Cam’s Note: There are no friends like old friends, especially old fishing and hunting buddies. That’s why…if you’re going to confess (and a priest, a rabbi, or a bartender are not readily available), who better to confess to…than your old buddies? After some years of merciless prodding from Pat Rutten (recently retired from NMFS) and Oregon’s answer to Wilford Brimley, (Coos County cattleman Fred Messerle), I decided to throw in the proverbial towel. It seems neither of them have ever actually accompanied me when a big fish was landed. So they were convinced my years of outdoor writing, anadromous fishery lectures, radio shows, and flyfishing expertise were carefully assisted by photo shop, and old bootlegged copies of American Sportsman videos. When my most recent Chinook on Oregon’s Sixes tallied 48 pounds, it was too much for them. That seeming triumph was immediately followed by years of pent-up frustration that manifested itself in a cavalcade of texts, voice and emails. Each message from my oldest and dearest pals accused me of being the outdoor world’s answer to Professor Harold Hill…a confidence man, flim-flam artist, slight of hand provocateur, and of all things…a fish fraud. Well, keeping in mind a rough translation of my favorite bible verse, “The truth will set you free” (and knowing John’s original verse had the word “eventually” edited from the end of his quote), I prepared a heartfelt, tear-stained response (below). On closer inspection, those may be scotch stains, but that in no way changes the sincerity of this narrative.
Gentlemen, in regards to my fish...
Your unceasing refusal to believe in the veracity of a certain recently caught salmonid has led to a soul searching, soul cleansing of sorts. A clearer understanding of my place in God's plan, and...the following confession which will unravel the very core of your belief in, and understanding of my world as you know it. What you choose to do with this missive I leave to you, my faithful friends and companions all these years.
As a young lad working multiple jobs as a lifeguard, tree faller, sporting goods clerk, and minor-league outdoor writer (while I attended college all too infrequently), I realized in many ways one determines one's own destiny. Waiting for lightning to strike was not in my makeup and if I was ever to realize my true dream of making at least $75 dollars a angling article, I had to change my course in a resplendent way.
As I already had a reputation for off-beat writing of a certain stripe, it was not difficult to convince my then editor of a story possibility which would take me to the towns, seaways, and rivers of Quebec. I was to profile guides, miners, cooks and crooks across this pulchritudinous part of French Canada, weaving a colorful and sparkling tale of character and legend that rivaled London, Hemingway (and Lum & Abner). Dazzled by my approach (and the fact this article would cost only $5 dollars more than my customary $25), he leapt at the chance and I was off to Quebec.
There were of course, certain parts of this epic journey I had not planned, one part being the reliability of my ancient Chevrolet pickup (which was largely held together with heavy oil additives and bailing wire). You, of course, will not believe I was capable of anything other than intricate, clockwork planning (having only been involved with my seamless, uneventful trips later in life…).
Said truck performed well past it's questionable capabilities though, and did not make a rather abrupt, unplanned layover until the quaint town of Saint Jean Port Joli, a small village of L ‘Islet in the Chaudiere-Appalaches region of Quebec with (as I was to later learn) a world-wide reputation for a particular form of art. Grinding to a halt just past a time-worn shop of some sort on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, I suddenly realized it would have been helpful to know more French than my 6th grade command of the language of love allowed.
Looking like something more from the Brothers Grimm than postmodern architecture, the shop was framed with hand-hewn beams, gracefully capped with a multi-colored slate-tiled roof, while thick trunks of elderly blue-green ivy climbed its' cobblestone walls. A frail, elderly man with a kind smile, bright eyes and an unruly shock of dark gray hair answered the door. I noticed a small brass sign beneath his porch light that read "Pierre Cloutier, Sculpteur 'une Bois." My limited French phrases allowed, "Le noir chat" and "Le rouge lapin," but somehow I knew asking about a black cat or red rabbit would be of little assistance now.
"Sculpteur 'une bois?" I asked, pointing to his sign and not having the faintest idea where the question would lead me.
"Oui, Oui!" he answered excitedly, grabbing my sleeve with his ancient fingers and leading me into a Tiffany-lit den. I wasn't particularly interested in seeing "sculptures of boys" but would soon understand he was a sculptor of "wood"..."bois" (and I could suddenly feel my 6th grade French teacher, Mrs. Sangster, slapping my hand sharply with her ruler again).
As I slowly gazed around his fairy tale dominion, I was greeted by every magical woodland creature known to man. I first thought these were amazing taxidermy mounts, looking every bit as lifelike as the day they were taken from the forest, but on closer inspection they were, in fact, each made of "bois." Raccoons, woodpeckers, chipmunks, crows, bitterns and bears...they were all there. To state these creatures were "magical," would be the historic understatement of several millenniums. Each looked ready to run, jump, chirp or caw at any given minute, leaving their lofty perches to suddenly scamper off or fly away. Every hair, every eye, every paw, every feather was filled with life and overflowing with personality. Pierre Cloutier was the Geppeto of his century, no fairy Godmothers or star wishing crickets needed, thank you.
My personal epiphany stuck me suddenly, like a thunderbolt; the cult of personality and fame surrounding the greatest of outdoor scriveners often has little to do with writing prowess, but everything to do with prey prowess. For years I read tales by top-tier outdoor writers who could not distinguish between a verb or a noun, and who always let their participles dangle in the most painful way. Yet, these were men who stood at the mythical $75 a story level (and sometimes..."shudder" even $90, or the astrally unachievable $100 per article pinnacle). Why you ask? Simply because they routinely hefted the biggest fish or laid their rifles across the largest set of antlers. With the right set of fins, feathers or horns, even Elmer Fudd could rise to the hallowed outdoor writing ranks of the $100 elite.
So that's when I asked, "El pescado?"
His quizzical look and cocked head showed his lack of understanding, and I quickly realized my 10th grade Spanish had spilled directly into my 6th grade French. What was fish in French I asked myself?
"Poison?" I inquired.
He made a stern look downward and quickly shook his head "no," and I realized I was rapidly losing my formerly attentive audience.
What was the word? Posen, posan, po...wait I knew it, "Poisson!" I shouted triumphantly.
His staccato nodding and broad smile told me I had struck gold, as he again anxiously grabbed my sleeve, pulling me down a dimly lit hall much further into his inner sanctum. We entered a rich mahogany paneled room illuminated by just two stained glass wall sconces. Even in this dark enclosure I could still see hundreds of "Poisson" softly backlit by the room's gentle golden light. Trout, tadpoles, anchovies, herring, goldfish and smelt...halibut, haddock and hake...all looking as though their gills were actually breathing...and all staring at me. Each scale, each fin...was remarkable, with a lifelike texture in dazzling 3-D. If the room suddenly filled with water, I was sure they'd instantly swim away. Unworldly carving I thought, as if Cloutier's hands had been graced with the very power of creation. No matter how a taxidermist labors, his creations still look frozen in death. Cloutier's work however, was quite simply luminous...and very much alive.
This was what I wanted...no, needed. Perfection in the art of pescado, I mean poisson. But it needed to be on a grander scale...a much grander scale, and everything here was, well..un petit peu..."very little."
"Have you, can you, carve poisson on a grand "demi-queue" scale "echelle?" I asked, struggling through my inattentive eleven year old's version of French.
"Peut-être," he responded with his palms turned upward.
"Perhaps, maybe," I hopefully interpreted?
"Oui," he replied simply.
"Salmon?" I asked.
"S-a-u-m-o-n," he repeated slowly, (finally realizing my severe linguistic limitations).
"A perfect fish," I mused aloud to myself.
"Impeccable," he smiled in seeming understanding and nodded.
I then stretched my arms far apart, indicating the largest "saumon" my reach allowed.
"A grande saumon...oui!" he sparkled.
So there I was, fueled by the intoxicating excitement of Cloutier's otherworldly skills...with a grand scheme for a grand fish. It would grace the covers of 10...no 12...no...countless outdoor magazines, and be shown in slides during even more fishing lectures with a fly, spoon, or spinner in it’s' mouth...and I'd be hefting that sublime salmon in every photo. Wherever my writing prowess left off, my fishing prowess would take over...thanks to the sainted salmon replica my ancient woodcarver would create. It was the perfect photo shop plan (long before photo shop was actually invented) and my destiny was finally mine to direct. My truck had affirmed exactly this by dropping its' transmission (or something equally important)...directly in Pierre Cloutier's lap.
Throughout the night we excitedly worked out the mechanizations of Cloutier's creation to be. I kept seeing the moment Dr. Frankenstein brought his creature to life. "It's alive!" Cloutier would scream in glorious black and white as he lifted the salmon above his head.
I drew dimensions and even asked for its' base to be weighted (so it could "swim" in photos).
"Chinook?" I queried.
"Chi-nook, oui," he responded.
Drawing a mark on the paper, I indicated where a small hole would be drilled in its' lip to hold different lures and flies of all shapes and sizes.
"Ingenious!" chirped Cloutier, as if he was now in on the great cosmic joke we were unilaterally about to play.
All too late I remembered the advice my father bestowed upon me at a young age, "Never let a car salesman know you are in love with the vehicle you are bargaining for." Cloutier by now knew for hours I was his, and his "magnifique saumon" would not be had unless I paid dearly.
Now before you two hopeless, conspiracy-spinning fantasy boys go all Faustian on me...this was not that. Sorry to disappoint, but there were no soul-trading deals with the devil for outdoor author nirvana. There was however, a long indeterminate silence after my last design requirement was offered. Cloutier looked steadily down at my drawings, with an obviously oft practiced air of being deep in study...and then ever-so-slowly...he looked up and answered the question that had yet to be asked.
"Five thousand American," he proffered lightly with a hint of a smile (and without any trace of a French accent). "For a magnifique saumon!" he added (with a touch of car dealer Cal Worthington’s panache) and a wave of his hand.
Five thousand? That was the used silver Vette in the showroom of the Sebastopol Chevy dealer...the schooner with the "For Sale" sign in the Sausalito yacht harbor...or an extended trip to Europe with that green-eyed blonde in Civics Class. My God, $100 would buy me ten carved salmon from any Oregon roadside woodcarving vendor...but then again...they wouldn't be this salmon...they wouldn't be a Cloutier. They wouldn't be a future either, nor would they be a career...or an entire life. Hemingway never had it this easy. He actually had to go to war for "A Farewell to Arms" and London had to freeze his tail off in the Klondike for "Call of the Wild." Me? All I had to do was have an old man carve a fish to reach ten cents a word heaven.
"Done!" I literally sang as I grasped his hand and shook it again and again.
Paying for all this wondrous whittling couldn't be done on the installment plan either (which I had gleaned from Cloutier's overall demeanor...answering another question that had never been asked). Fortunately, I had my grandfather's inheritance, one thousand shares of Leslie Salt stock he received upon the passing of his maternal cousin some 40 years earlier. In all that time it had never paid a dividend and was never worth a penny more or less than the day he inherited it...about five bucks a share. For the first time in 30 years, that lazy stock would start working.
So I officially climbed the beanstalk and gave up my share of the salt mine for a large saltwater fish…and Cloutier set to work. Meanwhile, my truck sat with a blown clutch just past the wood carving shop where it stopped (which required a publisher's advance of the $30 I'd be due for my epic French Canadian magazine tome...which had yet to be written).
Within a week, I had the majority of my truck parts back together (I have always found American manufacturers put too many parts in vehicles, so never be distressed when you have a few left over after a repair). As I was tightening the last bolt, Cloutier emerged from his shop triumphant like the French Legionnaire marching proudly to La Marseillaise after a successful campaign in the Sudan.
"Magnifique, magnifique, magnifique," he implored, clutching a monstrous salmon of powerful proportions. It looked almost as though it was dripping with water, having just been pulled from the rapids of Oregon's Rogue or the shimmering waters of Canada's Campbell. Cloutier was as much a master with a paint brush as with a knife. A touch of rainbow graced the salmon's silver sides while a deep greenish tinge spread lightly across its' massive, speckled back. Its' eyes were full of fire, staring at you wherever you stood...angry at having been pulled from his mission early. It wasn't too big though. If anything it was "believably" big (as this fish would be caught again and again on all kinds of gear, in all kinds of weather). It could pass for anywhere from 38 to 55 pounds, depending on camera angles and lighting...and it would look just as good in the water as out.
I believe I thanked Cloutier profusely in three different languages, telling him repeatedly it was, “Salt stock well spent.” He pointed excitedly to the imperceptible hole he had drilled in the salmon’s lip...a hole that would hold every manufacturer’s new lure of every decade to come. I carefully packed my giant salmon in a large box of wood shavings sitting on the bench seat of my truck and then reached over to shake Cloutier's hand one last time. I saw a single tear spill from his eye...as he too, knew this was his lifetime's crowning achievement.
It was just over a month later that I arrived at Oregon's mighty Rogue to test my theory of instant outdoor writing celebrity. I was all-in on this one, every dime I owned. Weeks of careful planning had led me to this river and if my "magnifique" Trojan horse could make it here, he'd make it anywhere (as the song says).
Just after dusk the following evening, I emerged from a drift boat tied to Jot's dock on the lower Rogue with a fly rod in one hand and my "saumon" hanging from the other. Almost immediately surrounded by tourists, I quickly asked one of them to grab my camera from the boat's bow and snap a picture. This was to be my fish's first prime-time appearance, gracing the cover of my favorite outdoor magazine horizontally and weighing in at 52 pounds (you've got to start somewhere). In a stroke of over-sized luck, he barely fit the confines of the page he was printed on. The photo was accompanied by the tale of an epic Homerian battle that befitted big fish legend, having hooked him on the Ferry hole far up river (with an 8 pound tippet and a purple egg-sucking leech). Some 3 hours and countless rapids later, the battle concluded in front of Jot's. Yes, a legend for the ages and my $100-a-story career was now an effulgent meteor in flight. After the first 25,000 copies hit the street, I breathed a sigh of relief. My Cloutier was in the books, unilaterally believed, and on to the next river (ever ready for his next close up, Mr. DeMille).
Soon there were other covers, more epic stories, and rod company lectures, guest appearances, fishing classes across the Northwest and radio shows...all thanks to my superlative pseudo salmon. If you thought $5,000 was too much to spend, I'd estimate that fish has earned over a million dollars in writing, lecture and radio fees during the almost forty years that have passed since I carefully packed him in that box of wood shavings at Saint Jean Port Joli. The most famous woodcarving village in the world.
In all these years, he has required only a single touch up (after dropping him one very icy day on the Kalama River). I fortunately found a master Algonquin Indian painter and carver named Minnie Rivers (who spoke only Algonquineese). Through careful sign language, I instructed her to replace his adipose fin and re-paint the bruised scales on his back. The beauty of this repair was that she could only tell other native Algonquin speakers (but of course, that's another story).
Years later, I heard Cloutier actually framed that very first magazine cover his magnifique saumon graced, and referred to that photo as "his son" until the day he died. Everyone, of course, thought he meant me...but only I and my French Geppeto would ever truly know who he was talking about.
The interesting thing is Cloutier's works are now highly prized and perhaps, just perhaps, my fish is now worth more than what it has earned in its’ lifetime. But then again, perhaps not, as I believe this was his only creation he never carefully catalogued...and of course, I would never, ever part with it.
So there you have it gentlemen, until your persistent prodding and questioning, no one has ever doubted my Cloutier...not for a moment, not for an instant. The cynicism and incessant jabbing displayed by both of you gave me pause though, and forced me to reexamine and revaluate my life...the omnipresent charade and fisheries facade that it is. Is an elaborate fish decoy, however lifelike...enough to base a life on? I can't answer that yet, but I also can't tell you the burden that has been lifted from my soul with this telling. It's like a great weight has been removed from my heart and I most certainly owe that to both of you. Now that you have this story, written in my own hand...my very life is completely...in yours.
Expose me if you will, I deserve no less. In so doing you may end my fishing career (or worse yet, propel me and my fish to the ranks of reality show stardom). Before you decide to unravel my legend though, I'll tell you one part of the story I left out.
While waiting for my fish to be born, I stayed in the old Saint Jean Port Joli Hotel whose flaking paint and well-worn woodwork bespoke more shining times. No television, radio, or modern conveniences, but they did have an inviting fireplace and a small library with a passable collection of dusty books in all languages. One evening I found myself idly thumbing through an ancient hotel registry I had pulled from the top shelf and stopped with a delighted shudder. The autographs on those pages were literally a treasure trove who's who of all the fishing and hunting greats. From Zane Grey (with multiple world records) to Bing Crosby, Ernest Hemingway (and even Ernest’s son Jack)...they had all stayed there. Yes, these catchers, blasters and writers of legend shared a common bond in brotherhood, a one-time stop at Saint Jean Port Joli. But before you go jumping to conclusions, I implore you to realize they have excellent creamed spinach in Saint Jean Port Joli (which is a phenomenal, if little known tourist draw), and the weather's nice (especially when it's not icy). So obviously, these men came for a well-established litany of culinary to meteorological reasons…but still...if you look carefully at some of their old black and white sporting photographs.
With that I'll say good evening and leave you to your individual consciences, your innate good will and hopefully a short conference with our creator...who like Cloutier, started out with very little to work with. I thank you for your friendship and companionship, hoping you won't think too much the worse of me, and must inform you I am shortly off to New Brunswick...hunting. For I hear there's one hell' of a great elk carver there, and if I'm no longer to be a shining star in the angling world...
Your friend,
Cam
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