Driving across from mainland Nova Scotia over the Canso Causeway, the sign on the bridge says "Welcome to Cape Breton." For the eighth time in ten years, my eyes tear up, my heart leaps, and I am back in this very special place, so dear to us. We are "from away," from New England, my husband Dan and me. We are not "Capers," but we know we are where we want to be.

Dan and I married in 2000, and he told me that he really wanted me to see this beautiful island in Canada. We were to take the scenic tour, and then I was to see if I could learn to love fly-fishing for Atlantic salmon as much as he. He warned me of its rigors: water temperatures falling rapidly in the crisp Fall air, the Cape Breton "breezes"(white caps blowing upriver sometimes??), squalls, and a magnificent creature that rarely would take a fly. And he praised its’ beauty: startlingly pretty scenery, brilliant fall colors equal to our New England home, the soft sunny days of early October, and the unadulterated joy of standing in a river waving a fly rod, so much a part of the natural world.

He carefully outfitted me with all the appropriate apparel and gear, and he worked hard to insure that I had the rudiments of casting and fishing in place. He really did want me to see this place where he would be fishing every fall for two weeks. He really did want me to be a part of this Margaree River. At least I knew where he would be, with or without me. Little did we know what the outcome would be, that it would five years before I caught my first salmon. By then, I was already hooked for life.