Outdoors
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Twenty-five years later, where I was and how I first heard the news is as fresh as if it happened yesterday.
“All flights canceled until further notice. New York has been bombed!”
A scratchy voice came over the radio that morning, Sept. 11, 2001, at a remote Arctic char camp in northern Labrador.
Confused and unsure of what we had just heard, I looked at Harvey and he looked at me as he asked for a repeat and confirmation.
“There was some kind of bombing in New York earlier this morning. All U.S. and Canadian airspace has been closed and air traffic grounded until further notice. You will be able to fly when the situation changes. Until then stay put.”
I was in northern Labrador at an Arctic char camp north of Nain. In case you have never heard of Nain or have no idea where it is, Nain is the northernmost permanent settlement in the province of Newfoundland and Labrador, located about 230 air miles north of Goose Bay, Labrador. The char fishing camp at Umiakovik Lake is a couple of hours’ flight time farther north of Nain.
I had been in Canada for about four weeks, first helping open and supply several caribou hunting camps north of Schefferville, Quebec, operated by Labrador Outdoors and owned at the time by Harvey Calden of Jay, Maine. Around the middle of August, about the time Arctic char start to enter natal rivers along the north Labrador coast, Harvey and I flew east in his DeHavilland to open the char fishing camp and get things ready for clients.
I would remain in Labrador longer than planned.
The next few weeks were some of my most memorable as an angler and hunter. I have never traveled to Norway and seen its fjords that cut miles into its rugged coastline, but I imagine Labrador’s far north and the Torngat Mountains that dominate the region are somewhat similar.
Although no words can accurately describe the place, in as few words as I can muster, the Torngat region is simply the most stunning, breathtakingly beautiful place I have ever seen. I wish I had photos, but it was before my digital camera came along and the only images that survive are those in my memory. I am so grateful I still have them.
All I can say is if I could revisit only one place of the many I have visited in my life, it would be Labrador’s far north.
Over the next several weeks I spent most of my free time fishing for char. I have caught a lot of different fish in my time, but in my opinion, Arctic char are pound-for-pound the strongest fighters among cold-water and anadromous species.
Although not acrobatic masters like Atlantic salmon or steelhead, they strike a fly or lure like a Mack truck and fight like a bulldog all the way to the net while repeatedly making impressive, reel-screeching runs.
They are also the most spectacularly colored, a masterpiece in color, as stunning as the far northern regions they thrive in. A silvery blue when fresh in from the sea, the bellies of the males in particular turn a fiery orange-red or intensely deep red during fall spawning runs while the edges of the lower fins are trimmed in bright white, much like a fall brook trout.
I also hunted caribou, saw my first polar bears and an iceberg as we flew along the coast, heard wolves baying at night and visited the old abandoned Moravian mission at Hebron. First settled in the early 1800s, some of the buildings continued to dominate the rocky landscape. I understand they still do.
If memory serves, the last fishing clients departed camp around the first Saturday of September. Harvey and I were to take two or three extra days to get some last-minute fishing in and close the camp, planning to fly back to Schefferville on Sept. 11, weather permitting.
I don’t recall the air miles or flying time between Umiakovik Lake and Schefferville, but in terms of weather it can be a world apart, especially at the time of year when conditions can change in a hurry. If the weather is down or is forecast to be down on one end, you don’t fly.
On the morning of Sept. 11, Harvey radioed in to get a weather report and file a flight plan as required. That was when our plans changed and we first learned what had happened.
Over the next two days we tried to get updates on the events in New York over the radio, but they were sketchy. We were also hoping for permission to fly, but that didn’t come until Sept. 13.
After arriving in Schefferville, I immediately called home and Diane, my wife, filled me in on the latest news. But the more I heard, the more difficult it was to fathom.
Schefferville was a mess.
Because the charter services had been grounded since Sept. 11, hundreds of caribou hunters and fishermen had been stranded and were anxiously waiting to get on a plane to Montreal or Quebec City and back to the United States.
About a week later, things were still hectic in Schefferville, but they were starting to get back to normal. Harvey managed to get me on a flight to Montreal, where I managed to rent one of the last available cars at the airport.
As I drove south and crossed the border in Vermont, I listened to the never-ending news. No matter how many times it was repeated, as the miles slipped away behind me, the events of Sept. 11, 2001, were still hard to believe.
I wondered then how that one single, tragic, shattering event would change things.
Would the world ever be the same?
Now, 25 years later, I guess we know the answer.