Pêches

FTER ONE PARTICULARLY hot and fishless day on Québec’s Bonaventure River, my friend Jonas was driving out the dirt road and came across a group of parked cars. He stopped to take a look and, by his telling, before he knew it he was seated at a table being fed local fare of cheeses, cured meats, and chocolate, followed by a flute of champagne. His impromptu hosts were a group of young flyfishing women. He hardly understood the French Canadian being spoken, but he quickly realized a few things: Everyone was having a great time, there were cameras rolling, and no one would believe this had happened when he got back to camp.