When I set off northward to fish for striped bass in Canadian waters, I felt a bit like Thoreau walking into the Maine woods. I was one of the “curious… [on] the verge of a primitive forest, more interesting perhaps, on all accounts, than [going] a thousand miles westward.” 

My destination, though, was not Mount Katahdin. I was heading across the border through the vast logging country of New Brunswick to the Gaspé Peninsula in Quebec and a little town called Cascapédia-Saint-Jules. I was driving toward some of the greatest Atlantic salmon rivers in the world, but I had no interest in salmon. I’d be targeting striped bass from a flats skiff with Andrew Murphy, of Gaspé Coastal outfitters.

Striped bass are flourishing in Canadian waters known primarily for Atlantic salmon. 

The earliest recordings of striped bass in this region of Quebec date back to the 1840s, but by the middle of the 19th century, they were nearly fished to extinction. This was around the time the region became a hotbed for Atlantic salmon. Through much of the 20th century, striped bass in the southern Gulf of St. Lawrence were nearly forgotten. In the mid-1990s, the Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans determined that Chaleur Bay stripers are genetically identical to fish from farther south in the Miramichi River, but this stock was completely different from the stocks in the St. Lawrence River and Bay of Fundy.

The Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans set a moratorium on all fishing — commercial and recreational — shortly after the study, and the bass population began to rebound despite nearly two centuries of neglect. In 2013, the fishery reopened, and anglers realized that not only had the stripers bounced back, they were thriving. Chaleur Bay, with plenty of forage and oxygen-rich water, helped striped bass flourish. It was only a matter of time before someone turned their attention away from salmon and toward stripers. That person was Andrew Murphy.

ACROSS THE BORDER

At the Canadian border, I pulled in to a booth with my passport ready.

“Where’s home?” the guard asked.

“New Jersey,” I replied.

“Long way from home. What brings you to Canada?”

“Striped bass,” I said with a smile.

“Oh, you headed up to the Gaspé then?”

“Yes. Cascapédia-Saint-Jules.”

“Friend of mine and I were up there a short time ago,” he said, recounting a spin-fishing trip with so much catching that they got bored.

While stripers have lived in Chaleur Bay for centuries, the fishing is just starting to hit its stride. 

I bid him adieu, knowing how poor my French is, and headed north on the Trans-Canada Highway into the heart of New Brunswick. The bridge across Chaleur Bay reveals the rugged beauty of the Gaspé. Green mountains rise in the distance, and the bay stretches as far as the eye can see to the east and up into the St. Lawrence to the west. Route 132 carried me through Oak Bay, Pointe-à-la-Garde, Fleurant and Carleton-sur-mer until I arrived at the mouth of the famed Cascapédia River. I got a text from Andrew Murphy as I took a hard left away from the coast toward the mountains and the hamlet of Cascapédia-Saint-Jules: Half hour behind you. You’re staying above the garage. Make yourself at home.

When I arrived, I was greeted by André-Philippe Losier. “You’re meeting Andrew, then? Oh, I remember him saying that you were coming,” said Losier, whom I’d come to call AP, shaking my hand. Like all of the crew I’d meet in Murphy’s orbit, Losier is a hearty man with a strong, calloused, grip.

Murphy arrived shortly after. He’s tall with sandy hair and a kind smile. He’s 29 but an old soul, world-weary, yet easy to talk to and laugh with. The dogs came next, a veritable wolf pack that emerged from the house and trailer next door. Then I met Jean-Philippe Desjardins, another guide, and the three of them spoke in breakneck French as they hosed down the Biscayne Boatworks skiffs that had just come off the water. I got used to understanding very little of what they said, other than a smattering of French words I know, such as merde and poutine. I marveled at how these Quebecois bounce from French to English and back again in the same breath.

They showed me rods and flies as they spoke about finning stripers, sunning stripers, tailing stripers, caught stripers and released stripers. It was then that my New Jerseyan skepticism kicked in. There is a natural inclination that we sons and daughters of the Garden State possess: We think everyone is full of merde.

Polling skiffs are used to sneak up to striped bass finning on the surface. 

When Sarah Nellis, Murphy’s fiancée and business partner, arrived home after a day chasing salmon, we began supper. Nellis, a native Gaspesian, told me of their plans for the lodge, which was under construction. She supervised the pouring of the foundation while Murphy and I were on the water the next day.

Thanks to a partnership with Kyle Schaefer of Soul Fly Outfitters in Maine and the Bahamas, Murphy and Nellis were able to purchase the Nadeau House, one of the oldest in Cascapédia-Saint-Jules. The house was built at the turn of the 20th century after the Nadeau family’s success in logging. The lodge will hold eight guests and offer high-end accommodations and food on par with any of the salmon lodges in the area. Anglers will have the option of chasing stripers on the flats or salmon in the rivers. Schaefer met Murphy at a fly show and once Schaefer saw the area for himself, he decided to partner. The professional relationship is going on four years, and the lodge is on pace to open in the spring of 2025, one week after Nellis and Murphy marry.

I was enthralled by this land and these people, and I hadn’t even made a cast. I went to sleep that night thinking that even if we caught no fish, the drive had been well worth it.

REELING IT IN

There are no boat launches in this part of Chaleur Bay. The only other boats that patrol these waters are the commercial lobster fleet. “The seafloor is carpeted with lobsters. They’re just everywhere,” Murphy says. He launches from various access points up and down the coast, and this day we were on a stretch of beach that’s a short drive from his house.

I had taken my spot with Murphy, and Losier had a client in the second Gaspé Coastal boat. We ran across the bay for about a half-hour toward New Brunswick, and as he cut the engine, we pulled around the leeward side of an island within sight of the mainland. He pointed to the clear water. Stripers.

The shallow waters that the team from Gaspé Coastal outfitters fish are shallow for wade fishing and sight fishing. 

The boat had spooked a school, though not the sporadic wolf pack I was used to from other flats trips. This was a school of 60 or so fish that scattered in all directions when we slid to a stop. Murphy climbed atop the poling platform and began to maneuver through the shallows. The bottom is sandy, but there were large patches of eel grass every couple of yards. I could see crabs scurrying on the bottom. Murphy told me that grass shrimp were the preferred meal for these fish and that little Clousers and epoxy shrimp will always get an eat.

“You got line stripped out and ready to go?” he asked, scanning the horizon. I was so gobsmacked by the fish we had just seen that I struggled to get the rod ready. “Fish coming at eleven.”

We had been on the flat for 30 seconds. I dropped the tiny Clouser just where he said. Fish on. It was a schoolie, maybe 25 inches. My first Canadian striper.

“Let’s do it again,” Murphy said.

We spent the better part of the morning patrolling the flat. We caught more fish than I can remember. A fish on every other cast. Most were feisty schoolies, but there were some 30-inchers in the mix. Murphy explained that the fish are still young in striper terms. I can only imagine what this flat will look like in five years, once these prolific spawns continue.

On the windward side of the island, I climbed onto the platform, determined to pole Murphy to a fish, since he had just spent two hours allowing me to catch every fish on the flat. After getting my sea legs and spinning the boat in a circle, I finally got my groove and maneuvered into the channel he had pointed out. He wanted me to keep the boat between the light and dark patches of grass that create a roadway of sorts down the flat. It was easy poling, even for a novice like me, and when a school emerged from the dark water, I called out to Murphy, who made the shot with ease. That was my proudest moment of the trip.

Andrew Murphy prepares to release a Chaleur Bay striped bass.

After three hours, one thing became abundantly clear: These people are not full of merde. This is a world-class fishery. And the day had only just begun. “Jump out here, and we’ll wet-wade for a bit,” Murphy said after we made the run back to the Quebec side of the bay.

My sun-scorched feet hit the water and a shot of adrenaline ran through me. The cold, clear water was invigorating. A few steps from the staked-out skiff, Murphy pointed his rod at a mass of fish 50 yards ahead. I watched him cast and followed suit. We were instantly doubled up. These fish were hungry and active. Cast a fly in their general direction, and they would eat. Wave after wave of fish washed over the flat. The truth of this place is far more exciting than the myth. How could I be standing on a sand flat in Chaleur Bay with mountains to my right and striped bass swimming all around me?

When we couldn’t take it anymore, when it was just too many fish, we sat at a fry shack and ate poutine. The cheese curds squeaked as we ate them, which Murphy said is how you know they’re fresh. We then went up the road to the Bujolds, a father-and-son fishing enterprise that specializes in shellfish. In the garage, two giant chests of ice were opened to reveal fresh mussels. The previous night, Murphy and I had talked about how much we both love mussels. I shared my recipe for fra diavolo sauce, and he told me about his family’s secret beurre blanc. “We’ll do mussels, two ways tonight,” he said.

No trip to this region would be complete without a poutine pitstop. 

As we cooked, drank white wine and laughed, I wondered whether I should actually write about this place. The people are so kind and the fishing so good that I hesitate to think what might happen if too many anglers try to force this round peg into whatever shaped hole they’re missing in themselves.

I asked everyone around the table, a heaping bowl of discarded mussel shells in front of us, what they wanted me to tell about their home waters. “Just tell the truth,” Murphy said.

The time I spent with Andrew Murphy in Chaleur Bay were the two best days of striped bass fishing I’ve ever had. That’s the truth. If you don’t believe me, that’s fine. Maybe it’s better if you don’t. Or, go see for yourself. 

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