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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