ministry of the Environment, the Fight Against Climate Change, Wildlife and Parks had the audacity to impose mandatory catch and release for all Atlantic salmon in Quebec. However, some exceptions remain on certain rivers, as if there were still a fear of treating all rivers equally. Once again, this demonstrates that, for many stakeholders, protecting a culture, tradition, or folklore seems to take precedence over protecting the salmon itself. Yet, without salmon, there will be no more salmon culture, no more tradition, and no more folklore. Only memories will remain. While the main problems lie at sea, long-term solutions must also come from the sea. But until we identify and address these causes, the very least we can do is protect as many of the salmon that still manage to return to our rivers as possible. Every spawning salmon lost today reduces the chances of recovery tomorrow. The measures that should be prioritized If the goal is truly to protect the resource, here are the measures that should be prioritized, particularly in rivers that are not reaching their egg-laying threshold, but also in those that are just barely reaching it. When a river is already not producing enough eggs to ensure optimal population renewal, caution should always prevail. 1. Complete suspension of salmon harvesting, including subsistence fisheries Every salmon that survives has the opportunity to participate in reproduction. When runs are low, a few dozen additional spawners can make a significant difference for the next generation. When several rivers are no longer reaching their spawning threshold or are barely reaching it, no harvest should be considered negligible. Protecting the resource must take precedence over all types of harvesting, whether for sport, commercial, or subsistence purposes. (Native Fishery) A declining population makes no distinction between different types of harvesting. Each salmon that escapes harvesting retains its reproductive potential and increases the river's chances of recovery. 2. Comprehensive protection of spawning and migrating salmon Large salmon often carry the majority of a river's eggs, and migrating salmon are exceptional survivors that can return to spawn a second or even a third time. Unlike a smolt that leaves the river and whose return is never guaranteed, a migrating salmon is already a confirmed survivor of mortality at sea. Each protected migrating salmon represents a real opportunity to add an extra spawner during a future run. With the recruitment of new breeders dependent on an increasingly uncertain return of smolts, the protection of migrating salmon is one of the few measures capable of offering a relatively rapid gain for the population. 3. Closure of fishing during periods of heat and severe low water levels When water reaches critical temperatures or flows become extremely low, salmon are already struggling for survival. During periods of extreme heat, salmon gather in thermal refuges, areas of cooler water that allow them to survive otherwise deadly conditions. Any disturbance then becomes problematic. Fishing, but also swimming, canoeing, kayaking, paddleboarding, repeated river crossings, or even a significant presence on the banks near these refuges can cause stress and drive salmon away. When a salmon is forced to leave a thermal refuge, even temporarily, it is often compelled to return to much warmer water. In the most critical situations, this simple disturbance can become a fatality. Above 20°C, salmon already experience significant physiological stress. Their ability to recover after a fight decreases rapidly, and the risk of mortality after release increases considerably. Every angler should carry a thermometer, just like pliers or a knotless landing net. When the water level approaches or exceeds critical thresholds, sometimes the best course of action for salmon fishing is to leave the rod in the vehicle. 4. Maximum reduction of combat time Even under favorable conditions, a prolonged fight causes extreme exhaustion, a buildup of lactic acid, and significantly increases the fish's recovery time. Using appropriate equipment, avoiding unnecessary fights and quickly bringing the fish under control are simple steps that increase its chances of survival. 5. It should be forbidden to remove salmon from the water Salmon continue to breathe underwater. Every second spent out of the water increases their stress level, compromises their recovery, and increases the risk of post-release mortality. 6. Limit handling and use of knotless landing nets The less you handle the fish, the less damage you cause to its protective mucus, fins, eyes, and scales. Using a knotless landing net significantly reduces injuries during capture and release. Conversely, nets with knots can abrade the salmon's skin, tear away some of its protective mucus, and cause potentially serious injuries. These injuries may seem minor at first glance, but they act as veritable entry points for bacteria, fungi, and various diseases. An abrasion caused by a knotted landing net can be compared to an open wound that increases the fish's vulnerability in the days or weeks following its release. 7. Reduction in the number of fishing days This measure should be particularly considered on rivers that do not reach their minimum egg-laying threshold or that struggle to reach it year after year. Reducing the number of fishing days does not solve the problem on its own, but it does reduce the pressure on an already weakened population. 8. Mandatory use of single hooks Single hooks generally cause less injury, are easier to remove, and reduce the risk of damage to gills, eyes, and vital organs. 9. Mandatory Barbless Hooks This measure facilitates unhooking and reduces certain injuries. It is beneficial and should be applied everywhere. However, its impact on salmon survival remains much more limited than that of previous measures. A responsibility that belongs to us No one claims that these measures alone will solve the many problems facing ocean salmon. Climate change, declining biomass, bycatch, predation, and several other factors continue to put significant pressure on the species. However, when smolt return rates fall below 0.2%, when many rivers struggle to reach their spawning threshold, and when some have fewer than 50 or 100 spawners, every salmon that survives becomes critically important. The urgent matter is no longer debating whether the situation is worrying. The figures speak for themselves. The urgent matter is to act while there are still enough breeding adults to ensure the natural reproduction of our rivers. Unfortunately, despite the scale of the crisis, many of the most important measures remain voluntary, incomplete or non-existent on a large part of Quebec's rivers. In this context, the salmon's first line of defense is neither a federation, nor an association, nor even a ministry. It is the angler on the riverbank. Every time a fisherman decides to put away his rod because the water is too warm, to keep a salmon in the water for the photo, to shorten a fight, to avoid a thermal refuge or simply to give up fishing when conditions become critical, he is taking a concrete step for the survival of the species. We cannot control what happens in the North Atlantic, the Strait of Belle Isle, or the Gulf of St. Lawrence. We cannot control ocean temperature, changes in the biomass on which salmon depend, bycatch at sea, predation, or the many other threats they face during their time in the ocean. However, we can control what happens at home, on our rivers. We can choose not to fish when the water temperature exceeds 20°C. We can keep the salmon in the water during the photos. We can use a knotless draw, crush our barbs, shorten our fights and avoid disturbing thermal shelters. We can also adapt fishing pressure on the most fragile rivers and provide more protection for spawning fish that still manage to return. None of these measures, taken individually, will save the Atlantic salmon. But together, they can make a real difference for the fish that have already survived all the hardships of the sea and managed to return to our rivers. When returns are as low as they are today, Each spawning adult counts. Every female that reaches her spawning ground counts. Every downstream salmon that survives counts. Every fish that escapes unnecessary stress counts. We have very little control over what happens thousands of kilometers from our rivers. On the other hand, we have almost total control over how we treat the salmon right in front of us. And in the current context, that responsibility has never been more important. Today, more than ever, being a salmon fisherman should not just be a privilege. It should be a responsibility. Because without salmon, there will be nothing left to manage, nothing left to protect, and nothing left to pass on to future generations. Two striking examples from the regions most affected by the decline of Atlantic salmon are the Sainte-Marguerite River in the Saguenay region and the Trinity River on the North Shore. Despite their status as reference rivers for population monitoring, both are now experiencing historically low salmon returns. Table 1. Trinity River, North Shore (Reference River) Table 2. Sainte-Marguerite Main Branch (Saguenay) Please share this blog post and link Deep In Backing (blog) | Shed à Plumes - Feather Shed

Rooster-Rooster | Shed à Plumes - Feather Shed Choosing a grizzly rooster cape is an essential step for any fly tier, whether beginner or experienced. The quality of the feather directly influences the success of your patterns and the performance of your flies while fishing. In this article, I'll guide you in selecting the perfect grizzly rooster cape, giving you practical advice and specific criteria to consider. Why choose a grizzly rooster cape? Grizzly rooster feathers are highly prized for dry fly tying. They offer fine, even, and strong feathers, ideal for imitating the legs and hackles of aquatic insects. The grizzly pattern, with its alternating light and dark barbs, adds realism and natural texture to your creations. Here are the main advantages of a good grizzly rooster cape: Uniformity of feathers : facilitates assembly and ensures a consistent appearance. Durability : the feathers must withstand several fishing trips without degrading. Flexibility : for good movement in the water and better imitation. Appropriate size : depending on the type of fly you wish to tie. These criteria are essential for choosing a cape that will last you a long time. Vue rapprochée d'une cape de coq grizzly avec des plumes fines et régulières How to choose a grizzly rooster cape? To choose the right grizzly rooster cape, several aspects need to be considered. I'll detail the key points to check before buying. 1. The quality of the feathers Observe the regularity of the barbs. They should be well aligned, neither too far apart nor too close together. A good cape has flawless feathers, without breaks or gaps. The color should be well contrasted, with a clear grizzly pattern. 2. Feather size The size of the feathers depends on the type of fly you are tying. For classic dry flies, choose thin, long feathers. For larger patterns, such as streamers, opt for longer, wider feathers. 3. Flexibility and rigidity A quality cape offers a good balance between flexibility and rigidity. The feathers must be rigid enough to hold the shape of the hackle, but flexible enough to move naturally in the water. 4. Provenance and selection Choose Shed à Plumes, which carefully selects its capes. A well-sorted grizzly rooster cape guarantees greater uniformity and consistent quality. 5. Rooster-Rooster | Shed à Plumes - Feather Shed Price often reflects quality. A high-end grizzly rooster cape costs more, but it saves you frustration when tying flies and improves their durability. Is saddle hackle for large dry flies or Wolly Bugger? Saddle hackle, or saddle cape, is another source of feathers used for tying dry flies. It comes from the lower part of the rooster's back, just before the tail. These feathers are longer and finer than cape hackle. Saddle hackle is particularly valued for: Lightweight dry flies : thanks to its fine feathers, it allows for delicate tying. Palmer hackle flies : it makes wrapping around the body easier. Versatility : it can also be used for nymphs or streamers. However, grizzly rooster hackle remains the gold standard for a dense and robust hackle. Saddle hackle complements the cape well, but doesn't completely replace it. Vue en gros plan d'une cape de selle avec des plumes longues et fines Practical tips for riding with a grizzly rooster cape Once you've chosen your cape, you need to know how to use it correctly. Here are some tips to optimize your setups. Preparing the feathers Select the most regular feathers that are suitable for the size of your fly. Remove damaged or too short beards. Lightly dampen the feathers to make them easier to handle. Hackle assembly Attach the feather by its base to the body of the fly. Wrap the hackle in a regular spiral, taking care not to tighten it too much. Use a hackle clamp for better control. Finish with a secure knot to prevent the hackle from unraveling. Feather care After each outing, rinse your flies with clean water. Store them away from moisture and direct light. These simple actions prolong the life of your assemblies and improve their performance. Improve your fly tying with a perfect grizzly rooster cape Choosing a quality grizzly rooster cape transforms your fly-tying experience. You gain in precision, aesthetics, and durability. A good cape makes the job easier, reduces feather loss, and gives your flies a natural look. By investing in a carefully selected fly, you improve your chances of success while fishing. The realism and robustness of your flies will entice even the most wary fish. Don't hesitate to try different fly patterns to find the one that best suits your style and needs. Fly tying is an art that is refined with time and the right equipment. By following these tips, you'll be able to choose the perfect grizzly rooster cape for your fly tying. The quality of the feathers is a key factor in successful dry fly tying and optimizing your fishing trips. Take the time to select your cape carefully; it will make all the difference. Rooster-Rooster | Shed à Plumes - Feather Shed

Heat protocols are often discussed in salmon rivers, but few people truly understand their role and importance in the current context. Yet, the principle is relatively simple. As water temperatures rise, the amount of available oxygen decreases while the salmon's needs increase. The fish must therefore expend more energy simply to maintain their vital functions. Under these conditions, any additional effort becomes more difficult to sustain. This is where sport fishing comes in, even when practiced exclusively with catch and release. A caught salmon must exert significant effort during the fight. It accumulates physiological stress, produces lactic acid, and draws on its energy reserves. In cold, well-oxygenated water, most fish recover relatively well when handled properly. But when the water reaches high temperatures, this recovery becomes much more difficult. A salmon may appear to be in good condition after being released, but suffer significant consequences several hours or even several days later. In a context where Atlantic salmon populations were abundant, some might have considered this mortality negligible. Today, the situation is completely different. Several Quebec rivers are experiencing historically low runs and are struggling to meet their conservation goals. Some rivers see fewer than 100 adult salmon return. Others have fewer than 50. At this stage, each spawning fish that manages to reach the spawning grounds represents a significant contribution to the survival of the population. It is also important to understand that during periods of severe low water levels and high temperatures, fishing is not the only factor that can impact salmon. As water temperatures rise, salmon often congregate in thermal refuges—areas where an underground spring, tributary, or small stream provides cooler water. These areas then become crucial to their survival. In these refuges, salmon are extremely vulnerable. They often position themselves very precisely to take advantage of the narrow corridor of fresh water available. When a swimmer crosses the area, a canoe passes directly into the refuge, or people repeatedly move through the water, the fish can be displaced from their optimal position. Each movement requires additional energy expenditure at a time when they are trying to conserve every available calorie to survive the warmer months. This is why many modern heat protocols don't focus solely on fishing. They also aim to raise public awareness about the importance of respecting thermal refuges and limiting activities that could disturb salmon in these critical areas. When a fish is already struggling with a lack of oxygen, high temperatures, and sometimes several weeks without food, even the slightest disturbance can have far greater consequences than one might imagine. Of course, sport fishing alone is not responsible for the decline of Atlantic salmon. The problems are much broader and include changes occurring at sea, climate change, habitat degradation, predation, and several other factors that are still poorly understood. However, the fact that sport fishing is not the primary cause does not mean that it has no impact. particularly in rivers where upstream migrations have become extremely weak. When the rate of salmon returning to rivers is as low as it is today, every fish that survives to spawn becomes immensely valuable. In this context, the goal of a heat protocol is not to prevent people from pursuing their passion, but rather to temporarily protect the last remaining spawners when environmental conditions reduce their chances of survival. It is a precautionary measure that acknowledges a simple reality: we cannot control what happens at sea, but we can ensure that the salmon that have managed to return to our rivers have the best possible chance of completing their life cycle. Ultimately, the question isn't whether we enjoy salmon fishing. Most of us are here precisely because we do. The real question is what we're willing to do to ensure its presence in our rivers for future generations. Because when some populations dwindle to just a few dozen fish, conservation can no longer be considered an option. It must become the absolute priority. A heat protocol is life insurance for the last breeding stock!

Synthetic materials: when technology meets the art of assembly For generations, fly tiers have built their reputation on the use of natural feathers, hair, and fur. These materials remain essential today and continue to produce some of the most beautiful flies in the world. But in recent decades,synthetic materials have opened up a whole new world of possibilities. Holographic reflections, UV fibers, phosphorescence, improved movements, increased strength and exceptional durability: modern synthetic materials make it possible to create flies that are more visible, more attractive and often more effective than ever before. At La Shed à Plumes , we select quality synthetic materials that perfectly complement natural materials to offer fly tiers the best of both worlds. Why are synthetic materials so effective? In nature, predatory fish react primarily to a few stimuli: The light reflections. The contrasts. The movements. The silhouettes. UV signals. Subtle color changes depending on the angle of the light. Modern synthetic materials have been developed precisely to amplify these signals and make a fly more visible and attractive. Flashabou UV Phosphorescent Glow 0.6 mm & Flashabou UV Pearl Phosphorescent Glow 0.6 mm Flashabou UV phosphorescent glow 0.6 mm and Flashabou UV pearl phosphorescent glow 0.6 mm are materials designed to attract attention even when conditions become more challenging. Thanks to its ability to reflect UV rays and retain a phosphorescent effect after exposure to light, it continues to produce a noticeable glow in deep, tinted waters or on cloudy days. Just a few fibers are enough to bring life to a streamer wing, a salmon fly tail, or an imitation intended for predators. UV fibers for streamers and intruders Modern UV fibers allow for the addition of an extra dimension to the assemblies. Unlike conventional fibers, they reflect certain wavelengths present in the aquatic environment more effectively. The result is a fly that remains visible even when the light diminishes or the water becomes darker. These fibers are particularly valued for: Trout streamers. Salmon and steelhead intruders. Pike flies. Rigs intended for striped bass. They also allow for the creation of depth and transparency effects that are impossible to achieve with traditional materials. Wavy Flash Fiber Map Gliss Lateral Scale Flashabou The Lateral Scale Flashabou remarkably imitates the reflections produced by the scales of a baitfish. Spécifications Largeur : 0,7 à 1 mm (0,028" à 0,039") Longueur : environ 28 à 30 cm (11,02" à 11,81") Poids par paquet : 7 à 8 grammes Its unique texture and pearly reflections produce changing flashes that perfectly reproduce the movements of an injured or fleeing fish. In water, each fiber acts like a small reflective scale that captures and diffuses light from multiple angles. It is a material of choice for modern streamers designed to: With Atlantic salmon. With trout. With pike. With muskellunge. At the striped bar. Flat holographic flashabou 0.4 mm and Gliss & Glow 1 mm wavy flash fibers Holographic flat tinsel remains one of the most versatile materials in the world of editing. A flat, thin, highly reflective synthetic flash material designed to add brilliance, movement, and attractive highlights to fly wings, tails, and bodies. Its holographic finish catches light from various angles, even in low light. Ideal for tying salmon, steelhead, trout, and other flies requiring a realistic and long-lasting flash effect. Modern holographic versions create multidirectional reflections that constantly change depending on the angle of the light and current. Whether for traditional salmon flies, streamers or patterns intended for sea fishing, flat tinsel retains its place among the most effective materials ever created. Wavy, flashy synthetic fibers designed to add brilliance, movement, and volume to fly patterns. Their waffle texture creates multidirectional reflections that mimic the natural flashes of baitfish. Thanks to their Gliss & Glow effect , they offer excellent underwater visibility, even in low-light conditions. Ideal for the wings, tails, and bodies of salmon, steelhead, and trout flies. Soft, lightweight, and easy to incorporate into all types of fly patterns. 3D Holographic Eyes & 4D Holographic Eyes : The Finishing Touch If there is one detail capable of completely transforming a fly or streamer, it is the eyes. The 4D holographic eyes replicate the three-dimensional appearance of a baitfish's natural eyes. Numerous studies on predator behavior demonstrate that the eyes are an important focal point when attacking prey. Adding realistic eyes allows for: To increase realism. To improve the overall profile of the lure. To create a natural point of attack. To add reflections visible from afar. They have become practically indispensable in modern streamers for pike, muskellunge, striped bass, trophy trout and several marine species. Minnow Synthetic Wavy Fibers: Volume without weight Minnow-type synthetic fibers represent a major evolution in the design of modern streamers. Their slightly wavy, waterproof texture does not retain water, creates movement and allows for impressive profiles without making the fly difficult to cast. They allow you to create realistic imitations of smelt, fry, herring or other forage fish while maintaining excellent mobility. Length: 32 to 35 cm Weight: 7 to 9 g Colors: 14 colors available Material: Corrugated synthetic fibers, completely waterproof Use: Streamer fly tying, freshwater and saltwater fishing Targets: Trout, pike, musky, salmon, striped bass, and many others Tradition and innovation The best editors know that it's not a question of choosing between natural and synthetic materials. A Finn Raccoon wing enhanced with Flashabou UV. A classic salmon fly embellished with a few holographic fibers. A Minnow fiber streamer equipped with 4D eyes. This combination often produces the most effective flies. At La Shed à Plumes , we believe that innovation should serve the fly tyer's creativity. That's why we offer both high-end feathers and furs as well as the best-performing synthetic materials available today. Because in the end, whether it is tied with a rare feather or a state-of-the-art holographic fiber, a good fly has only one goal: to come to life in the water and convince the fish that it is real.

The Radio-Canada Bas-Saint-Laurent article highlights a problem that many still refuse to acknowledge: Quebec's salmon rivers are now reaching temperatures that are dangerous for salmon survival, to the point where temporary fishing bans are necessary. These rivers regularly exceed critical thresholds during heat waves. The real problem is that we are still acting as if these temperatures were exceptional… when they risk becoming the new normal. Photo Riviere Trinité 2025 While we're still debating whether sport fishing "has an impact" or not, the salmon are taking the brunt of it: waters at 24, 25, sometimes close to 30 °C; additional battles; often inadequate manipulations; enormous stress on populations that are already historically weak. When a river falls below 100 salmon… or worse, below 50… every spawning fish counts. Absolutely every living fish becomes precious to ensure a minimum spawning rate and prevent the complete collapse of the river. What's troubling is that, despite being the Director General of the FQSA, Ms. Bergeron often speaks of long-term solutions: reforestation, shoreline restoration, marine research, climate change, survival in Greenland… But while we wait for these solutions, which will take years, why are we still hesitating to immediately implement all available tools to reduce mortality? Heat protocols. Limited fishing in the morning. Strict catch and release. Crushed barbs. Reduced fights, etc. We can no longer claim that we “lack data” or that we “don’t really know what’s going on” when there is now a vast network of thermographs deployed in salmon rivers, including several on the North Shore. The FQSA itself participated in the deployment of numerous thermographs and acknowledges having a significant amount of continuous temperature data on salmon rivers. This data exists. It is measured. It is recorded. And it clearly shows that several rivers are reaching critical temperatures for salmon. The Quebec government itself recognizes that beyond certain thresholds — particularly around 22°C — physiological stress increases sharply and the survival of salmon released back into the water decreases. So when we see rivers on the North Shore reaching 24, 25, sometimes even close to 30 °C in certain areas, we are no longer talking about a simple “discomfort” for the salmon. We are talking about: from a lack of oxygen; of major thermal stress; of an increased risk of mortality after release back into the water; and a direct impact on populations already in freefall. The hardest thing for many fishermen to understand is that we now have the tools to act: thermographs; real-time data; identified thermal shelters; heat protocols; scientific studies; temperature history. But despite this, there is still hesitation to implement strong measures on several rivers. And while we debate… the salmon continues to disappear. The argument that the majority of Quebec's salmon rivers are still "relatively spared" by the heat is becoming increasingly difficult to defend when looking at the actual data on the ground. The Trinité River — a reference river on the North Shore monitored since 1984 with a fish pass and counting system — has already reached up to 29.5 °C in the evening. We're talking about an Atlantic salmon river here. Not a shallow pond in the middle of a drought. And the Trinity is not alone. The Moisie, the Godbout, the Pentecôte, the Escoumins and several other rivers also record temperatures of 24, 25 °C and more during the summer. At these temperatures, salmon do not “adapt”. They survive as best they can. It often stops migrating. It concentrates in the few thermal refuges. Its stress level skyrockets. Available oxygen decreases. The risk of mortality increases. And each additional handling becomes a real risk. Meanwhile, we are still being told that we must be careful before closing rivers because fishermen serve as “guardians of the territory”, because the organizations are economically fragile, because we must protect the industry. But one fundamental thing must eventually be understood: Without salmon, there will be nothing left to manage. More industry. More outfitters. No more ZECs. No more salmon tourism. No more replacements. More folklore. Just empty rivers and memories. Yes, protecting riparian buffer zones and replanting trees is essential. Yes, protecting thermal refuges is indispensable. But these are solutions that will take years, sometimes decades, to have a real effect. Salmon, however, are currently experiencing a crisis. So refusing or delaying heat protocols under the pretext that "some rivers are still okay" is playing with an already extremely fragile resource. The data is there. The temperatures are here. The warning signs are there. The real question is simple: How many rivers will have to reach 25, 27 or 29 °C before we finally stop treating this crisis as a problem of the future? Because at the rate things are going, the question is no longer: "Can we still fish for salmon?" The real question becomes: "Do we even want any left?"

Atlantic salmon are probably going through one of the most serious crises in their modern history. And despite this, the 2026 season begins exactly like the previous ones: same behaviors, same excuses, same collective inability to recognize the true extent of the collapse. Our kelts. Our black salmon, thin and weakened, that spent the entire winter in the river after spawning in the fall. Fish that have barely eaten for months. Exhausted survivors now undertaking an extremely dangerous migration to the grazing grounds of Greenland to try to recover physically before, perhaps, returning to spawn again. They are probably the most vulnerable fish in the entire population. And yet, some are still being pulled from the water, handled, photographed, and displayed as early-season trophies. Seeing migrating salmon dangling from boats in 2026, after the historic collapses of 2024 and 2025, is not just poor judgment. It's a sign that some in the industry still refuse to grasp how dire the situation has become. And too many anglers still set foot in a river without even knowing the numbers of salmon runs it receives. That's the real problem. We continue to talk about salmon as a passion, a tradition, or a heritage, but too few people seem ready to accept what the situation truly demands when populations collapse. The salmon that are returning today do not represent an abundance. They represent what remains. The survivors of a brutal multifactorial mortality: warming waters, lack of food, predation, diseases, accidental capture, habitat degradation, marine disturbances in the Gulf and the North Atlantic. Fish that have survived the ocean. Fish that survived the winter with almost no energy reserves. Emaciated fish returning to spawn with what little strength they have left. And despite this, we still too often continue to treat them as biologically available trophies. The unease is there. We know. The figures exist. The signals are everywhere. But collectively, we still refuse to act in proportion to the crisis. Because truly acting would require courage. The courage to impose mandatory heat protocols. The courage to suspend subsistence fishing on devastated populations. The courage to temporarily close certain rivers below biologically critical thresholds. The courage to publicly admit that simply putting it back in the water does not constitute a recovery strategy. Releasing the fish back into the water is a minimum measure. Nothing more. When a river receives fewer than 150 salmon, each spawner becomes biologically important. At these levels, even pressure deemed “acceptable” under normal circumstances can have serious consequences. And yet, instead of fundamentally questioning our practices, we often continue to protect something else: our habits, our comfort, our image as salmon anglers, and our need to carry on as before. Perhaps the most shocking part of this whole crisis is not just the salmon collapse itself, but our ability to normalize it while it unfolds before our eyes. As if simply releasing a fish is now enough to erase all moral responsibility toward a declining population. The reality is much harsher. A species doesn't disappear solely because of what happens at sea. It also disappears when those who claim to love it become incapable of sacrificing themselves to give it a real chance of survival.

Part 3 — Manitoulin Island, the great steelheads, and the beginning of the return journey After my approximately two-hour crossing from Tobermory to South Baymouth, I finally reached the shores of Manitoulin Island. Even upon arrival, I felt that something was different here. The water in Georgian Bay was almost unreal in its beauty. Turquoise greens, deep blues, incredible clarity. The islands seemed to float in the evening light. At times, it was almost like the sea. The ferry moved smoothly between the islands as I watched the scenery go by, a coffee in hand. After several days of driving, rivers, and miles, this crossing felt good. It seemed to slow down time a little. Disembarking in South Baymouth, I headed leisurely toward the Manitou River, probably the most famous river on the island for steelhead. The roads were beautiful. Little traffic. Forests everywhere. Still a bit of snow in the undergrowth in some places. From the start of the trip, the temperature never really wanted to rise. Even in the middle of the afternoon, it was often only 6 or 7 degrees. Spring was still fragile here. As I approached Lake Manitou, I saw a few fishermen near a dam. Some were fishing with egg bags, others were waiting patiently along the pools. But honestly… that wasn't what I was looking for. So I continued following the river towards its mouth. And then… wow. The place was magnificent. Trails ran alongside the river through a forest still damp with spring. The water was high, cold, and powerful. You could clearly see that the snow was still melting in the north. The locals even told me the river was experiencing a historic flood. There was still snow in the woods in some places. And despite all that, despite the cold and the strong current, the first fresh steelhead were starting to come up. The season had only just opened, on the second Saturday of May. You could feel that everything was just beginning. Birds were everywhere. Canada geese. Ducks. Turkey vultures circling high in the sky. Bald eagles, even juveniles. Then that peculiar silence of the great cold rivers of spring. There was very little litter compared to other places I'd seen during the trip. A few pieces of paper here and there, yes, but nothing dramatic. Nothing like some of the small urban rivers in Ontario that had so discouraged me earlier in the trip. Here, you could still feel nature. Real nature. I finally got my two-handed rod ready. A 14-footer. Then I started watching the water. Not long after, I spotted some fish. Really nice, fresh steelheads. I tied on an imitation I'd tied last year before my trip. An egg-style imitation with very bright flash orange crystal chenille and a bit of marabou to give it some movement. First throw. Nothing. I added a little weight to make the fly sink further. Second presentation. Bang. The fight exploded immediately. The steelhead took off down the current like a train. It was jumping high, using the full force of the river. With the strong current and the speed of the water, I knew I couldn't make a mistake. Then, when I finally saw it surface in the clear water near the large rock down in the bend of Falls Pool… I quickly understood. It was the biggest steelhead of my life. A huge chrome female. Thick. Fresh. Golden eyes. An absolutely magnificent fish. About 31 inches. Probably between 12 and 14 pounds. I was alone with her in that vast river, surrounded by birds, the sound of the water, and then the trees still damp with spring. Honestly… my heart was pounding. When I put her back in the water, I took a few seconds just to watch the current. Moments like that… money can't buy them. A few casts later, I caught another one. A beautiful silver male, smaller, but extremely feisty. Then another. Then more followed. Until darkness fell, I had an incredible evening. I lost a few people too. A big fish even completely ripped open an old Mustad hook that I'd been using since last year. The leader didn't break. The hook literally split open. But honestly, it was part of the moment. The river was alive. And so was I. The only downside was that we couldn't stay in the park after 11 p.m. So, although I would have liked to stay longer, listen to the river and then do a few more presentations in the dark, we had to leave. Around 9 a.m., I started walking toward the truck. I was tired. A little frozen. But deeply happy. I found an old logging road not far from a lake to set up camp. A quiet spot, hidden in the woods. I pulled back along the trail, set up camp, and turned on the heater. That night, it wasn't so cold. And for the first time in several days… I slept really well. There wasn't a sound of human presence. Only the wind in the trees. A few raccoons running around the camper. Then coyotes that could be heard in the distance in the night. At one point, I even went outside, laughing a little: "Okay... let me sleep." Then I went back under the covers. The next morning, I drove back down to South Baymouth to get gas. I was starting to think about the return trip. It was going to be a long drive. A very long drive. I was over 2,000 kilometers from home, and I knew I needed to start making my way back slowly because work was waiting for me, and there were several things to take care of at home as well. But before I left, there was a simple little moment that I'll probably never forget. I walked into a small gas station run by some older people. I needed orange juice and then a coffee. And then… that smell. Real, good, freshly ground coffee. Not machine coffee. The man looked at me and then said, "Smells good, doesn't it? This is my personal coffee." He went back to make me a coffee with his own artisanal beans that he bought near a local roaster. Milk. Sugar. But that coffee tasted like the whole trip. I then went back to Falls Pool one last time. This time, there were more fishermen. And one in particular really didn't seem happy to see me arrive. An arrogant guy. Condescending. Very snobbish about fly fishing. He was fishing with egg bags and then seemed convinced that no one else could catch fish. When he got snagged in the branches, he even tried to make me believe it was my fault. But while he was arguing… I was watching in the water. And I could see the steelheads. Beautiful fish right in front of us. I positioned myself quietly a little lower, between him and his friend, then started making a few small roll casts. Third cast, bang! Another steelhead, not huge, but a superb specimen. And while he was looking at me with that stupid expression… he had just taken a miller. Then another miller, the famous karma for the "Sucker". I was smiling. Not to mock anyone. But because I was happy to be exactly where I was. In that cold northern river. With my fly. My birds. And then spring, finally beginning to breathe. After releasing a few more fish, I decided that was enough. The trip was quietly drawing to a close. I headed back east. I drove for a long time that evening. I passed North Bay and finally settled down near a transmission line in the woods, not far from a pipeline that goes down towards Quebec. And yes, another small, improvised campsite, simple, silent and perfect. The next day, near the Bécancour River, about 100 kilometers from Quebec City, I saw a large Canadian crane standing by the roadside. I stopped the truck. I got out slowly. Then I looked at it. And that's when I thought about the beginning of the journey. On the morning of my departure, cranes from Canada had flown over the house. As if they were accompanying the road. I've always found those birds magnificent. Immense. Elegant. Wild. And I found it sad to think that some people still want to hunt them. I stayed there for a few minutes, simply watching the river and then the bird. Then I got back in the truck. The return journey had begun. But deep down, I already knew one thing: This trip was only the first of the season. Not the last.

Part 2 — Saugeen, the wind and Georgian Bay The first day on the Saugeen River was mostly a day of exploration. Many kilometers. Many country roads. Many stops trying to find access points where I could actually wade in my waders, because the Saugeen isn't a small, intimate river like some of the rivers on Lake Ontario. It's wide. Very wide in places. A real big river with a strong current, long pools, and a lot of water to cover. I drove up towards Walkerton. That town rang a bell. It was the site of the major water contamination tragedy in the early 2000s. I vaguely remembered it. A story that had affected all of Canada. I stopped at a small local fishing shop. Another great spot. Good people. I chatted with them for a bit, asked for some advice on water levels and accessible areas. They directed me to an access point near the concession on Route 10. The day was magnificent. Sunshine. A bit of wind. But a truly beautiful spring day. I went to access point number 7, if I remember correctly. There was a lovely spot to set up camp near the river. Quiet. Clean. Natural. Exactly what I was looking for. In the afternoon, I started exploring the Saugeen River. The first evening, I saw a few fish. A few movements. A few follows on my fly. But nothing concrete. No fight. No real contact. Then, late in the evening, just before going back to eat, I saw it. A huge steelhead. A real giant. Probably around 8-10 kilos. One of the biggest steelheads I've ever seen up close. The fish was stationary there, calm, in shallow water. I started presenting it with different flies. No reaction. Then suddenly, everything changed. The fish started rising to the surface. Small flies were coming out, and it was eating them right in front of me. Slowly. Confidently. An incredible sight. The problem was, I was rigged up to fish with a wet fly. I quickly changed my setup. I added a dry caddis. A rusty orange one, recently mounted by my friend Didier Lafleur, which he had sent me in the mail not long ago. The steelhead has been mounted on it twice. Twice. But without ever touching the fly. I then followed it along the river. The fish was drifting calmly downstream, rising to the surface in different spots. I threw him everything. Small dry flies. Hoppers. Sedges. Blue Wing Olives. Small emergers. Nothing. He came to look. He inspected. He ignored everything. I even went back to Didier's famous rust-orange caddis. Once again, he stepped onto it… without ever taking it. The fish were moving close to the banks, sometimes in less than two feet of water, completely in control. And me… completely obsessed with that one fish. I tried until the dead of night. Until the very last minute. But that steelhead never gave me a chance. I finally returned to the camper, thinking that perhaps our paths would cross again the next day. That night, it was milder than the other nights of the trip. Maybe 9 or 10 degrees Celsius. I didn't use the heating as much. I slept soundly. A really good night's sleep. And honestly, I needed it. Because deep down, this trip isn't just a fishing trip. It's a trip to see the country. To explore. To meet people. To see different cultures. To discover other ways of experiencing rivers. It's also a way to confront myself a little. To observe what's happening around me. To see nature in a different context. To understand the different seasons, the different behaviors of the fish, the different techniques, the different mindsets. All those things that deeply fascinate true anglers. The next morning, I woke up at a leisurely pace. Several people were near the boat launch preparing their canoes to go down the river. I decided to try the entire river again, still using the drowning technique. But that day… nothing. Not a single fish. I saw absolutely nothing. However, I did see something else. The river. The trees. The birds. The light rain that sometimes fell gently, and then suddenly thunder flashed across the surface. The wind picked up considerably. Strong enough to break tree branches that fell near me. At that moment, I understood that the Saugeen trip was going to be postponed. I decided to hit the road again. Destination: Georgian Bay. I headed to Tobermory to catch the ferry to South Baymouth on Manitoulin Island. And honestly… what a magnificent place. The Bruce Peninsula is spectacularly beautiful. The water of Lake Huron is so clear it almost looks like the sea in some places. Greens. Turquoise blues. Colors that almost reminded me of certain images of the French Riviera. The ferry crossing takes approximately 1 hour and 50 minutes. A superb boat, operated by the local Indigenous communities. A magnificent vessel adorned with beautiful Indigenous artwork and paintings. The crossing itself is a spectacle. Islands everywhere. Rock formations. The light striking the water. The turquoise waters of Georgian Bay constantly changing color. The Manitoulin Islands practically form a natural boundary across this entire section of Georgian Bay. It's difficult to properly explain in words. You have to see it. Tonight, I'm going to try to find a place to sleep. And tomorrow, I'm going to continue my journey towards the north shores of Lake Superior. The journey continues. And the further I go… the more I feel like I’m finding something I’ve needed to find for a long time.

Part 1 — Finding something true Sunday, May 3rd, morning, 6 a.m. I left home heading towards Ontario. The road was beautiful. Not too much traffic, not too hot, just a light breeze that gently rocked the truck. A true spring day to hit the road and rack up the miles. I was looking forward to returning to Ontario. My first stop was in Montreal, more precisely in Beloeil, before continuing west. Then, a mandatory stop at Sail to restock: sinking tips, leaders, and most importantly, my favorite Yo-Zuri fluorocarbon, the pink one. Seriously, that stuff is exceptional. When you find something reliable on the river, you stick with it. I then headed towards Indian Falls, a small, quiet Ontario community on the banks of the St. Lawrence River. The place feels almost like an old historical site, with an old lock converted into a marina. There were a few fishermen, some campers set up near the water, and above all, peace and quiet. I settled in there for the night. A light rain was falling gently. Nothing serious. But it was cold. Really cold for this time of year. Maybe 2 degrees Celsius. Maybe close to zero. The kind of damp cold that seeps into your bones when the sun disappears. The next morning, I was woken by a pair of swans. I'd seen swans before in Ontario, but never a pair this close. I watched them glide across the water in the morning silence and thought to myself that the trip was off to a good start. I closed the camper's roof and set off for Port Hope. It was incredibly windy that day, but the weather was beautiful. Maybe 10 or 12 degrees Celsius. I was eager to get there, so I rode hard. Way too much headwind, a lot of gas burned, but it didn't matter. When you're looking forward to seeing a river, the kilometers pass differently. I arrived in Port Hope before dinner. I met up with some acquaintances, chatted for a bit, ate with them, and then we decided to check out the Ganaraska River upstream. The river was small, intimate, with lots of steelhead. There must have been tons of fish in there. But something really struck me. I've never seen so much trash on a riverbank. To me, the Ganaraska had practically become the official Tim Hortons dump of Ontario. Red cups everywhere. Lids. Bags. Trash in the trees, in the rocks, in the ditches. Everywhere. And it really discouraged me. Because for me, a river isn't just about fish. It's all of nature. The plants. The birds. The silence. The feeling of being far from human noise. I didn't feel that there. I still managed to hook a nice steelhead, about 6 to 8 pounds. A beautiful, fresh fish. I lost it pretty quickly. I'd used a barbless hook and didn't handle the fish properly. But honestly, it didn't bother me that much. I would have released it anyway. That night, I went to sleep near Cobourg, in a parking lot for hiking trails along the river. Alain was there too. We settled in quietly with the camper. Later that evening, I decided to go see the river with a headlamp. And then… surprise. Steelheads everywhere. Hundreds of them. In a short accessible section, there must have been 300 or 400 fish. Beautiful, healthy fish. Silvery shadows moving all over the dark current. But again… the trash. More Tim Hortons cups. More garbage. Even old tires at the bottom of the river. I looked at it and thought: how can we claim to love rivers if we treat them like this? This wasn't my place. Perhaps some people like this atmosphere. The small urban rivers, the crowds everywhere, the full parking lots, the TH cafes on every corner. But not me. I'm looking for silence. I'm looking for birds. I'm looking for wildflowers. I'm looking for the feeling of being small within something bigger than myself. The next morning, I decided to head west, towards Goderich and the Maitland River. And then the trip changed. Passing near Toronto, I stopped at Drift Outfitters & Fly Shop. What a great shop! Welcoming, passionate, and knowledgeable people. Quality tackle everywhere. Flies, leaders, two-handed rod supplies—just pop into the till and the journey resumes on a different beat. I recommend stopping by to any fishing enthusiast passing through the area. Then I ended up back on the 401. Never again. Accidents, traffic jams, endless traffic. We were sometimes driving at 30 or 40 km/h. I checked the GPS and then decided to avoid highways. And honestly, it was probably the best decision of the trip. I found myself on the country roads of Ontario. Farms. Fields stretching as far as the eye could see. Quiet villages. And then that organic, country smell that hung in the air. It was strong in some places, but it didn't bother me. I grew up on a farm in Cap-Pelé, New Brunswick. Those smells remind me of my grandparents' farm. My childhood. A simpler time. It's amazing how a smell can bring back memories. Finally, I reached the Maitland River. And there… at last. Real nature! A steep dirt road led down to the spot where I wanted to set up camp. I had to engage four-wheel drive to get out of a tight spot without breaking anything. Once I was settled, I looked around and immediately felt the difference. No trash. No noise. Nothing but the river, the trees, and the wind—in short, nature. Wildflowers were everywhere. So were the birds. I felt good. The next morning, I got up late. Tired, but happy. I made myself a coffee. My first real, peaceful coffee of the trip. Not a coffee bought quickly in a parking lot. A real coffee in the silence of nature. Then I went for a walk to an area I loved and that a friend had shown me before. After about 35 minutes of walking, I arrived. And what a place! Red-winged blackbirds everywhere. Tree swallows flying over the water. Songbirds in every direction. A bald eagle perched nearby that flew away when it saw me coming. Turkey vultures circling overhead. Families of bustards with their chicks. The river was alive. Completely alive. That's where I tied on my first fly. A few minutes later, bang. My first Maitland steelhead. A beautiful, fresh fish, 8 to 10 pounds. I was nervous. Alone with my rod, two-handed. I didn't want to lose it. When I finally managed to release it, I was almost in tears. Because it wasn't just a fish. It was exactly why I'd come here. Afterward, I sat by the river with a Dillan's gin cooler, an Ontario product I'd brought along. I was watching the water. The birds. The current. Then I just thought: thank you. Later, I caught another steelhead, a bit smaller, maybe 6 to 8 pounds. This one jumped several times. It used the entire river. An incredible fight. Then the smallmouth bass started biting. Beautiful, solid fish. One in particular must have been close to 3.5 kilos. All released. As darkness began to fall, I decided to head back up before it got completely dark. The path was steep and slippery, and I was alone. There was no question of taking unnecessary risks. I arrived at the campsite around 9 a.m. A sandwich. A little warmth. Then sleep. That night, it froze. The next day, city workers came to repair a culvert blocked by beavers. They were the first people I'd seen in a long time. And honestly… it suited me perfectly. I went back fishing. Not many fish that day. Just a few bass. A cold front seemed to have slowed things down. But I didn't even mind. Because deep down, this trip wasn't just about fishing anymore. It was about connection. With the rivers. With the birds. With the silence. With something real. Finally, towards the end of the day, I decided to leave again. Heading towards the Saugeen river. I am now settled near landing stage number 12. Tomorrow, I will explore upstream, discover this river which I do not yet know, then continue on the road. And honestly…I'm already looking forward to seeing what she's going to show me.

Total run GS Adult Salmon and PS Grilse Trinity River is one of the most troubling examples because we are talking about an indicator river scientifically monitored for decades. This is not based on impressions. These are not anecdotes. These are data collected year after year through a fish ladder and counting system operated by the Ministère de la Faune, des Forêts et des Parcs. Since 1984, every salmon run has been telling the same story: a gradual, constant, and now alarming decline in the number of spawning fish. And that is what hits the hardest. When a river monitored this closely shows a decline over more than 30 years, we can no longer talk about a simple bad cycle. We are looking at a major biological warning sign. A long-term trend. Atlantic salmon are resilient fish, capable of surviving difficult periods. But even a resilient species eventually reaches a critical point when there are too few spawners left to maintain a stable population. Every salmon that does not spawn today can mean thousands fewer smolts tomorrow. And with marine return rates now so catastrophically low, every single spawner has become incredibly valuable. The Trinity River now acts almost like a silent witness to what is happening across Quebec. It documents, in black and white, what many still refuse to acknowledge: the decline is no longer theoretical. It is measured. Counted. Archived for decades.

They attack the messenger because the message makes people uncomfortable Let me make something very clear. I have never attacked sport anglers. I have never attacked biologists. I have never attacked associations, guides, volunteers, people on the ground, or anyone who gives their time, energy, and heart to Atlantic salmon, never. What I am pointing at is not the individuals who love salmon. What I am pointing at is a system. A system that, in the face of a historic crisis, still seems unable to shift into emergency mode. A system that too often protects the culture of salmon fishing, the image, the folklore, the events, the habits, and the economy built around salmon before protecting the salmon itself in a clear, biological, and responsible way. And when someone dares to say that out loud, some people act offended. They attack the messenger. They try to put words in my mouth. They claim I am blaming sport fishing for the collapse of salmon. That is false. I have never said that sport fishing is the main cause of the decline. I know very well that the major mortality is probably happening at sea. I know very well that the causes are multiple: changes in the Gulf, water temperature, food availability, predation, accidental catches, aquaculture, disease, habitat, water levels, and water quality. But using the complexity of what happens at sea as an argument to avoid taking strong action here, now, is too easy. The problems at sea are enormous. They are complex. They will cost fortunes to understand, and even more to correct, if we ever manage to correct them. Changing the thermal regime of the ocean, fixing food availability on salmon feeding grounds, controlling what happens in the Gulf, around Greenland, offshore, in fisheries, and within the interactions between species — that is not a small task. There is no miracle pill coming tomorrow morning. And while we study all of that, while we search, while we debate, while we wait for perfect answers, the salmon that come back to our rivers are already here. Few in number. Exhausted. Vulnerable. And they need to spawn. That is where I say: can we at least do better here at home? Can we at least make sure that the maximum number of salmon that survived the ocean can reach the spawning grounds? Can we admit that egg deposition has never been more important? Can we stop managing this as if it were just another bad year? Because this is not just another bad year. This is a historic crisis. The returns of 2024 and 2025 are among the most disastrous since salmon have been seriously counted in our rivers. And in that context, a river receiving 20, 30, 40, 50, 100, or even fewer than 150 salmon should no longer be treated like a river open to business as usual. At that level, every salmon counts. Every spawner counts. Every female counts. Every fish that reaches the spawning grounds counts. And yes, at that point, even the act of fishing becomes pressure. Even catch and release becomes pressure. Stress, handling, the fight, warm water, delayed migration, poor conditions all of that matters when only a handful of fish remain. We also have to be honest: in this entire crisis, the only major measure really being put forward is catch and release. And that measure should have been widely implemented more than ten years ago. But if catch and release has become our only answer to protect the last salmon, then we are in serious trouble. Catch and release is not a recovery strategy. It is a minimum damage-reduction measure. Is it better than killing a salmon? Of course. But it is not a sufficient response when some rivers are now on the edge of collapse. We will not fix the ocean this season.We will not fix the climate this season.We will not fix aquaculture this season.We will not fix accidental catches this season.We will not fix the marine food chain this season. But this season, we can decide to leave the few salmon that managed to come back alone. That is my point. This is not an attack. It is a wake-up call. And I know very well that I am not the only one thinking this. Many people around me see the same thing and say the same thing in private, but they do not dare say it publicly because they know what happens next: people shoot the messenger instead of facing the message. But attacking the messenger proves exactly that there is a problem. A serious problem. Because some people have held important positions over the last few years. Key positions in the development, management, image, or protection of Atlantic salmon. And today, instead of admitting that the system waited too long, that the decisions were not strong enough, that the warning signs were ignored for too long, people get defensive. But the salmon no longer has the luxury of waiting for everyone to save face. It does not need us to protect the image of those who waited too long to act. It does not need us to protect the comfort of salmon anglers. It does not need us to protect the folklore. It does not need us to protect the industry built around it. It needs us to protect its ability to survive and spawn. So yes, we need to work on the ocean. Yes, we need to work on habitat. Yes, we need to work on water quality, temperatures, predators, accidental catches, aquaculture, and everything else. But in the meantime, here, in our rivers, we have an immediate responsibility. And that responsibility is to protect the last salmon that return. Not in ten years. Not when we have the perfect study. Not when the system becomes comfortable with the idea. Because when we keep looking for reasons not to act here at home, we end up protecting our habits more than we protect the salmon. And if the only answer to those calling for stronger measures is to dismiss them, caricature them, or put words in their mouth, then we need to ask a real question: Are we still here to protect the salmon? Or are we mostly here to protect the image of what we built around it?

When salmon becomes secondary, we’re no longer managing a resource—we’re accompanying its decline. At some point, we have to stop lying to ourselves. Atlantic salmon in Québec doesn’t need to be celebrated more. It needs to be protected. For real. Now. When podcasts, magazines, mentorships, banquets, film festivals, photo contests, and the entire culture surrounding salmon take up more space than the salmon itself, there’s a deep problem. Not a minor issue—a complete drift. We’ve reversed our priorities. We protect the image of the salmon angler. We protect habits. We protect events. We protect folklore. We protect the experience. But the salmon—the one that has to return upriver, survive, spawn, and ensure the future—where does it stand on the list? So low that it’s almost invisible. We talk about it. We photograph it. We film it. We use it as a symbol. We put it on posters, in magazines, in videos, at fundraising events. But while we celebrate it, it’s disappearing. And that’s the real scandal. Because without salmon, there are no salmon anglers. No culture. No tradition. No legendary rivers. Nothing left to tell. Only the memory of a resource we watched collapse while still organizing events around it. Let’s be clear: more visibility will not save salmon. More content, more banquets, more speeches, more publications, more beautiful photos—none of that will reverse the trend. What it will take is difficult decisions. Strong measures. Real sacrifices. Management that finally puts the fish ahead of the social, tourism, and cultural industries built around it. Because at a certain point, continuing as we always have is no longer tradition. It’s blindness. And what if, for once, On Écoutait Vraiment le Saumon? (we actually listened to the salmon?) Not the interests. Not the habits. Not the excuses. Not the empty phrases. Not the “we’ve always done it this way.” The salmon. The one returning in fewer and fewer numbers. The one crossing the ocean, climate change, predators, nets, estuaries, overheated rivers, handling, captures, catch-and-release, photos, and all the human pressure we keep imposing on it. That fish isn’t asking for more attention. It’s asking for a real chance to reach the spawning grounds. It’s asking us to stop treating it as an opportunity—for events, for content, for personal performance. It’s asking us to finally recognize the urgency. Because when runs collapse, every salmon matters. Every spawner matters. Every fish that reaches the river should be seen as a chance to reproduce—not another opportunity to keep business as usual. The question is no longer how to preserve the angler’s experience. The real question is: how much longer are we willing to sacrifice the salmon to preserve the illusion that everything can continue as before? We have to choose. Do we protect a culture that refuses to change? Or do we finally protect what makes that culture possible? Because one day, it will be too late to pretend we understood.

We are witnessing the worst salmon run in modern Québec history. Not just a dip. Not a cycle. A collapse. The numbers are unequivocal: 11 rivers below 100 salmon, including 7 under 50. At that point, we’re no longer talking about fishing. We’re talking about survival. And meanwhile… nothing. No strong measures. No clear signal. No plan to guarantee something essential: that every salmon returning can spawn. We keep making marginal adjustments, talking about catch-and-release, publishing, consulting. But we are not acting at the scale of the crisis. And yet, the reality is brutal, mathematical, impossible to ignore. The smolt return rate is below 0.2%. Zero point two. Concretely, that means that out of 1,000 smolts leaving the river, two salmon come back—two. In this context, every spawner becomes critical. Every salmon that successfully reproduces becomes essential. It’s a simple and unforgiving numbers game. 0.2% of 1,000,000 gives 2,000 returns. 0.2% of 1,000 gives 2 returns. Same rate. Completely different outcome. The entire survival of salmon now depends on how many breeders we manage to protect today. And that’s exactly where the system is failing. We continue to manage as if we were in times of abundance. As if 100 salmon were still an acceptable baseline. As if catch-and-release were a sufficient solution, regardless of context. But in rivers where only 30, 40, or 50 fish remain, every handling, every stress, every mortality—even marginal—becomes disproportionate. The real question is no longer biological. It’s political. Where is the line? 100 salmon? 50? 40? 30? 20? 10? 0? At what point will the ministry and the Fédération québécoise pour le saumon atlantique decide that enough is enough? Because right now, everything points to a “run until fail” management approach. We let it decline. We hope for a rebound. We buy time. But in the meantime, every salmon lost is one less chance to reproduce. And with a return rate of 0.2%, those losses cannot be recovered. We like to talk about the ocean. Greenland. Climate change. Factors beyond our control. All of that is real. But it is not an excuse for inaction here. Because here, in Québec, we do have control. We can close rivers. We can protect thermal refuges. We can impose strict rules. We can ensure that every salmon reaches its spawning grounds. But that takes courage. It means stopping the attempt to please everyone. It means making unpopular but necessary decisions. Today, the only logical strategy is clear: maximize the reproduction of what remains. Not tomorrow. Now. Because at 0.2%, we no longer have the luxury of waiting. And in trying to find the line… we may already be crossing it.

On April 25, 2026, a few weeks before the opening of salmon fishing in Quebec, one reality is clear: we are moving forward blindly. After two of the worst fish runs ever recorded, no structural measures have been announced. No emergency plan, no major adaptations, no clear signal that the exceptional situation our rivers are experiencing is truly understood in its full gravity. The data, however, is undeniable. In 2024 and 2025, 11 Quebec rivers recorded average runs of fewer than 100 salmon , including 7 with fewer than 50 individuals . These figures do not describe a temporary decline. They illustrate a localized, but very real, collapse. Despite this, the current response is essentially limited to catch and release. A relevant measure, certainly, but largely insufficient in a context where every fish counts. No comprehensive strategy exists to regulate this practice or limit its impacts. Even more worrying, several known and documented levers remain unused. There is still no official closure protocol based on water temperature, even though the 21°C threshold is recognized as critical for Atlantic salmon . The protection of thermal refuges, these areas essential for summer survival, is still not being systematically addressed. As for rivers in critical condition, no specific measures appear to be planned to adapt or suspend fishing pressure. In this context, a fundamental question becomes difficult to avoid: what are we trying to maintain? The resource itself, or the activity that depends on it? Because at this level of fragility, there is no longer any margin for error. Every handling, every fight, every release becomes an additional source of stress for fish already at the limit of their physiological capacity. Best practices should therefore be established as minimum standards, not recommendations. Keeping salmon in the water at all times, prohibiting unnecessary handling, and the widespread use of single barbless hooks should be non-negotiable. Similarly, automatic closures based on environmental conditions should be integrated into management, rather than left to the discretion of the moment. The situation of rivers with fewer than 100 salmon also deserves careful consideration. At this level, the focus is no longer on optimizing an activity, but on preserving a population. When the salmon run drops below 50 individuals, the very rationale for maintaining a fishing season should be questioned. It would be too simplistic to point the finger at fishermen. That's not the case. However, in a context of reduced abundance, the individual impact of each intervention becomes significant. This change of scale necessitates an adaptation of behaviors, but above all, of upstream decisions. What is striking today is not only the lack of strong measures, but the repetition of a reactive management model. Communications follow one another, reports pile up, but structural actions are slow to materialize. Meanwhile, the biological indicators continue to deteriorate. Atlantic salmon doesn't lack visibility. It lacks decisions. The question now is simple: are we ready to adjust our practices to protect the resource, or will we continue to maintain the status quo until some rivers are nothing but memories? No one blames the fishermen. But we must be realistic: in a context of abundance, the individual impact is diluted. In a context of collapse, it is amplified. What is shocking today is not just the inaction. It is this persistent impression that: 👉 We're waiting for the situation to resolve itself 👉 We are managing in the short term to maintain business activity 👉 We recycle the same speeches, year after year Enough with the podcasts. Enough with the pointless updates. Enough with the copy-pasting. Atlantic salmon don't need communication. They need decisions . Difficult decisions. Unpopular decisions. But necessary decisions. Because ultimately, the real question is no longer scientific. It's moral. Are we ready to slow down today...so as not to lose tomorrow? Or are we going to keep opening seasons...while everything collapses?

Want to be frank? The 2025 report has just been released…and the results are troubling. In Quebec, in 2024 and 2025, 11 rivers saw their salmon populations fall below 100, and of those 11, 7 had fewer than 50. (Average salmon run for 2024 and 2025) These are no longer populations. They are the last survivors. And yet…we continue to open the waters. We continue to fish. We continue to present ourselves as responsible managers. 2025 Review: Salmon Farming in Quebec 2025 But there's worse. There's no real protocol during heat waves. No clear and systematic protection of thermal refuges. We know that warm water kills. We know that heat stress weakens fish. We know that releasing them back into the water under these conditions can be fatal. And yet…we let it happen. Why? Because closing means losing revenue. Because slowing down activity weakens the model. Because this system depends directly on fishing for its survival. We're no longer talking about protecting salmon. We're talking about protecting an economic model. And that's a political choice. We talk about raising awareness. We talk about best practices. We talk about individual responsibility. But meanwhile, the key decisions aren't being made. So let's ask the real question: who is more inconsistent? The fisherman who acts within the framework he is allowed to follow…or the governing bodies—the federation and the ministry—that maintain this framework even when all the indicators are flashing red? Because at this point, it's no longer a lack of information. The 2025 assessment is clear. That's a lack of courage. As long as salmon management is financed through its exploitation, there will be a conflict of interest. And as long as we refuse to close, even in critical situations, we will not be able to conserve. We will orchestrate the disappearance.

The collapse of Atlantic salmon runs in Quebec — which reached a historic and alarming low in 2024 and 2025 — highlights a deep systemic flaw: the paradox of funding its own protection. The dilemma: financing monitoring through exploitation Quebec’s salmon management model falls under the authority of the Ministère de l’Environnement, de la Lutte contre les changements climatiques, de la Faune et des Parcs and relies on a structure in which the Fédération québécoise pour le saumon atlantique (FQSA), ZECs, and river associations depend heavily on revenue generated by fishing activity. This model creates a troubling paradox: the protection of a declining species depends, in part, on the exploitation of that same resource. In the context of a historic collapse in salmon runs, this dependence weakens managers’ ability to make decisions based strictly on conservation, without economic pressure tied to maintaining fishing activity. This mechanism creates a fundamental paradox: The more fishing days are sold, the more revenue increases. But the more pressure placed on salmon, the more fragile the resource becomes. In other words, protecting salmon often means reducing the very revenues used to fund its monitoring. This dependence places conservation stakeholders in a difficult position: Restricting fishing to protect the resource leads directly to lower revenue. Maintaining fishing activity to finance protection increases pressure on an already vulnerable species. This structural conflict of interest weakens the system’s ability to make swift, strict decisions when conditions demand it. Financial dependence that delays necessary closures The operating budgets of these organizations — including river wardens’ salaries, fish counting operations, pool monitoring, and biological assessments — come largely from the sale of: daily fishing packages, pre-season draws, 24-hour, 48-hour, and 72-hour access lotteries, pre-season access permits. During heat waves, low water flows, or severe drought conditions, closing a river to protect heat-stressed salmon means immediately cutting off the system’s main source of funding. This reality creates a natural reluctance to impose rapid, full, and uniform closures, even when biological conditions clearly require them. The absence of a rigorous province-wide thermal protocol While other jurisdictions — such as Newfoundland and Labrador, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia — apply automatic closures once water temperatures exceed critical thresholds, Quebec has still been slow to adopt a uniform and mandatory thermal protocol. At present, management relies mainly on: recommendations, voluntary closures, partial closures of certain pools or thermal refuges, local pilot projects. This “case-by-case” approach is widely criticized because it leaves room for: local economic pressure, inconsistent decisions between rivers, delays incompatible with biological urgency. The system remains too reactive, even though the situation now demands preventive management based on clear scientific thresholds. The illusion of catch-and-release during extreme heat Even though catch-and-release became mandatory in most rivers in 2025, this measure remains insufficient when rivers reach critical temperatures. Simple disturbance can become deadly During hot periods, salmon seek refuge in cold-water pools to reduce physiological stress. Simply: casting a fly over a holding pool, walking near thermal refuges, repeatedly passing fly lines and leaders, can be enough to: force fish out of their refuges, increase their energy expenditure, expose them to warmer, less oxygenated water. Thermal stress that compromises survival and reproduction When a salmon is hooked, fought, or disturbed in water above 20°C: its metabolism accelerates, recovery becomes much slower, post-release survival drops sharply. Even when the fish survives, the impacts can be significant: overall weakening, reduced spawning success, lower egg viability, increased risk of delayed mortality. As a result, during heat waves, catch-and-release does not guarantee meaningful protection for the fish. Reform is now urgent In light of the collapse observed over recent years, more and more stakeholders are calling for structural reform of Quebec’s salmon management model. Most frequently proposed solutions 1. Decouple conservation funding from fishing revenue Conservation funding should come from stable, independent public sources: recurring government funding, climate monitoring funds, support for river wardens. This would allow closure decisions to be made without immediate economic pressure. 2. Adopt a mandatory thermal protocol Implement: uniform temperature thresholds, automatic closures, real-time monitoring accessible to the public. 3. Strengthen transparency and governance Establish: public accountability, better dissemination of biological data, decision-making mechanisms less influenced by local revenue. Atlantic salmon is not just a fishing resource: it is an indicator of the health of our rivers and a symbol of Quebec’s natural heritage. As long as its protection remains financially dependent on its exploitation, Quebec will remain trapped in a contradictory system where ecological urgency collides with the economic survival of the model. Today, the question is no longer whether this system must be reformed, but how much time is left before it is too late.

With recent optimistic announcements from some salmon conservation organizations regarding the salmon's return, a return to the "status quo" risks forcing the opening of the harvest after a crisis that has lasted for more than three years and could present specific biological risks to the salmon resource. Short term (1 to 2 years): Immediate reduction in spawning success: Each salmon harvested is one less spawner. If the 2026 run is good but the harvest is too aggressive, the number of eggs laid in the gravel could fall below the conservation threshold (the minimum needed to replace the current generation). Pressure on large spawners: If the harvest targets large salmon (often females carrying thousands of eggs), the impact on the river's reproductive capacity is immediate. Long term (5 years and more): Weakening of future cycles: Atlantic salmon return to their natal river after an average of five years. An overharvest in 2026 creates a generational gap that won't become apparent until 2031, potentially plunging the river back into a downward spiral. Loss of genetic diversity: Artificially reducing the population through fishing diminishes genetic diversity. This makes the species less resilient to climate change and disease. A cautious approach is needed to ensure a sustainable recovery rather than a short-lived success. Here's why complementary protection measures are often more effective than simply catch and release. 1. Catch and Release + Single Barbless Hook Using a single barbless hook drastically reduces handling time and damage to vital tissues. Combined with mandatory catch and release, this ensures that almost all fish migrating upstream in 2026 will actually be able to spawn in the fall. 2. Heat Protocol (Thermal Closures) This is a critical measure. When the water temperature exceeds 20°C, salmon accumulate lactic acid and suffer from oxygen deprivation. Even a perfect release can become fatal due to heat stress. The advantage: We protect the fish during their periods of maximum vulnerability without banning fishing all summer. 3. Protecting thermal refuges Pools fed by cold water sources are vital "gas stations" where salmon congregate to survive heat waves. Banning fishing specifically in these areas (often called "sanctuaries") prevents harassing fish already in survival mode, thus preserving their energy for reproduction. Why is this "better" in the long run? Rather than viewing salmon as a resource to be consumed immediately (harvested), this strategy treats them as a biological asset that is allowed to flourish. In 2026, if the number of bees increases, these measures would maximize egg laying, creating a safety "cushion" for the more difficult years that may follow.

A heat protocol based on a target temperature of 20°C is an emergency measure designed to reduce physiological stress and mortality in salmon when the water becomes too warm. Here's why this measure is beneficial for the species' survival: 1. Prevention of Heat Stress Atlantic salmon are cold-water fish. Their metabolism accelerates as water temperatures rise: At 20°C and above: Salmon enter a state of stress. They draw on their energy reserves (necessary for reproduction) simply to regulate their body temperature. The benefit: By ceasing fishing at this temperature, we avoid adding physical stress (the fight at the end of the line) to an already weakened organism. 2. Reduced Mortality After Release Even if an angler carefully releases their salmon (catch and release), the chances of survival drop drastically in warm water: Lack of Oxygen: Warm water contains less dissolved oxygen. A salmon that has just exerted itself intensely to free itself struggles to recover and can die of asphyxiation or exhaustion a few hours later. The Benefit: The protocol ensures that salmon that have successfully reached the cold pools are not disturbed, thus maximizing the number of spawners available for the spawning season. 3. Protection of "Thermal Refuges" When the river temperature exceeds 20°C, salmon congregate, if possible, in cooler areas (stream mouths, underground springs). Vulnerability: In these pockets of cold water, the fish are highly concentrated and become easy targets for fishing or poaching. The benefit: The protocol protects these critical aggregation areas, allowing salmon to pass undisturbed through the heatwave. In summary: Strictly enforcing the 20°C threshold acts as a temporary shield. It's an adaptive management approach: the river is closed when the risk of mortality is too high, and reopened as soon as the water cools (often below 18°C ​​for 48 hours).

Protecting thermal refuges has become a priority for the survival of Atlantic salmon, a cold-water species particularly vulnerable to rising temperatures due to climate change. These refuges are areas located in rivers where the water remains significantly colder, often situated at the mouths of small streams fed by underground springs. Why protect these areas? Preventing heat stress: When water temperatures exceed 20°C, salmon experience intense physiological stress that can weaken their immune system and, in extreme cases, cause death. Survival during summer heat waves: During periods of high heat and low water levels, salmon congregate in large numbers in these pockets of cool water to regulate their temperature and conserve energy. Preserving reproductive capacity: Salmon experiencing less heat stress retain the energy needed to complete their upstream migration and ensure successful reproduction once they reach the spawning grounds. Regulation of sport fishing: Managers, except for Quebec, often close access to fishing near these refuges to avoid adding additional stress (fishing pressure) to fish already weakened by the heat.

Contact Chantal https://www.facebook.com/chantal.dompierre.2025

The Urgency of Letting Our Rivers Breathe: Why Suspend Subsistence Salmon Fishing? Atlantic salmon, once the king of our rivers, are currently facing an unprecedented crisis. While subsistence fishing is a right and a deeply rooted tradition, the current biological situation necessitates a forced pause to prevent irreversible extinction. Here's why this precautionary measure has become essential: 1. The Survival Threshold Has Been Reached In many rivers, the number of salmon returning from the ocean to spawn has fallen below the "conservation threshold." This means there are no longer enough fish to replace the previous generation. At this stage, every catch, however small, directly reduces the river's capacity to regenerate. Banning fishing ensures that each spawner can lay its eggs. 2. The "Thermal Stress" Factor With climate change, river water is reaching temperatures that are lethal for salmon (often exceeding 20°C). In water that is too warm, salmon are in survival mode and quickly become exhausted. Simply handling them or stressing them through an attempt to catch them can cause their death, even if they are released. Closing the fishery allows the fish to rest in the cool pools, where they await the rain. 3. A sharp decline in salmon runs The most recent scientific data (2024-2025) shows a drastic decrease in salmon returns. The causes are numerous (pollution, lack of food at sea, migratory barriers), but the result is the same: there is no longer a surplus to be caught. Continuing to harvest fish from a rapidly declining stock accelerates the local extinction of some populations. 4. Protecting the future of communities Banning subsistence fishing is a difficult measure, but it is an investment in the future. If the species becomes extinct, the right to fish and the tradition disappear with it forever. By stopping fishing pressure today, we give stocks a chance to rebuild so that future generations can once again exercise this right in a healthy river. Prudence is not about denying a right, but about protecting the resource that makes that right possible. Faced with collapsing populations, the silence of fishing rods is sometimes the only way to ensure that the call of the salmon will continue to echo in our rivers.

La Campagnol Variation (Jocelyn LeBlanc), the Campagnol pool is a retention pool on the Rivière aux Rochers where salmon from the MacDonald River use as a thermal refuge from mid-July to the end of August. The MacDonald River is an important tributary of the Rivière aux Rochers. MacDonald salmon use the cold water of Walker Lake because the water in the MacDonald River becomes very warm in July and August. Hooks -Hook Daiichi 2161 #1, 2, 4, 6, 8 Tag - Ferret Gold Holographic Tinsel Tail- Golden pheasant - Natural golden pheasant Rib - Côte gold oval tinsel - Gold oval tinsel Body - Body Fluor wool hot green Wing - Artic Fox tail yellow, chartreuse and black wings - yellow, chartreuse and black fox tail and Flashabou UV Collar - Black heron, lime green and black hen - Black dyed heron and lime green and black hen saddle hackle Cheek - Cheek Jungle Cock

The Overtaker Hook- Hooks, Mustad Signature DL70UBLN Double Size 4 Thread- Thread, Uni-8/0 Fire Orange Tag, Small Gold Oval Tinsel Tail- Golden Pheasant tippet tail Butt-Bout, Uni-Floss Hot Green and UNI-Stretch Chinese Red Body, STS Trilobal dubbing green highlander Wing- Wings, Black Fox & UV Flashabou Eyes-Eyes, Jungle Cock Originator - Creation: Davie McPhail Third-party editor: Jocelyn LeBlanc

Creation & Tier - Jocelyn LeBlanc Chartreuse Bugger Hook - Patridge Salar Gold #5 Tag - Holographic Mylar Gold with UV resin Tail- Black Marabou, 4 pieces of flashabou UV & Krystal Flash FLUO Chartreuse Rib - Gold oval tinsel with black hackle Body - Chartreuse yellow chenille Wings- Jungle Cock Long Collar - Black chicken saddle Head - Plain floche hot red.

La Fergy Step by Step Fly Tying The Fergy is a creation of Mr. John Edward who was a guide on the Moisie River at the height of the Ouapatec River, this fly was dedicated for his great friend and mentor Mr. Roland Fergusson of Sept Iles QC. It was my three friends from Sept Iles Karl Hartland, Réjean Langlois and Jean-Marie Henry who introduced me to this awesome fly. Created John Edward Tier - Jocelyn LeBlanc Hook - Daiichi 2051 Single # 3 Tag - Holographic Mylar Silver Tail- Golden pheasant crest natural with blue doctor hackle on top Butt - Bright Yellow Floss ( UV RESIN) Rib - Gold oval tinsel with palmered black hen hackle Body - Black Uni Stretch Wing- Blue turkey quill section with black fox tail fur and light blue Krystal flash Collar - Black hen hackle Eyes- Jungle cock

One of North Shore best fly for brook trout and sea run brook trout, this olive wolly bugger (Black Hackle) is a local favorite for early season brook trout and all season round the only thing that chances is its size. Lake fishermen sware by this fly. Oh no I revealed a secret fly sorry about that. Tier - Jocelyn LeBlanc Hook - Hameçon - Mustad 9672 Tail- Queue - Black marabou with few strands of flashabou UV Rib- Côte - Gold oval tinsel with palmered black hen hackle Body- Corps - Olive chenille Collar - Collier- Black hen hackle Head - Black

Guinea feathers are extremely versatile, have a flexible stem and can therefore be used as hackles to tie several sizes of wet flies, different types of streamers, sea trout and salmon flies. Additionally, they will also create lively movement and a tempting appearance when their soft fibers are used as tails or antennas. In short: Thanks to their contrasting colors and soft fibers, these high-quality guinea fowl feathers can be used for all kinds of flies – for example salmon or sea trout flies! Available in 7 gr or 100 gr bag From C$5.00 and delivery only $5 in Canada or $10 in the USA https://www.shedaplumes.com/product-page/poule-guin%C3%A9e-cousue-naturel-et-teint

Tanuki - Finn Raccoon has been a "Scandinavian secret" for many years and is one of the best tube and hook fly materials a fly tyer can own. It is incredibly versatile and is now widely used for tying flies for salmon, sea trout, steelhead, bass and pike. When the guard hairs and undercoat are tied together, this makes for one of the best fly tying materials available today. The hairs attach with minimal bulk, are very mobile and have an undulating action in the water. The guard hairs average 50 to 100 mm in length and are straighter and less flexible than the undercoat. The undercoat alone is very soft and fluffy and moves like a marabou in water. With an average length of 25 to 75 mm, it is excellent as material for wings and tails on streamers and trout flies or as lining on flies. Being very absorbent, it helps your fly sink faster. $8.99 delivery only $5 to Canada or $10 to USA https://www.shedaplumes.com/category/tanuki-finn-raccoon Monteur Chantal Dompierre Monteur Victor Corbeil

Polar bear hair is a common material used in fly tying for fly fishing. Its soft, dense and translucent appearance makes it a popular choice for making wings for salmon flies, swimming fish imitations and other aquatic insects. Very short, short, medium, long and very long polar bear. $3.99 - $7.99 https://www.shedaplumes.com/category/ours

The Schmoon Variation (Jocelyn LeBlanc), the Schmmon River is an important tributary of the Rochers River upstream of Walker Lake. Hooks -Hook Daiichi 2161 #1, 2, 4, 6, 8 Tag - Ferret Gold Holographic Tinsel Tail- Hen tail dyed orange Krystal flash Pearl orange Rib - Rib copper wire - copper wire Body - Silver body flashy dubbing silver with homemade flash Wing - Black Fox tail wings - black fox tail and Flashabou UV Collar - Black Dyed Heron and Green Hen Saddle Hackle Cheek - Cheek Jungle Cock

The Pasteur Variation (Jocelyn LeBlanc), the Pasteur River as well as the lake of the same name is an important tributary of the Aux Rochers River. Hooks -Hook Daiichi 2161 #1, 2, 4, 6, 8 Tag - Ferret Gold Holographic Tinsel Tail- Rump of natural golden and Krystal flash Pearl orange Rib - Rib copper wire - copper wire Bodysuit - Flashy orange body dubbing with homemade flash Wing - Silver Fox tail wings - silver fox tail and Flashabou UV Collar - Black Dyed Heron and Black Hen Saddle Hackle Cheek - Cheek Jungle Cock