Musings of a Mad Fisherman

The River Welcomes Me Back with Open Arms

2009-04-26T18:10:00.010-04:00

Since my entry made almost 8 months ago, my line has barely been moistened. Other than the occasional couple hour respite with nothing other than a spat hook, or a broken leader from fish that refused to reveal themselves to show for my efforts, I haven't been anywhere near the places that I used to call home. Contrary to what you might expect, I did not live in complete and utter misery during my time away. I have discovered a new joy in this life, and that is fatherhood with the arrival of our son, Ethan. But even the most dedicated father needs to occasionally revisit the old places that brought him joy, passion, and the things that have come to define him as the person that his children will grow up to know and hopefully learn from. To me, fishing is one of these things.

The river is where I have spent countless hours in pursuit of truth, sanity, and these beautiful finned creatures; and today I returned to it, abeit for a brief moment.

The Scenic Way Home

Heavenly

2009-04-21T00:10:00.000-04:00

The Advent of Spring

2009-03-21T22:50:00.003-04:00

Still waiting on that first fish of the season. . .

Fish Tales

2008-08-27T13:56:00.002-04:00

There must be a ton of fish stories floating around about me!

Better Late Than Never

2008-08-26T15:43:00.006-04:00

Finally, I had the opportunity to fish the Trico hatch with my good fishing buddy, Dave W this morning.

The Tricos were prolific, as were the fish rising for them; however, our fishing success was not quite so exemplary.

It always amazes me that these little gems can discern our tiny size 22 handmade concoctions from those naturemade ones even in swift, riffly water. But by this time of year, these little fellows are much wiser than those pursuing them - particularly on this given day.

We did get lucky on occasion.

Today, I realized how much I had missed fishing, and with the imminent arrival of our (my wife and I) first "bundle of joy", it may prove to be difficult in the coming months. But we still have 5 more weeks of waiting, and with the migratory salmon fishing only 1 good rainfall away, I plan on making the most of it.

See you on the water soon.

Beauty and the Beast

2008-03-25T13:50:00.000-04:00

The Cure for Cabin Fever

2008-02-26T23:30:00.002-05:00

Photo courtesy of JDA's Fuji

Relentless Pursuit

2007-11-21T22:08:00.000-05:00

Today the skies wept, and fishermen smiled. . . except those who were outside fishing. These days, I find there is very little that can stop me from wetting a line. I'm starting to think that dementia has finally laid permanent residence in my psyche. Today, I stood waist deep in ice water, as the winds swept off Lake Erie turning my drift upstream. Torrential rain fell mercilessly as if Earth's gravitational pull had shifted, as it pelted me from the side. Handsome bars of chrome occasionally revealed themselves as they porpoised and rolled in the distance and out of reach.

I sometimes wonder what alien beings would think of our race if they were looking down on me (just one of the many things I ponder while fishing). You can thank me for keeping them guessing.

-8 Celsius, 3" of Snow, 1000 Calories Burned

2007-11-17T14:17:00.000-05:00

As I made my way to my favourite Georgian Bay stream this morning, I watched the outdoor temperature reading steadily countdown to a bone chilling minus 8 degrees Celsius. The river bank wore a coat of white and the treetops sagged under the weight of fresh snow. As I stepped out of the car, the crisp, cold air jarred my senses and I was in awe of this winter wonderland. The wildlife was still asleep, or perhaps it was just too cold to move. I was pleased to see that my tracks would be the first to be imprinted on the powder canvas, as I made my way to the places I was dreaming of just a few hours ago.

I made my way through the dense brush, under and over fallen timber and overhanging branches, and hung on to anything within reach to avoid sliding down the steep icy bank. The river's bitter cold permeated the polypropylene, polyester and woolen layers as I stood thigh deep in water. Ice in the guides foiled any attempt at a perfect drift.

Moments before I was to turn into a snowman, my float meandered it's way down my favourite drift and began to twitch midway through. It paused momentarily and slipped under the surface. I knew it could be nothing else, and I raised my rod in exhaltation and the pulsing weight resonated through the graphite and into my arms. A flashing, irridescent beauty tumbled through the air, and all else was forgotten.

-8 degrees Celsius, three inches of snow, one thousand calories burned and one fiery hot fish to show for it - another superb day.

Precious Metal

2007-11-17T02:10:00.000-05:00

Feels Like Home to me

2007-11-11T11:05:00.000-05:00

Autumn at its Finest

2007-11-04T15:39:00.000-05:00

What felt like minutes after closing my eyes for the night, my alarm clock bellowed its most unpleasant tune at 4:00 am, yet I was unusually alert.

The world was still asleep, yet conversation was alive with excitement and anticipation as we drove through the remaining hours of night.

We arrived at one of the most magnificent rivers in Western New York and found that vehicles from Pennsylvania, and New Jersey had preceded us. We did not meet this with disdain, but with admiration at their obvious love of this great pastime.

We stood streamside in the pre-dawn twilight and listened to the most pleasant sound of the flowing river, and nothing else. As the sun peered over its lowest reaches of the horizon, we made our first casts. Frost, frozen guides, and numb fingers dissipated as the warmth of one of the most pleasant days of autumn carried on.
> Our finned friends remained extremely finnicky throughout the morning and mid-day, but as the day wore on and the crowds began to thin, they rewarded us for staying around just a bit longer.

It was one of those days that I wished would last a couple. There are few things finer than a beautiful autumn day on the river with friends. The drive home was filled with stories from the day and plans to do it all over again soon.

I certainly look forward to it.

It's so nice to be back

2007-10-28T20:31:00.000-04:00

Hmm, where did I leave off. Oh yes, the Trico hatch (or of more signifance to the fly fisherman - the Trico fall). Well, the life cycle of these adorned little creatures came and went without me for the most part, although I did have one last horrah the morning of September 30th - our last day of trout season. It seemed my old jewelled friends had an affinity for authenticity, as they let my replicas float on by 998 times out of 1000 casts. Persistence is key.
Feather and fur - yummy

My last Brooky of the 2007 season

The start of the migratory salmon fishing season also began and ended without me. Although I was able to get out for a few brief respites during the run, I have gone without a Coho this season and it may have been my last chance on my home river. Stocking of this beautiful species ceased on the Credit River about 3 years ago, and natural reproduction has been insignificant. My only hope of reuniting with this favourite salmonid may have to occur stateside or incidentally at the Strip Mall. I had made my acquaintence with few Kings that have seen better days, and who were far from photo-worthy.

Steelhead had quietly entered some of my previously fabled streams, and I had the opportunity to welcome them at the door on Thanksgiving weekend. I was suprised that although it had been 5 months since Steelheading, my long distance release skills had not waivered. After illustrating this great skill on 2 respectable specimens, I finally greeted my first "Steelhead" (note - about 16"es of chrome) of the season.

Dave, in the usual fashion, won the battle with a fish that could have swallowed mine.
Fast forward to today. Today was a good day. After a long week away from home, and in the midst of home renovations, I escaped for a few hours to one of my favourite places. With kilometres of river all to myself, I felt I could finally breath for the first time in months. I realized how much I had missed the sound of silence. I also realized how much I had missed the fiery explosion of the water's surface and the rocket-propelled runs of fresh run Steelhead. Today, I reunited with both.

Gotta love the Fall

Oh Yeah, It's Trico Time!

2007-08-20T16:53:00.001-04:00

photo courtesy of D. Wallace

Stay Tuned!

A Brief Respite

2007-08-06T23:23:00.001-04:00

About Time

2007-06-07T22:11:00.000-04:00

After a night of fishing last week with very little to report (other than watching another fly fisher take fish from under my nose repeatedly - like someone punching me in the stomach repeatedly), last night was one worth recording.

I arrived at one of my favourite stretches of water and pulled in behind a camper that I've seen parked there for a few weeks now. As I was backing in, the inhabitant began to yell in fear of me barrelling through his front door, despite being 5 feet away. I thought that this might be good opportunity to introduce myself. I peaked into the quaint little abode and said hello.

He was a well mannered gentleman in his late 50's who had taken the passion of fishing to a level most of us only dream of. He was the former owner of a taxidermy business that he sold in the early 90's. Since then, he has been spending his summers parked streamside, whether it be in the Catskills or at the river he calls home - the UC. He was a wealth of information that no book could contain, nor Google could compare. He bore the knowledge that I figure could only be attained through his literal breathing and living of everything flyfishing.

Although on a typical day, I can't get my waders on nor my rod together fast enough, I took my time this evening, and fished through this man's knowledge and the journey of his life by the river.

I did eventually get my waders on and rod together, however; and I did do some fishing. It comprised missing a very big take at my first stop, and losing a beautiful 15 incher after fighting it for minutes, just as I thought it was as good as landed. As I looked up from this defeat, bugs began to come off and come down in exorbitant numbers; there were duns, there were spinners, there were caddis - you name it. I was smiling once again.

A Resting Gray Fox Spinner

I quickly made my way to Pat's Pool to see if he/she had noticed the buffet before us and I was welcomed with bulges and breaks in the surface. I positioned myself downstream from the activity, and tied on my closest match to the falling spinners. I waited for another rise, and I casted just upstream of it. My fly meandered down to the strike zone and gentle swirls and waves formed around it - tell-tale signs that they were intrigued. I repeated the cast, and again it approached the strike zone. Suddenly an unmistakable eruption surrounded my fly and it was taken under. With my mouth agape and I immediately snapped my rod tip up as the fish was heading down, and my line mmediatley went limp. The fish must have thought it was still connected as it leapt completely out of the water. It was behemoth.

Seeing the fish made it all the more painful to swallow. A fisherman on the opposite bank saw the acrobatic display and confirmed its enormity. I sulked. But the breaks in the surface continued and I quickly pulled myself together and tied on another. They continued to swipe at it but none fully took. I cast upstream again and my fly meandered on the surface film when a small dimple formed taking it under. I raised my rod tip with more composure this time and the headshakes began; then it was the tearing runs around the pool. I tried desperately not to think about the previous two losses and I managed to remain calm and waited for him to tire. I pulled the net from my back and slipped it under the beautiful 15 inch Brown. . . finally, I had won one.

One Fine Day

2007-05-27T23:27:00.001-04:00

Fishing as a Spectator Sport

2007-05-21T23:59:00.000-04:00

Work has been wreaking havoc on my fishing schedule lately, but I was able to have a nice outing with Dave W this past Monday. This was Dave's first outing of the season on the UC; however, he picked up right where he let off last year - and that was catching fish.

With 8 cars already at our access point, we decided to go in exploration of some uncharted waters for fish that had yet to see a fly this season. We found a spot that was made in fishing heaven. Dave displayed his mastery of deep nymphing and had success almost immediately. I managed to entice a very sizeable fish to take my #16 offering, but lost the battle when it decided to take a surprising run downstream. After shouting out a few choice words, I assumed the position of photographer, cheerleader and spectator as Dave continued to catch fish. One was a domestic Rainbow with a big heart and beautiful colours.

On Friday, when I was at home recovering from a hellacious work trip, Dave decided to revisit this same area. Within 15 minutes of arriving streamside, he found himself battling 18 inches of mad Brown - one of the most beautiful specimens I have ever seen and an absolute trophy for the UC.

Although fishing can be a great spectator sport, its novelty dies off very quickly, and I'm hoping to become an active participant soon.

'So Many Fish, So Little Time" - A Book Review

2007-05-15T23:10:00.000-04:00

With severe thunderstorm warnings, gun-metal grey skies, and upwards of 30 mm of rain expected today, what better time to get reaquainted with the comforts of the indoors with a book about the outdoors?

I was recently given the opportunity to review a book by Mark D. Williams entitled, "So Many Fish, So Little Time - 1,001 of the World's Greatest Backcountry Honeyholes, Trout Rivers, Blue Ribbon Waters, Bass Lakes, and Saltwater Hot Spots". Mark is an avid angler and author of books such as, "Trout Fishing Sourcebook" and "Nuts and Bolts Guide for the Backpacking Flyfisher" - Hmm, it seems he has an affinity for trout. I like him already.

As the title states, the book is a worldwide compendium of water systems and the fish that they hold . It's organized by region and covers water from the urban fishing destinations like the 59th Street Pond in Central Park for bass to remote getaways like the Aberdares in Kenya for wild stream trout. Each body of water is given a brief description, and lists the species that inhabit it. It is then followed by a list of resources such as charters, guides, accommodations and angling shops that cater to the area.

As you may have guessed, there are a few more than 1001 bodies of water in the world so it was no doubt a daunting task to narrow down the list. Although the book includes a good number noteworthy locales in Canada, Mexico, the Carribean, Central/South America, Europe, Africa and the South Pacific, the majority of the destinations reside in the United States. It isn't until page 572 (out of 860) that you cross the U.S border and enter the rest of the world.

Mark explains, "When I put this book together, I had to figure out which fisheries I was going to include. A river or lake that's in close proximity to your house has a lot of value - you can get there more frequently, and that combined with good (not great fishing) can make a river/lake/inshore/offshore spot a superb fishing experience".

In his narrative writing style, he goes on to say, "I was determined to write a book of fishing dreams. A book of dreams, a wish list of all the best places in the world to fish. This is a sit-on-the-pot type of book" - I would have to agree with Mark on that one. Some of the my best dreams and ideas began on the pot.

My wife once agreed that wherever we vacation, I can dedicate one day to fishing; she has probably already forgotten ever mentioning this, but it's the first thing that comes to my mind when picking that next destination. To this end, I'll be adding this book to my list of tools.

Now I know that the next time I'm in LA, I can drop my wife off at Rodeo Drive and find myself on Piru Creek fishing for wild trout within an hour - cool.

I'll worry about the visa bill later.

Another for My Fly Hall of Fame

2007-05-13T23:18:00.000-04:00

As it turns out, I don't think my Hendrickson dry fly will be finding itself in a tree (if I can help it). In fact, I'm tempted to place it in a glass case and keep it as a prototype.

I made my way up to the UC this afternoon hoping to catch the Hendrickson hatch. The hatch seems to be occurring between 5:30-6:30 as of late. Today I arrived streamside right at 6 expecting to be engulfed in a cloud of these fabled mayflies. I envisioned trout rising recklessly to feast on the buffet coming down the conveyor belt. Yet, just when I thought I had these little fellas figured out, I arrived to find just a single mayfly fluttering overhead - it appeared to be amused by my look of perplexity. Not a fish would touch the surface.

I sometimes forget that there are no guarantees in fishing.

As any great fisherman would have done, I uttered a few profanities and sat on the bank and sulked for a moment. But the babble of the gentle flow, the song of the red-winged blackbird, and the beauty of this magnificent river quickly brought me solace. I sprung up and tied on a #12 Prince Nymph, and began to work a nice looking seam. After a few bumps and misses, I managed to keep one on.
With 4 cars already at the access point before my arrival, I decided to quickly make my way further downstream in the hopes of finding some less pressured water. As I made my way down, I noticed the lone mayfly that had earlier been mocking me was in the company of friends. I continued downstream, and they became more prolific. They made their presence known as they bounced off my face and neck. One found his way behind my sunglasses and frantically fluttered about my eyeball as he tried to find his way out - I simultaneously lost my balance in the shin deep water and came close to performing a swan dive in the flow ahead. It was now 7:30 and the hatch was underway - better late than not at all. I picked up the pace toward my destination - Pat's Pool. Upon arrival, I was welcomed with a nice sized splash at the tail out (at the far reaching end, of course), and it was time to tie on my Hendrickson dry. As anyone (well just me) who knows this pool will tell you, it is not an easy pool to drift a dry fly for more than a couple feet without drag. It is adorned with multiple seams, varying depths and speeds. I slipped into the water just downstream of the tail out, and positioned myself for maximum stealthiness. Knowing that I only had one chance and with more false casts than was probably called for, I shot the line out upstream of the last rise. I could not see my fly from the glare set by the tired sun as it approached the horizon and I watched the surface intently for any disturbance. The fish rose, and I instinctively rose my rod - just in case. I immediately felt a heavy weight on the other end and the head shakes began. Quickly, I gathered the line onto the reel to justify the cost of the disc drag. The reel sung as the fish shot across the pool (yes, it was worth every penny). After another run downstream, he began to tire and I slowly guided him back up. This time I remembered the net and I skillfully (yes, I impressed myself) brought him to hand. What a fine specimen. I admired his beauty for a moment and set him on his way back home.

As I revelled in this victory, the elderly gentlman from last week and his fishing partner made their way upstream to Pat's Pool. The elderly fellow began to recall the big fish of past years and of his memorable encounters with land owners and their dogs. One fish was a 24"er that he landed 2 seasons ago from this very pool (could it be Pat?). I placed my Hendrickson dry in the hook keeper, and we chatted and shared a few laughs for a little while. My day was complete.

I think I'll tie a few more of those flies. . .

Molecular Milestone

2007-05-12T12:22:00.000-04:00

As I wait in anticipation of tomorrow afternoon's Hendrickson (Ephemerella subvaria) hatch and in celebration of the 50th post of this tiny molecule of cyberspace, I thought I would tie up a couple commemorative concoctions that I'm hoping will fool a few of the lesser intelligent ones (I don't even try for the smart ones). If they do nothing but make a fool of their tyer, then they just may be accidentally lodged in a far reaching branch of an oak tree. The first one is a classic Catskill dry fly and the other is what I'm hoping will resemble a Hendrickson Emerger - both tied in a monstrous size 12 - yup, those UC Ephemerella are plump!

Now I just have to find a good nymph pattern. . .

A Night to Remember

2007-05-09T22:33:00.000-04:00

It was Wednesday afternoon, and I sat at my desk intently checking the clock in hopes that it would be soon time to go.

Today I would make my way to fly fish the Upper Credit River. September 22nd of last year was when I last set down my fly rod and brushed off the Centrepin gear in pursuit of Kings, Coho, and Chrome - and for that it has been a great season. I have fought and landed (occasionally) some fish whose determination, acrobatics, and spectacular beauty will stay with me for seasons to come. But as the Kings and Cohos have come and gone through the circle of life, and as the last Oncorynchus Mykiss' check out of their honeymoon suites and make their way home to their respective Great Lake, it is time for me to follow my summertime passion.

Finally, I looked at the clock once more and it was time, and with a sigh of relief I arose from the confines of the workday. Whenever the reality of standing stream side is imminent, I'm almost certain I enter a state of temporary insanity (although my wife thinks this is a chronic condition) because I can hardly think straight from the excitement. There is a period of about 1/2 hour prior to leaving the house where I am most accident prone (I won't get into it now), and have the tendency to forget things that are fundamental to fishing - you know, things like a fishing rod. I'm well aware of my condition, and thus try to pack my things ahead of time. Today, I didn't have the opportunity to do so, and I'm quite pleased that the only thing I left behind (after multiple trips back and forth to the truck) was my net.

I arrived stream side by 5:30pm and the sky had already begun to darken with clouds low and looming. 3 cars were parked at the access point before me. I quickly suited up and made my way downstream. A few metres down, I entered the river below the tail out of a small riffle and was immediately amidst a swarm of insects, almost choking on them - I had literally walked into the middle of a Ephemerella subvaria hatch!

It wasn't long before I heard the unmistakable sound of rising fish. Juvenile Brown Trout were rising along the slow side of the seam, while the larger fish were porpoising in its fastest, deepest sections. Their flash of brilliant brown sides were a welcome sight after months of being away. With shaking hands I could feel my impaired mental state creeping in once again. I threw my first sloppy cast of the season a few feet upstream of the last rise of a big fish, and my Hendrickson dry fly skated recklessly across the surface. . . and then the surface lay still. But not for long. The fish could not let this temporary buffet escape them and they were soon rising again in rhythmic fashion. I pulled myself together and cast again ahead of the last rise and gave it an upstream mend. This time it drifted in sync with the bubbles and debris floating on their natural course downstream. A brown flash glistened beneath the surface and milliseconds later, the fish erupted viciously to take my fly under. In disbelief I raised my rod with the strength of a little girl. I was connected! But with 3 head shakes, we were unbuttoned - "Damn it - why did I set the hook like such a pansy?", I cursed.

Again the surface became still. . . and again, within minutes the feeding frenzy resumed. After connecting and quickly disconnecting with several 7-9 inch fish, I was beginning to wonder if I forgot to tie my flies with hooks.

Just downstream another sizable (but of course not as large as the first) candidate started to rise just downstream. I slowly made my way down and tied on a Klinkhamer Special. Within a few drifts the fish porpoised out with mouth agape, taking my fly. The fight was on! The fish shot about the pool and I fumbled from months without the fly rod in hand, but after a few close calls and acrobatic leaps, she graciously came to hand. My silly ear-to-ear grin that only a fish could illicit was back. I momentarily admired her beauty and I quickly pulled out the camera and shot a picture in the low light. The layman would call this a very poor picture, but I will reckon that it is art ;o)

The feeling of taking a fish on a dry fly of my own tie is something that I had almost forgotten. There is something grass roots and poetic about it that I love. I revelled in this moment and casually made my way to another small riffle where fish continued to rise. A colourful little fellow took my Klink.

As I released this gem, the last few rays of sunlight had gone, and an older gentlemen was making his way back upstream. We acknowledged one another with a nod and I asked him how the fishing was.

The elderly man looked at me with a youthful smile, and said, "I can't complain. . . it was a good day". I smiled back and said, "It sure was".

A Fond Farewell

2007-05-08T22:44:00.000-04:00

This past week, I spent some time trying to flush the Steelhead bug from my system. Usually by the time the Trout Opening Day rolls around, I'm ready to pack in the Centrepin gear and ready the feather and fur. It took a wee bit longer this year, mostly due to the fact that I haven't been on the water nearly as much as I had hoped to this Spring.

Dave W had some decent success on a beautiful feeder creek of the Nottawasaga River on Opening weekend and suggested we take one last look-see on Wednesday. As usual Dave, started off the afternoon showing me how to catch fish. I got the idea after the first fish, but as any good friend would do, he showed me again with another.

Just before the last ray of sunlight left on its perpetual journey around the world, I was able to shake off the skunk with a 2-3lb female that graciously took my hook. . . whew, that was close.

Saturday, May 5, 2007 marked the last day of Steelheading for me this season. I reserved a little spot that has treated me well in previous years for this day. It did not let me down. To say there was a lot of wood to contend with would be an understatement. Numerous fish were hooked but only a handful were landed. The long distance release has always been my specialty anyway.

It was a perfect ending to a great Spring/Fall season. Tomorrow, I'm off to the Upper Credit River, fly rod in hand. . .I can hardly wait.

Farewell my friend. . .See you in a few months!

Vancouver/Whistler April 9-15, 2007 - A Photo Muse

2007-05-01T23:43:00.000-04:00

At the Capilano Fish Hatchery/Ladder

Anyone know what kind of parr this is? I can't remember

Yes there are rubes in BC too - this fellow was fishing in a closed section of the Capilano River close to the fish ladder

As close as I'll be to the top of the world

I will be back - this time with rod in hand!

A Day of Transition

2007-04-29T21:53:00.000-04:00

Saturday, April 29th marked the Opening Day for Trout season this year in Ontario. My day began at 2:00 in the morning, as I lay awake waiting for the alarm to go off. I've never slept much, if at all, the night before the Opener. I'm not really sure why. The Steelhead in our rivers for the most part bear the wounds of their spawning ritual this time of year, and fishermen from all walks of life line the banks, standing elbow to elbow at every well known pool. It's the day where I see the most number of wild Steelhead strung up on the "the rope of death", and it's when I see the most number of people walking through meticulously built redds, smothering and crushing offspring that would have been a part of a future generation.

After today, I realized that my excitement for Opening Day wasn't about the fishing itself. It was about of the camaraderie, laughter, and good company of my friends. It was about the familiarity of seeing acquaintances that I only ever see on this day every year. It was about the eerie silence and the lone sound of a gently flowing river amidst the pre-dawn. . . and most notably it was about the rare opportunity to fish again with the man responsible for this obsession of mine, and for which I am eternally grateful - my Old Guy.

We arrived at the river at 4am and revelled in the temporary solitude. By 4:15, I was battling my first Steelhead of the day, which turned out to be a fresh pre-spawn female. By 5am the serenity of early morning was replaced with the trampling of brush and the splashing of feet through the shallows. As the light peered through the leafless trees, it became apparent that it was going to be a great day - there were fish everywhere. The fish began to awaken as scattered rays from the April morning sun found their way to the deep pools and each fish took their turn to entertain us.

The colouration on this fish was very unusual but very cool - this lady was caught and released 3 times - This strain must be the blond version of the Steelhead gene pool

It's fish like these why I love Steelheading - this fellow leapt so high, it landed in an overhanging bush before its re-entry. A very angry 8lb hen

Opening Day for me also signifies the beginning of my departure from the "gear" and the migratory fishery - thoughts of little gems, old monster browns, and fly fishing begin to take over. Yesterday, I pulled a nice sized Brook Trout out of one of the most unlikely places while Steelhead fishing - it must be a sign.

I think I have a couple more Steelhead outings in me, but I intend on dusting off the feather and fur very soon. It's about time I became re-acquainted with some old finned friends that I haven't

seen for quite a while.

A Few Errands

2007-04-01T20:19:00.000-04:00

I took the opportunity the other day (Friday, March 30th) to run a few errands. Errands that have been weighing on me for some time; and what better place to run them than the Steelhead Strip Mall, or the Eastern Tribs as most know them.

At first light, I stopped at one of my favourite "stores" as they always have a great selection of spirited first year class specimens, along with the occasional Costco Goliaths of monumental proportions. As an added bonus, they always seem to be in stock. The problem is most everyone knows about it and trying to stop by on a weekend can be claustrophobic. It also means that its products are highly educated, which requires quite a bit of wit and creativity to find them. When I arrived, I was excited to see that only one other patron was loitering about. We exchanged pleasantries and I quickly proceeded to my favourite aisle.

After a number of drifts and several offerings, I switched up one more time. The float meandered along when it suddenly and deliberately was sucked under. I raised the rod in exaltation, and a gigantic boil formed by something even larger sub-surface. It's mammoth head shook from side to side and the rod bounced in synchronicity. The Goliath rocketed upstream and the line sung under the tension. With my eyes as wide as two half moons, and mouth agape, it stopped, rolled, and my line went limp. My morale was shattered with the loss and I wanted to sit on a log and cry. After a long moment of sulking, I picked myself up and headed upstream, where I was able to redeem myself with a couple decent finds.

In this particular store one must contend with sometimes very daunting obstacles.
After a few hours, I stopped at 2 other shops and picked up a few more things, including a drop-back male that looked like a football, and a spunky shaker that fought beyond its years.

It certainly wasn't a bad day at all. In fact, a day of retail therapy was just what I needed to work out the bugs from the last few months of inactivity.

Finally. . .

2007-03-29T19:09:00.000-04:00

I arrived at the river a bit later than I would of liked, but the parking lot was surprisingly sparse of other vehicles. The drive to my local river seemed like an eternity as months of anticipation were soon to be realized.

After suiting up in record time and making my way to the nearest river access point, it became clear why there weren't more fellow fisherman around. The river was still raging. I was not at all surprised, as I had been watching the hydrometer, the weather, and studying it with each overpass all week.

The river's current state did not matter to me. The only thing that mattered was that I was finally fishing. The silly grin that is reserved only for those special fishing moments returned, and a part of my being that has been absent for the past 80 days was awakened from its slumber. Today, my finned friends were tucked safely out of reach, and took comfort in the opaqueness of rich Irish Cream. As the sun reached its apex I thought it was time to leave her for another day, and it was then that one of my friends came to greet me and welcome me back.

Hard Water Affliction and Ode to Spring

2007-03-07T21:16:00.000-05:00

The winter months have been particularly harsh on me this year. I have been away from my finned friends for precisely 76 days - that's 76 lifetimes for a mayfly spinner! Winter came late but was unrelenting during its tenure. . .and my paying job has taken me hostage.

Each fisherman has their own way of helping the days go by as the ice keeps him from the places that have given him solace, serenity, exhilaration and escape in the previous months. Some fishermen will relentlessly clean their arsenal to the point of compulsively obsessive. Some will virtually fish through the world wide web partaking in online discussion. Some may write a blog (which I obviously haven't been doing). Some will hunch over a vice in an attempt to create a bug from feather and fur. And some will rise in the pre-dawn hours in the dead of winter to journey through the snowy desert, merely to sit over an 8 inch hole in the hopes of feeling that once familiar tug on the end of their line. I'm almost certain that a clinician would deem these activities as signs and symptoms of psychosis. Yes, we sure are a crazy bunch.

On a dreary winter day, as I sat over my vice like a mad scientist revelling over one of my monstrosities, I received a message from Dave W in which he colourfully illustrated his success while ice fishing. In my current state of mind I was intrigued. The thought of battling a Goliath Lake Trout on a 1.5 foot rod overcame me.

Within a couple days, I was hovering over a hole in the ice that sat over 75 feet of mysterious emerald abyss, in hopes that a fish or two would take interest in our offerings. I sat in excited anticipation at the imminent moment I would once again feel the tug of a fish. After 8 hours of watching the occasional fish on the graph stop by for an inspection only to turn their nose away, no such luck would befall me on this day. My lack of skill as an ice fisherman was clearly evident, if not appalling. I can't say that the ice fishing discipline has ever been good to me, with only a few mediocre fish ever caught in this manner. Boy am I glad that I'm not relying on these skills for sustenance. After tangling my line with his on a couple occasions and accompanying him on his first skunking of the season, Dave mentioned that he would never take me ice fishing again.

As I am writing this, we're on our 4th day of spring. The ice has finally receded and drawn back its curtain on the our beloved rivers, and they run with extra fervor and might. For the first time this year, I took a walk along my local stream this morning, and as I watched it roar its way to Lake Ontario, I was reassured that I would soon be reunited with my finned friends.

Be careful what you wish for. . .

2007-02-20T14:38:00.000-05:00

2 mysterious fellows doing something mysterious

When I concluded my last entry with ruminations of a prompt arrival of Old Man Winter, had I known that he was a blog reader, I may have thought twice about my literal recklessness. Within a week, he cast his spell over the land and locked the doors to our wintering Steelhead.

Last year was a steep contrast, as we were blasted with bone-brittling Arctic weather unseasonably early. But just as fast as it arrived, it was gone, and by this time last year, the icy canopies that blanketed our rivers had retreated.

Today, the doors to our rivers are still locked and I'm now past the stages of withdrawal, denial, and psychosis. Mind you, I still have the occasional dream where I'm battling super-charged chrome bullets, chocolate chip and caramel Brown Trout, and bulldogging gems of the stream Brookies with remarkable brilliance; a brilliance only ever seen in , well, my dreams.

Unfortunately, this is as close to wetting a line I've been since the first week of January. I've tried wholeheartedly to embrace the ice, the snow and the sub-zero air by strapping myself to two boards and barrelling down mountainsides uncontrollably, and this has helped somewhat.

Meanwhile, Dave W has been burrowing holes in the snowy desert and patiently sitting over them with a stick 1/13 the length of the traditional float rod. This endeavour has yielded some very impressive catches of Whitefish and Lake Trout. He has me intrigued. I think I might try it.

Stay tuned.

Fishing in January - A Fisherman's Delight

2007-01-09T14:21:00.000-05:00

Before entering the Holiday Season, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to escape the confines of the festivities to stand along the riverbank and frolic in the company of my finned friends. My premonitions were correct.

There was no time for fishing. For the first time in months, I behaved like a normal human being and spent quality time with my loved ones, undisturbed with thoughts of sneaking off in ungodly hours of the morning to play tug-of-war with bars of chrome. . . and strangely, I was content.

But of course, this feeling was short-lived. This past weekend, after over 20 days of abstinence, it was time to fish!

Dave and I had been bantering about the week prior as to where the best venue for my homecoming would be. After a latter part of the week fraught with heavy precipitation, it was decided that we would venture south of the border to Elk Creek, in Erie, Pennsylvania. We would be accompanied by Mike B, and his friend Richard. Still in the midst of REM sleep, we set out on our adventure at 4:30 am.

Most of the ride in was done in darkness, but as the sun began to make its appearance, we passed by a billboard for the Fireworks and Karate Supplies store - I sat there wondering why I never thought of such a concept.

After stopping by B.A.C Bait (where one could buy "Noodle Rods and Egg Sacks") to pick up our licenses we arrived at the parking lot to find very few other vehicles. Dave thought the river was on the muddy side but he took comfort in the fact that Elk Creek drops and clears quickly. Our plan was to start at the river's mouth and work our way up upstream. We began drifting where lake met river; our floats meandering towards the lazy incoming waves. The point where the Elk pays tribute to Lake Erie near the break of dawn was a site to behold - beautiful.

Shortly after the first few drifts, in unorthodox fashion, Richard took the honours of enticing the first fish by inadvertently dangling his line within feet of where he stood while making adjustments to his reel. After a few spirited runs, the fish came to hand and I was surprised to see that it was a battered and bruised post spawn female. As I was told, the Elk is stocked with a domestic strain of Rainbow Trout that spawns in the fall.

As we moved upstream, Dave managed to find a pod of fish and played tug-of-war with them for a little while. I snickered and continued upstream. It wasn't until mid-day where the action began to heat up and the fish finally welcomed this stranger with a tug on the end of his line; another drop-back but I was content nonetheless. The fish continued to cooperate and wherever Mike B decided to toss his line, fish seemed to seek it out.

Richard hooked into another fish, which took him on an epic battle downstream. He disappeared around the bend and we would not see him again until the end of the day. I had visions of a giant Steelhead carrying Richard into the depths of Lake Erie, but as it turned out, he landed the fish and decided to spend the rest of the day at the mouth, where he would catch another; this time a dime bright hen. Meanwhile upstream, Dave found a pod of very aggressive fresh-from-the-lake fish and for a little while he resembled a line-worker pulling fresh bars of chrome from the conveyor belt.

I was unsuccessful at finding any fresh fish but continued to be entertained by the drop-backs.

As we continued on, the sun made its ark from one horizon to the other, the water began to clear and drop as Dave had predicted, and it was time to start the long journey home.

Dave and Mike thought this was a slow day for the Elk. A day like this would have been a banner day where I'm from in terms of numbers. Where I'm from, a few wild, untamed fish would have me grinning from ear-to-ear. The Elk Creek is all about catching large numbers of hatchery raised fish. Both types of fishing has its place in a Steelheader's repertoire and the Elk was indeed a delight to discover and fish with a great bunch of guys.

This unseasonably mild winter weather is a fisherman's dream come true, but I'm covertly hoping for winter to finally set in to provide the hard protective layer over the abode of our finned friends as they rest up for the "main event" in a few months.

All photos courtesy of Mike B. Thanks Mike.

The River is Greener on My Side

2006-12-17T13:55:00.000-05:00

Despite a very late night, I set my alarm to get me up in time to make it to my home river just before first light. With only a couple hours of sleep and a few moments of discombobulation upon rising, I made it to my favourite stretch of water well before the sun or anyone else. Within the first few drifts in this particular pool, an attentive Steelhead would almost always find my offering. Today, these first few drifts went unnoticed as did the next, and the next. As the sun made its seemingly late appearance, so did other fisherman, and within minutes, it was no longer just me, the river and its inhabitants. I gathered my line and abandoned this pool that was no longer mine. I decided to fish a few areas that I haven't touched for quite some time, and I once again found solitude and a new appreciation for my home waters. In the past, I have unfairly overlooked this fine water with the illusion that the grass (in this case the river) is always greener on the other side. Today, I had an epiphany of sorts, and realized how beautiful this river really was. Things on my side are pretty darned green too.

The Steelhead were particularly witty and elusive today, which required me to be a little more witty than I usual am to find them. It turned out that Fisherman's Law had raised it unwelcome head once again, as from conversation with a few friendly comrades, "I should have been there yesterday"; yet I left the river this morning smiling (it seems I'm doing this a lot lately), satisfied and grateful for another day on water.

In the Company of an Old Friend

2006-12-16T11:06:00.000-05:00

Thursday (December 13th) I was to meet up with an old friend. We had never met, but we had bantered about in the electronic world of cyperspace for years. This old friend was none other than fellow blogger and fly fishing/centrepinning hybrid, SD from Chasing Silver.

On SD's blog, he refers to himself as ". . .one of the most despised people on related forum boards. . . " yet he is a class act and a rich encyclopedia of knowledge. He blew my mind as he spoke of his vast collection of fishing artifacts from the past and his knowledge of all things in the world of fishing gear was impressive. It was a true pleasure to talk fishing with him. I even had the opportunity to try out a prototype centrepin and float rod that he is sampling for a couple manufacturers - that was cool!

Unfortunately, his fishing time was limited and the fish were uncooperative, but sometimes the fries are just as good without the gravy. Next time we'll do some fishing.

As he made his way home, I continued my efforts Westward, and was able to find some prime water holding a good number of fish. As it was late in the day, this well trodden area had been thoroughly fished prior to my arrival, but I managed to negotiate a tug-of-war with one spunky male.

The best part of this stop, though, was chatting it up with an older retired gentleman who has as much passion for the sport as I. His 35 or so year head start showed as he pulled 2 lovely specimens from under my nose. I was thrilled to watch this man fight these fish wearing an ear-to-ear smile as if each one was his first. I want to be just like that when I grow up.

10 Days of Famine; the world in the eyes of a fishing addict

2006-12-15T23:53:00.000-05:00

It had been 10 days since my last drift. After living out these 10 days, I have concluded that this is how long it takes for a fishing addict to reach the point where he begins to risk his health and welfare if not given the opportunity to wet a line quick.

Trout frolic and play in his dreams, leaping and rising to even the clumsiest of presentations. He awakens each day and his wife asks who the "beautiful female" is that he "caught and released". Driving over streams on the way to work becomes an increasingly dangerous task, as he hits the brakes at highway speeds and does a 180 degree rotation of the head to prolong his short glimpse of paradise. The work on his desk begins to accumulate as he takes every unsupervised opportunity to read, correspond, and view anything fishy. His Pavlovian response to any finned stimuli becomes increasingly excessive to the point where the use of electronic equipment becomes a hazard.

After 10 days, a fisherman is at the apex of withdrawal. If you see your friend, neighbour, coworker, or pharmacist going through these tell tale signs, get him to a river, stat!

I was astute enough this Wednesday to recognize some of these symptoms and was able to make a self-diagnosis. After an early afternoon meeting, I packed the car and rushed myself to the river. Thank goodness there was still some daylight, so it wasn't too late. The river sped angrily from the recent days' precipitation, and it had closed its curtains on the sun's rays as it held silt and debris in suspension. Yet the moment my line touched its surface, I had felt resuscitation; blood began to flow, and my lungs let in the fresh, unrecycled air. Paradise and I met again. With each cast upstream, and each drift downstream, my silly grin grew. A big male Steelhead noticed my homecoming, and greeted me on the end of my line, twisting, running, tails-slapping in celebration. I followed him downstream where he finally came to lay before me. He was the largest and most beautiful fish I had seen this fall. I reveled in his beauty, thanked him for the warm welcome, and shook his caudal wrist before his return into the mysterious.

By then I had fully recovered, and my silly grin had grown ear to ear. With no camera or phone to share the moment, I will have to keep this one burned on my brain for only I to enjoy.

This time, all I have to share of this experience are my words, and I hope this time, my words paint the vivid picture still in the forefront of my mind.

Bone Chilling Temperatures, Wind Burned Skin, and Light Flurries - what more could one ask for?

2006-12-04T08:38:00.000-05:00

This past weekend was a typical one for me - lots of life's engagements, and very little left for fishing. But as I have said before, if there is a will to fish, with some creativity, there is always a way.

2 days after 2 days of heavy rain, Jeff and I found ourselves at the mouth of an Eastern tributary. It was mid-morning on Sunday, and parked cars were strewn all about the access point. I wasn't surprised considering this was one of the only fishable systems in the area. Contrary to better judgement, we robotically got out of the car and pulled on our gear.

Fishermen lined the banks with their weapons pointing into the sky at 45 degrees, and in unison, they batted their reels and cast again upstream. There are few activities where you'll find grown men work in such synchronicity. Contrary to better judgement, Jeff and I robotically stepped in line and joined in on this ballet. On a good day, this synchronicity would be interrupted by thrashing head-shakes and aerials of the leaping bars of chrome, but it was not to happen this Sunday. The bitter, unrelenting breath of Lake Ontario billowed on our faces, and the river's glass surface remained unbroken.

We finally came to our senses and made our way upstream, where the river meanders through a valley and is canopied with trees on both sides. As expected, we arrived to find more cars and their correponding fishermen. Each conspicuous spot was already occupied and flogged by 1-3 fishermen; but as always, the further we walked from an access point, the thinner the crowds became. Knowing that all of the pools had been previously fished, I concentrated on the fast riffles and pocket water where fish would inevitably seek shelter from the trampling, flogging, and splashing of the unstealthy. Fish were very aggressive in this inconspicuous holding water, usually striking on the first drift; whereas fish holding in slow deep pools, although plentiful, would not touch the most delicate presentation.

Despite the cold water temperature, and even colder air temperature, the fish were energetic and spirited, and full of colour. It's always rewarding to find fish in areas overlooked.

With bone chilling temperatures, wind burned skin, and light flurries, there was only one more thing we could have asked for - Hungry fish. . .and we got that too.

Big River, Small Fish

2006-11-29T11:29:00.000-05:00

I wouldn't say that travel is one of the favourite parts of my day job, but on occasion, it affords me the opportunity to fish some rivers that I normally do not. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to fish the Cattaraugus Creek in Western New York.

Don't let the name fool you, however. This flow is no where near the resemblance of a creek. With a width of 100 feet in parts and an average flow of over 1000 cubic feet per second this fall, this is a raging river! With about a week and a half without rain now, the flow finally dropped to fishing friendly levels (650 cf/s).
Whether it is safe to cross at this flow rate is debatable. It required a bit of lunacy to do it, but I did, and was pleasantly surprised to see a few familiar faces from my side of the border just as determined as I to find that perfect drift.

I was able to find a large number of very cooperative fish, but their numbers greatly outweighed their size. Average for the day was 2-3.5lbs. But as the quintessential fishing tale goes, I lost the big ones.

A Brief Respite

2006-11-26T20:25:00.000-05:00

As we near the end of another year, weekend fishing opportunities too appear to be coming to an end. This of course is unacceptable, which has forced me to become creative in fulfilling this often inexplicable addiction of mine. Lately, I have found myself sneaking out to the river at hours no rational man would think to start their day in the hopes of feeling determination, power, and grace at the end of my line. I escape in hopes of experiencing this and returning home just as my better half is awakening from her night's slumber. If all goes as planned, just as her day is starting, my day will have already been fulfilled. Today, was such as day.

A beautiful buck who unfortunately lost his right maxilla in a previous battle. Please remove hooks with care

Water temperature was a bone-chilling 38 C, yet fish seemed invigorated and charged. Acrobatics were the order of the morning.

Serenity

2006-11-24T14:42:00.000-05:00

I lost a big brute today that took me to parts of the river that were impassable. Have you ever tried to cross a roaring section of the river where you felt your feet lifting off the bottom, as you balanced perilously on the only portion of your boot's sole still in contact with the unstable sediment? That's when I made the judgement call that it just wasn't worth it, and decided to forget the lessoned learned for the time being. The big male continued its run downstream, and all I could do was hold on as it stripped line. He became so distant that I could no longer see where my line was leading. Then, I felt one last tug, and my line went limp. He had spat the hook.

But if I had to sum up this morning, I would describe it as serene. It sure is nice when it's just the river. . . .and me.

Redemption is Sweet

2006-11-23T11:44:00.000-05:00

Although an occasional skunking is good for the health of every fisherman's psyche, staying in the company of skunks for consecutive outings can have the opposite effect. This morning before checking into the office, I was fortunate enough to redeem myself from yestertrip's event with a lovely 8lb male Steelhead on the Lower Credit River. He wasn't the acrobatic type, but his frantic headshakes and screaming runs had my adrenaline flowing. 100 metres downstream and 5 minutes later, I finally managed to tail him.

No need for that morning coffee.

The Benefits of a Good Skunking

2006-11-22T17:19:00.000-05:00

I could say that river conditions were less than ideal (which it was); I could say that our fishing time was very limited (which it was); I could say I was viciously attacked by a fawn that mistook me for its mother, as it took its disappointment out on me when it could not find an udder (okay, that may be stretching it a little), but the fact of the matter is that I reeked of skunk as I lumbered my way back to the car.

Unfortunately, tomato juice won't wash this one from the record, but when you have a good number of these under your belt over the years like me, you learn to be an optimist. At least I didn't go for a swim in the ice cold water. At least I didn't lose as much terminal tackle as I usually do. At least I was able to sneak away from the office without any consequence (if my boss should read this, I'm just kidding - really). At least my arms aren't tired.

Besides I wouldn't want to have one of those over-sized heads that some of those unfortunate folks that never get skunked possess. I'm proud to say that my head is proportionate to the rest of me.

And I had a chance to share a few drifts with Dave, and catch up on the latest and greatest in the realm of Steelheading.

On days when the smell of skunk is in the air, I'm given the opportunity to look up and away from the river's flow, soak in my surroundings, the beauty of the natural world, and be thankful that I still have a little piece of paradise only a short drive away. Now that's what I call fishing.

Everyone needs a good skunking. . . . once in a while.

Oh almost forgot. Photo borrowed from http://www.rockleigh.org/Recreation/Images/Mammal/skunk.jpg

Big Things Can Happen on the Bighead River

2006-11-20T16:37:00.000-05:00

. . . And it did. Unfortunately, I was not there to witness it. This week's report comes from Dave (Wallacio), as he pulls off another stellar day on one of Southern Ontario's prime Steelhead rivers; the Bighead.

The Bighead's headwaters reside in the Niagara Escarpment near the town of Chatsworth, Ontario and empties into Nottawasaga Bay (an Inlet of Georgian Bay) in the town of Meaford. In Dave's words, the Bighead". . . is a classic Steelhead river (sections of it anyway). The area I visited is the most popular and it consists of a riffle, run, pool structure with considerable gradient and a large, round granite boulder substrate. It reminds me of a BC Steelhead river in miniature".

As always, he eloquently paints a vivid picture of the state of fishing that day.

"Despite the cold water and snow squalls,the fish have yet to settle into winter mode....all of my fish were hooked in fast water (runs, tailouts and pocket water)...the slower pools did not produce at all. The hits were aggressive (decisive float take-downs and I even had multiple "shots" at a few fish...I missed burying the hook on the first pass, only to drive it home on the next drift!) but there were no aerials".

All fish were over 25 inches and one exceeded the 30 inch mark as it lay on the cusp of double digit weight. With fish of such class, I say, who needs aerials?

A thick caudal wrist and broad caudal fin means only one thing - sheer power!

When unable to escape the confines of the life that doesn't involve fishing (like this weekend) I always enjoy going on virtual fishing trips through great fishing reports.

Once again, Dave did not disappoint.
Handsome in Pink

All photos courtesy of Wallacio

Catch and Release: Religion, Madness, or Merely a Management Tool?

2006-11-15T21:22:00.000-05:00

We, as both fishermen and conservationists sure have a paradoxical relationship with our finned friends, wouldn't you agree? To enjoy fishing, and to ascribe to conservation, one must surely be a "Catch and Release Fisherman", right? But isn't this idea, this concept, this "religion" an oxy moron? Or are we just morons? These are the things the Mad Fisherman contemplates in isolation, when he is far from the riverbank, holed up in an office building surrounded by concrete.

We spend an unthinkable amount of time, energy, and money on ways to make us more successful at finding and catching. We have many tools at our disposal as a means to bringing the odds closer in our favour. We arrive at the river and dress into our carefully selected apparel, and ready our weapon. We learn to be stealthy upon our approach to the riverbank, walking softly and crouching low, as we peer through the cover of tall grass in search of our finned friends. Our eyes burning with desire, determination and focus. We wait. . .

One of our friends makes a subtle appearance as she sips a baetis off the surface creating a dimple that irradiates in a series of gentle rings. Our heart begins to race and the adrenaline fills every capillary in our body, as we strip out line and move into better position, trying to contain the emotion. Through years of practice, repetition, reading, watching, learning, dreaming, we roll out a beautiful cast right into her feeding lane. She takes our offering with the same subtle sip as seen before. All of our pent up energy was reserved for this moment as we set the hook. Our friend races around her domain, and leaps into the air as she fights for her life; we admire her determination, as it is like ours. Time stands still as our entire existence at that moment is based upon not losing her and bringing her to hand. She fights with every ounce of energy, yet she succumbs, and lays at our feet.

Gently, we hold her, keeping her in the water so she can breath. Gently, we remove the hook, as not to damage her. And for a moment we cradle her in our hands and admire her. We never tire of her beauty. Sometimes we speak to her. Sometimes we greet her with a kiss. At her own will, we let her swim back home.

When I contemplate this scenario, and more so now that I have written it, I cannot help but think this to be a bit absurd. We, as "Catch and Release Fisherman" must have a split personality to undergo this process. We are a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of sorts. First we are predator; second we are caregiver.

Yet this is what I do. So why do I do it? Although much of the joy of fishing for me is watching the fish swim away, I don't do it for this or other philosophical reasons. I practice it because it helps to sustain a delicate fishery.

What was once a fisheries management tool has taken on a life of its own. Jim McLennan has written a thought provoking article in the November/January "The Canadian Fly Fisher", titled "Further Thoughts on Catch and Release - Do some of us take it a bit too seriously?".

My thoughts are in line with Jim's. Catch and Release as a tool to manage a fishery makes sense (In some cases it is the only method of managing some fisheries) but Catch and Release as a religion or for the sake of morality does not.

Sunday, Muddy Sunday

2006-11-13T12:57:00.000-05:00

It has been a wet fall indeed. To date, we have barely gone more than 5 days without precipitation. As mentioned in previous entries, this in combination with a cooler than average late summer, has resulted in runs of migratory salmon and trout much earlier than in recent years. This has also lead to some phenomenal fishing; but only if timed right. However, as we all know, with life's other obligations our time to fish doesn't always coincide with good fishing time.

Yesterday (November 12th) was one of those occasions. Rain had steadily succumbed to gravity's pull the entire day prior, and upon arrival at the river I knew to expect to see her bloated after her binge. She is the worst yo-yo dieter I know, as she had gained 20 cm in height and looked sickly as she traded in her georgeous emerald hue for a muddy makeover within 24 hours. The fishing was tough. The good news is, I had the entire river to myself aside from a pair of unusually happy kayakers. And I did manage to find a few fish. Although they were on the smaller side (2-4lbs) , I was pleased that the aroma of skunk stayed at bay.

Overcast skies, Emerald Green Water: The Makings of a Perfect Day?

2006-11-06T12:37:00.000-05:00

This past weekend, I had fully intended on focusing on parts of my everyday life not involving the "F-word" (as my wife puts it), but like a bad addiction, it sucked me back in. I admit it, I am a fishing junkie; but I have a hunch I'm stating the obvious.

An invitation to head out to a Western tributary that is starting to heat up was tantalizing, but I begrudgingly declined this full day trip to keep world order in the household.

With the opportunity to escape for a few hours on Sunday, I headed out with my brother-in-law, Jeff, in exploration of some new water. The trek was a challenging one, as the terrain was unforgiving. We stopped for a break to admire the work of the neighbourhood beaver.

We were paid dividends upon arrival at our destination, as it was an oasis of deep pools, current breaks, seams and tail-outs - I thought I had stumbled upon heaven. It didn't take long for the first fish to find my offering. She did not take kindly to my presence and went on a series of heart-stopping runs before Jeff skillfully netted her; it turned out she was the largest for me from this river to date.

The fish that deserves honourable mention, however, is the one shown below. This girl was wild! From the moment of hook-set, she was flying through the air in rhythmic fashion. 7 acrobatic maneuvers were counted, the most consecutive leaps through the air I have witnessed from a Steelhead. I wonder who the lucky male is?

This day was a day of beautiful fall weather, a fantastic stretch of newly discovered river, exceptional fish, and great company. It was indeed a perfect day.

I would feel awful if I didn't give the next fish the airtime that she deserves because she illustrates so beautifully that it's not the size that matters.

Today's Lesson: Dedication

2006-11-04T19:33:00.000-05:00

I managed to meet up with Dave yesterday afternoon, the good soul instrumental in facilitating that first Steelhead of the season. Upon arrival at our agreed upon meeting place, we found that the "honey hole" was "not accessible".

In our quest for the perfect drift elsewhere, we probably ended up in places where we shouldn't have and consequently risked life and limb; but as any true Steelheader will tell you, if the assumption of these risks will bring fish to the bank, it is well worth it. Today, Dave had displayed a level of dedication rarely seen in this noble sport, and it was most thoroughly enjoyed.

Dave was ahead of me as we worked our way downstream on some water new to both of us. The bank was strewn with fallen trees, brush, and was steep enough that if one lost his footing, he would be sliding on his rear end into the swift current en route to Georgian Bay. It wasn't long before I heard a thrashing downstream near the opposite bank and saw the bouncing of Dave's rod as a fish shook its head in disagreement. "Do you have one?", I queried. . . "Yup", he responded matter-of-factly, as the fish rocketed downstream.

The chase was on, but Dave had no where to go. Fledgling trees and organic debris stood in his path. Although this would have been an insurmountable obstacle for me, it was not for him, as he entered a rather deep section of mighty Nottawasaga river, eyes fixated on his prey. I, being 100 yards upstream had started to make my way towards him. Before entering a deep section of thick brush, I glanced down to find him up to his armpits in water with his rod held high, as he treaded his way downstream in water much taller than he. I quickened my pace and entered the deep brush. In a bit of a panic, I stumbled my way through, tripping over twigs and snagging my rod on overhanging branches. Finally, I reached the opening to see Dave excitedly making his way back up. From his neck down, he was saturated in ice cold water. "Did you land it", I queried. "Yeah" he answered matter-of-factly, as he wore a silly grin. . .

. . . "It was worth it".

photo taken by Wallacio

He, carrying a number of extra pounds of water-logged waders, and I, thoroughly entertained, continued to fish for 2 more hours before racing back to the city.

Lazy Monday Afternoon

2006-10-30T23:51:00.000-05:00

When it rains, it pours. Such was the case this past weekend with the rivers in my area receiving 30-40 mm of precipitation. Gale force winds approaching 90 km/h made fishing impossible; but that didn't stop me from taking a walk with rod in hand along a nearby stream yesterday. With water the colour of mud and the banks flooded, let's just say, "it was great just being out there".

Today, with a few hours to spare in the afternoon, I decided to take a leisurely drive to some of my favourite Eastern Lake Ontario tributaries. To my surprise, they were in stellar shape. With limited time, I went straight to a few spots that have always treated me well in the past, and today, they did not disappoint.

Addendum - Nov 2, 2006: Due to a relatively busy schedule this week, I never really had the opportunity to complete this entry until now. Allow me to continue, if you please. . .

Let me start with a little background of the Eastern Lake Ontario tributaries. The "East" is unique in that there are a series of well known streams within throwing distance of one another. These streams comprise Duffins Creek, Oshawa Creek, Bowmanville Creek, Wilmot Creek, and the Ganaraska River (of course there are others, but I will leave some of it to your own exploration). All are relatively small flows, averaging 3-6 metres across, but don't let their small size fool you. These streams breed some of the largest wild Salmonids in the Great Lakes.

The beauty of fishing this area is that each river reacts in its own unique way to what the weather has to throw at them. If one river isn't fishing well, all you have to do is hop in the car and drive a couple kilometres to the next. I liken it to a strip-mall for fishing. As with any shopping centre, one must pay the price of convenience. If what you're looking for is solitude where your only company is the sights, sounds and the beauty of nature, you should look elsewhere, as most of the Eastern tributaries meander through townships, and under major highways, roads and railways.

During my afternoon at the "mall", I stopped at 3 rivers, and found fish in all of them, but was only able to entice fish in 2. All were incredibly charged, leaping at every opportunity, and with each leap I crossed my fingers in hopes that I would still be connected upon each landing. Their chrome silver sides were magnificent; the opportunity to hold such wild beauty for a moment left me smiling ear to ear.

This is my kind of shopping. . .

The beauty is so hypnotic that sometimes it's hard to let go

Finally. . .A Day of Fishing

2006-10-27T20:31:00.000-04:00

Today, I decided to put aside my busy schedule and dedicate it to a day of Steelheading. If you have been reading up to this point, you are aware that as of October 26th, I haven't yet been blessed with the good fortune of landing a Steelhead of this fall. Although they arrived in my local rivers earlier this season than in years past (at least those in recent memory - which isn't long) and most everyone that I know has already battled a multitude of them, I have remained in the company of skunks. Had I been forever cursed with Fisherman's Law? Had the Steelhead finally surpassed my mediocre level of wit and charm? - Likely.

Today, I set out to find some answers to these burning questions. After much contemplation and consultation with a good soul that must have felt pity on me, I decided to tackle once again the unmerciful Nottawasaga River, but this time I was to explore parts my eyes had never before seen. My consultant had me driving my new car through farmer's fields, private property, dirt roads and steep, narrow inclines, but all I could think about were the steelhead waiting for me. The Nottawasaga was as unforgiving as ever, as she attempted to foil my mission with her steep muddy gradients, timber strewn banks, and dense foliage. But today, I was unstoppable, and today, what lay before me, was my first Steelhead of the season.

The Mad Fisherman has Company

2006-10-18T12:01:00.000-04:00

It seems I'm not the only Mad one around here. The Mad Fishicist speaks of life, love, and Steelheading. His words are poetic and eccentric (he may even be more mad that I) at the same time. He appears to have an infinite wealth of literary quotations. Certainly a blog worth visiting.

Fisherman's Law

2006-10-16T13:18:00.000-04:00

Why is it that the best time to fish is when you're unable to? I don't know how many times I've excitedly made my way to the river to have someone tell me that I should have been there yesterday. Too many times have I been sitting here in my office focused on work, when an email arrives to inform me that I should be at the river NOW - nothing ruins a day faster - no longer can I think about work - no way can I do what I'm thinking about. I am left paralyzed.

This occurrence is far too common, and I therefore must call it the "Fisherman's Law" (although I wonder if Murphy was a fisherman?).

Such is the case once again. The volatile weather in Southern Ontario over the past week has prompted very healthy runs of Steelhead into virtually all rivers in the area, which has prompted very healthy fishing reports of many fish being caught.

And once again, Fisherman's Law has reared its ugly head, and I will once again miss this early season wingding.

photo courtesy of Wallacio

Thanksgiving Day

2006-10-10T10:03:00.000-04:00

In between visiting dealers, reading reviews, and calling insurance companies about a new vehicle, I was able to escape yesterday to resume my quest for that first steelhead of the season (although some of my fellow Ontario bloggers have already beaten me to it).

The destination was the Nottawasaga River. The "Notty" is a beautiful river most notably during this time of year when the colours of autumn complement her from all angles. It is a relatively large system with its headwaters starting in the Niagara Escarpment and Oak Ridges Moraine. 122 or so kilometres and 4 tributaries (Boyne, Pine, Mad, Bear) later, it will take you to the mouth where it flows into Georgian Bay (Lake Huron) in the town of Wasaga Beach. Jeff and I were on the road by 5:00am to arrive at the river just before first light.

After 6 hours of fishing and a few missed hits by weary passerbys, we were ready to go home with our tails between our legs. It wasn't until the last 10 minutes of fishing that I finally connected to something. That something turned out to be an angry dime bright Steelhead in the 7-8lb range. At this point in the day, I was trying to cover as much water as possible by making 50 metre drifts (not recommended). It just so happened that the fish took my offering at the very end of one of them. I lazily lifted my rod and it immediately began to bounce as the Steelhead shook its head in disbelief (I was also in disbelief). Before I had time to deliberately set the hook, the fish took a determined run, rolled on the surface, performed a series of tailslaps as if to say, "thanks for trying", and threw the hook back at me. That was the only encounter I would have with this magnificent creature this day. All that time and effort invested for that one moment, and to loose it on a poor hookset has made me even more determined and "mad" ( read "insane") than before. But that's fishing for you.

I'm consistently being told that a fail-proof method of alleviating this condition is to visit a Western New York tributary where common side effects are sore arms, silly grins and feelings of euphoria. I may just have to try it as I'm all for naturopathic alternatives.

The Perfect FUV?

2006-10-10T09:44:00.000-04:00

My recent search for the perfect fishing automobile (my wife is obviously looking for other features in a car) has precluded me from wetting a line lately. After months of keeping my eyes and ears close to the automobile market in search of "the one", we've finally decided on the Toyota RAV4. Aside from its 4WD capabilities, it can tow 3500 pounds just in case. With lots of room to store the gear and good ground clearance I should be able to get to those hard to reach places. Although I'm going to miss my Integra GS-R immensely, it never faired very well off-road.

After considering fuel economy, and utility, I think I've come close to finding the perfect FUV (Fishing Utility Vehicle), although I'm curious to hear the opinions of others. Comments are welcome.

Dodged by the Silver Bullet

2006-10-01T21:28:00.000-04:00

early fall steelhead

This past week, Mother Nature has wept into our rivers and streams a significant amount precipitation, which precipitated me to take a couple days off in search of my first Steelhead of the season.

After 2 days of logging extensive numbers on the odometer and pedometer in exploration of 4 different rivers, my reconnaissance mission yielded many Kings (albeit very fresh-from-the-lake and aggressive), and a few ghostly shadows of Steelhead moving through; however, it did not accomplish what I had set out to do. The season has been a strange one so far. Kings were in the rivers in big numbers by Labour Day weekend, and Coho were right behind them. I had hoped that this peculiarity would continue by urging a big Steelhead push into our north shore Lake Ontario rivers before October. I guess I'll just have to wait a little longer.

Last week, Tom Chandler from Trout Underground had asked what drives the avid Steelheader to such lengths and bodily abuse by nature's unmerciful winter rath in search of this fish.

". . .while I steelhead from time to time . . . I'm still curious as to what drives the people that do it all the time (besides hard liquor, of course)".

Seeing that I am left with nothing to do but wait for the first significant arrival of early Steelhead, I'll take this opportunity to try to put the answer to this question into words.

It's a frigid mid-December morning, and the warmth of a down duvet and the comfort of bed is the only sane place to be. Yet here I stand, at the riverbank on top of frozen earth, and a light dusting of snow that crunches and squeaks with each step. The only sound around me is the gentle meandering of the emerald green water. There are no sounds of life anywhere except my steamy breaths, and the repositioning of my feet, as any sane creature is in their abode sheltered from all of which I have voluntarily exposed myself to - my hands white, and fingers stiff barely able to tie a knot; my lips chapped, and eyelashes frozen; the biting cold wind finding every weakness in my multi-layered outfit.

I stand before a deep dark pool - its glass surface disturbed only by my 4 gram balsa float following the seam's path near the far bank. I give my centrepin reel a spin, and it silently pulls my line from the end of the drift, and I lay it again gently at the top of the pool. The float is once again en route to following the same path, when suddenly, it is pulled below the surface by something from the river's mysterious depths and surface tension quickly fills the void where the float once was. I lift the rod with deliberation, and the once glass surface erupts in explosive headshakes. The creature quickly dives deep into the depths of emerald, turns and accelerates; this time clearing the water's surface that separates her world from mine. She makes her first appearance in the terrestrial world in astounding fashion, as she somersaults and blindingly reflects the sunlight unlike anything else around me. The colourless world of the leafless trees and snow covered earth is suddenly complemented with iridescentt hues of pink, purple, gun-metal, and dime bright silver. She does this again, and again, each one nonetheless extraordinary than the one preceding it. My fingers pressed against the spool of my centrepin innately adjust their pressure on it, with each twist, turn, run, and leap. Strangely, I am cold no more. The stars must have been aligned in a favourable way, as I'm lucky enough to stay connected to this one; many have left me sitting on the cold bank weeping.

She has had quite a journey to meet me here at this spot on this day. As a young fry, she frolicked and played in this very stream, feeding on invertebrates and dodging creatures wanting to predate her. As she grew older, she began feeding on larger forage sources and she became predator. She outgrew her natal home, smolted and made her way to the great expansive Lake Ontario where she traveled great distances and great depths in search of food and comfort. 3 years later, her focus changes and on a wet fall day, she makes her way back to the stream where she was born to repeat the circle of life.

And here we meet. This creature has been places I'll never be and has seen things I'll never see. To touch something so wild, so determined, so beautiful. . . is simply divine.

A Morning at the Office

2006-09-26T15:27:00.000-04:00

I decided to readdress my wish to land that Coho this season and made my way to the lower river this morning with the centrepin gear in hand. To my delight, I was the only soul on my preferred stretch of river. As I breathed in the crisp fall air while assembling my 2 piece, Coho were rolling all around the pool.

Within the first few drifts, a female King aggressively took my offering and gave a series of determined head-shakes, and it was not until then did I become truly awake for nothing gets the blood flowing in the morning like a big angry fish on the end of your line. After a 3 minute battle, just as I thought she was ready to throw in the towel, she gave one last unexpected run upstream and was free.

I quickly retied and was drifting again within a few short minutes and redeemed myself with this female King.

It was certainly not a bad way to get the morning started, but it was not what I had come for. It didn't take long for another fish to take offence to what I had placed in its personal space.

But this time it was different. After a number of rapid and tenacious headshakes, it quickly became airborne, rotating, twisting and turning in mid-air. Wonderful hues of blue, grey, and silver flashed before my eyes. As it made its re-entry, it screamed through every corner of the pool and became aiborne once again. This fish was in the driver's seat and I was just along for the ride. As it began to tire, it resorted to head-shakes and rolling in my line, and I think it would have continued to do this for minutes longer if I hadn't managed to tail it.

Finally, a Coho in all its magnificence and beauty lay before me

The Precious Gem Market was Bullish Today

2006-09-22T15:40:00.000-04:00

Today's Catch

2006-09-21T23:16:00.000-04:00

After a few failed attempts in the past to get our schedules aligned, I finally had the opportunity to fish with Dave again today . As always, it was a pleasure to share a bunch of laughs, a few drifts, and talk fishing with a good fishing buddy. Although it's been a while since we've fished together, Dave didn't hesitate to pull a few nice fish from under my nose. Unfortunately, due to a temporary camera malfunction (really!) I'm not able to showcase his good work here.

At the access point, we struck up a conversation with an older Scottish gentleman, probably in his late 70's, who knows fly-fishing and the river extremely well. Even in his old age, he manages to wet his line 5 days a week, and consistently walks a fair distance to a stretch of river that I've only been to once, mostly due to laziness. Throughout our conversation, he subtly offered up some valuable information of which I soaked up like a sponge. I would like to believe that it is becuase of fly-fishing why he still has that youthful spirit, and if that is what is in store for me when I'm in my late 70's, I can hardly wait.

Although today didn't produce the trophy that I had hoped for, it did produce a couple items of interest

Isonychia! A number of them were floating about this afternoon, which prompted a few risers.

Atlantic Salmon parr. Atlantic Salmon were once a thriving native species to Lake Ontario, but industrialization resulted in its extirpation in the late 1800s. Clear cutting of riverbanks for agriculture led to rising river temperatures, and bank erosion. Dams built to power mills prevented adult salmon from reaching appropriate spawning habitat. Ecological changes in the lake made it an unfriendly place for the Atlantic salmon to exist. Now, about a 110 years later, with the help of private sponsors, the MNR began a multi-million dollar initiative this spring to restore a self-sustaining Atlantic Salmon population back to Lake Ontario and its tributaries (Atlantic Salmon Restoration Program). I had the pleasure of taking part in the stocking of Atlantic Salmon fry in the Upper Credit River this spring. Although there are many obstacles to overcome and hurdles to navigate, hopefully one day the Salmo Salar will once again be the King of Fish in Lake Ontario.

Mr. Bluegill - Counter Terrorism Unit

2006-09-20T08:35:00.000-04:00

In the Washington Post today, an article explains how Bluegill are helping to fight terrorism.

Small numbers of the fish are kept in tanks constantly replenished with water from the municipal supply, and sensors in each tank work around the clock to register changes in the breathing, heartbeat and swimming patterns of the bluegills that occur in the presence of toxins.

So far they have detected over 30 toxic chemicals since 2002 and continue to guard the municipal water systems of San Francisco, New York, Washington and other big cities. Unfortunately, they currently don't have the skills to prevent the bombing of water mains and computers that control the water supply from being hacked, but they're working on it.

So next time you catch a Bluegill, don't forget to say "thank you".

photo taken from: http://www.fcps.k12.va.us/StratfordLandingES/Ecology/mpages/bluegill.htm

Best of Both Worlds

2006-09-19T11:30:00.000-04:00

A link on some of the fly fishing blogs that I like to peruse, such as Fly Fish Magazine and Fishing Jones is to an article written by Mark Taylor, an outdoors writer for Raonoke Times. Mark discusses the long standing division between fly fishermen and gear fishermen. As he so eloquently puts it, these 2 schools remain on opposite sides of the bank because of the common stereotypes of each.

In the eyes of plenty of fly anglers, conventional tackle anglers are a bunch of bait-chucking, worm-plunking, fish-killing, stream-littering, resource-abusing rednecks.
Many conventional fishermen don't think much of fly-fishers, either, considering them a bunch of fancy pants, "River Runs Through It"-watching, influence-peddling, elitist poseurs who think that money can buy fishing bliss.
The attitude is not good for anyone.

Another, but related misconception spanning the fishing world is that you are either a fly fisherman or a gear fisherman. It is this misconception that leads to the ignorance on both sides of the other means to the same end. Many fly fishermen stay clear from ever using traditional gear or ever admitting to it for fear of being labelled a meat-hunter redneck, while many gear fishermen will steer clear from ever trying fly fishing for not wanting to be a part of this elitist cult.

Giving way to these misconstrued ideas is sadly self-limiting in the pursuit of our finned friends. Gear fishermen will never know the reward of delicately placing your hand tied fly in front a rising trout to see it gently sip it from the surface, and the ensuing explosion as you raise your rod tip to set the hook. Fly fishermen will never know the exhiliration of being so intimitely connected to a steelhead as when using a centrepin reel, feeling every head-shake, turn, and roll in the palm of your hands as they act as the always adjusting drag system. Limiting oneself to just one method of fishing will probably make you good at it, but it will never make you a great fisherman.

I'm not a great fisherman (which is a whole other issue), but I love them both, and I could never choose one over the other. Variety is the spice of life as they say.

Autumn is Here!

2006-09-18T15:22:00.000-04:00

Just as the Red-Breasted Robin signifies that spring is here, the arrival of Steelhead in our rivers and streams signifies the official arrival of Autumn - at least for the migratory salmonid fisherman.

While I was out strolling a wild trout stream yesterday, a friend of mine was stalking a south shore Lake Erie tributary in search of some early Steelhead. Due to exposed clay banks, last week's rain still left the river quite stained but cleared somewhat as the day progressed. The bite was at its peak midday and tapered off as the heat of the afternoon sun penetrated the water. Most of these early fish were in the 6-8 pound range with magnificent iridescent silver sides. These trips typically start by rising from bed at 3:00 am to arrive riverside at 6:45, to return home much after dark making for a very long day; but a small price to pay for any diehard steelheader.

Thanks to Dave for the great pictures and report.

Return to the Fly

2006-09-17T18:55:00.000-04:00

With only 13 days left of the 2006 Trout Season, I purposefully pulled myself away from the urban jungle of the Lower Credit River, which is now starting to emanate the wretched odour of aging salmon, and unethical tactics. Below is a good depiction of the scene there this weekend, of which I did not take part.

I left this to once again enjoy the solitude of just me, my fly rod and a wild trout stream. I was welcomed with scenery that I then realized how much I had missed.

The impending warm front generated a great deal of fog this morning, which I thought would alleviate any apprehension that a trout may have in rising. But the decent Trico fall that I had hoped for this morning never did materialize, and only stray Caenis floated about. The trout remained deep within their lairs. Dry flies would stay in the box today, and the Hare's Ear, PJ and Flash-back Pheasant Tail, and Prince were the order of the day.

The PJ Pheasant Tail nymph was the first to be deployed and I soon tied into a medium sized Brown that seemed to have an identity crisis, as it cartwheeled through the air like a Steelhead. On it's second leap, it was free.

As I made my way downstream, I switched to my trusty Hare's Ear, which yielded nothing. The PJ and the Flash-back Pheasant Tails also were refused. Two hours passed without a sniff and my enthusiasm began to waiver. Finally, I decided to give the Prince nymph a try as I revisited the various runs, holes, and overhangs. I stopped at an old favourite spot of mine that had not produced for me since my "One of Those Days" entry. On my second drift through the wood strewn run, the line twitched very subtly and I instinctively raised the rod. Immediately, I felt head shakes and saw a brown flash within the depths. After a spirited tug of war, she came in for a quick photo, and off she went into her wooded den.

To be thorough, I drifted the same run to again see another subtle twitch, which turned out to be a smaller the 10" fellow with a lot of spunk. Now feeling confident with my Prince nymph, I continued upstream to another spot that I was convinced held fish. On the second drift, the fly line stopped suddenly and I raised the rod to feel a series of heavy headshakes. I could now see the fish clearly in the shallow run. It was a big male with brilliant colours in the 15-17" range. As we looked one another in the eye he shot downstream under a fallen tree and threw the Prince nymph back at me. The last time I fished this spot, I had a viscious hit that I wasn't ready for, and I'm convinced it was him again, taunting me for the second time. . .now, it's personal.

13 days left in the Trout Season - I will have to make the most of it.

Urban River Wildlife

2006-09-15T21:09:00.000-04:00

After 2 days of good rainfall, another fresh push of Kings and Coho have arrived in the Lower Credit River. Many were shooting through the shallow riffles like propeller-driven torpedoes, while others frolicked and porpoised in the slow, deep runs. The air was crisp and refreshing, and the blanket of fog was gently lifting off the river's surface as if to awaken it from its night slumber. A family of White-tailed Deer peered out into the meadow adjacent to me and cautiously made their way to the river's edge to have their morning brew. The green of summer has begun to give way to the orange and red of fall subtly unveiling itself in dazzling beauty across the tree line. I reveled in this moment. . .as it was short-lived.

Serenity was replaced with the splashing, thrashing and unnatural chatter of "Urban Wildlife". The river's edge was invaded by them, and each was equipped with their choice weapon; some of these weapons were refined and beautiful; others were archaic and barbaric. The diversity was astonishing - Darwin would have been beside himself. There was one specific strain out today that stood out from the rest. It was a rare site indeed, as they make a brief stop here once a year in their migration to wherever their destination may be. Although they are a dying breed, perhaps even endangered in my area, I imagine they are more prevalent in others.

Have you seen one on your local river?

Urban Wildlife

A Week Among Kings

2006-09-09T13:48:00.000-04:00

This week marks the first time of the season where I have placed down the fly rod, albeit momentarily, in pursuit of a species that is now making a re-appearance in the local streams and rivers where they were born. In the Great Lakes area, no other species carries on its shoulders as much controversy, even anger and resentment as the Oncorhynchus tshawytscha (King Salmon). But if any fish could shoulder such weight, it is the King. Kings can reach in excess of 40 pounds in Lake Ontario, making it the largest migratory Salmonid to run the gauntlet. But none of this division among anglers is at the fault of this nobly named fish. With its sleek shark-like stature, copper back and silver sides, the King Salmon can be a thing of beauty. Its brute strength, and surprising acrobatics make this an exhilarating fish to toggle with. Most migratory salmonid fishermen fondly remember catching their first King Salmon.

Once a King enters its natal river, however, its time on the throne is short-lived, as it begins to darken and become worn from its journey. Because of the size of the runs and the sheer density of them in the river, it brings out people from all walks of life - including those that regularly don't fish, and those that shouldn't fish. As I was making my way down to one of my favourite spots before first light on Friday (August 8), 5 "gentlemen" were heading back to the parking lot with 5 landing nets and 1 fishing rod among them. Without proper enforcement, activity like this runs rampant - this is unfortunately the dark side of the King Salmon fishery and it is why many fishermen stay clear from it.

But with all this said, it was nice to have the weight of my float rod and centrepin reel in hand for the first time in 4 months, and the feeling of being connected to fresh fish up to 25 pounds.

Coho (Oncorhynchus kisutch) also run my local river (but in much smaller numbers), and I had the pleasure of crossing paths with one this week. Although I had to settle for a long distance release on this one, those who have fished for these incredible fish will know that it's extraordinary just to fight one for a little while. I am, however, now even more determined to land one this season.

This is an interesting time of year as I remain torn between the float and the fly. But it is also my favourite time of year, as the dog days of summer begin to retreat and the cool crisp air predominates, which inevitably leads me to thoughts of my favourite salmonid of them all - the Steelhead!

Still Kickin'

2006-08-24T22:45:00.000-04:00

Fortunately, the camera has spared me, and is now in working order. The dissection-and-fan technique appears to have worked well and I put it right back on duty last Sunday (August 20th) during the Tricorythodes spinner fall. The weather was as volatile as it gets - sun for 5 minutes, rain for 10 minutes; then sun, then rain; all the while windy. Although the fall was sporadic, my buddy, Jeff and I managed a good hand full within a half an hour period.

It was a crowded day on the river, as it was the first weekend that the Tricos have appeared in good numbers, but we were able to find a nice quiet piece of water that held some enthusiastic Brook Trout. Although it was another enjoyable day on the water, I couldn't help but wonder what my old friend Pat was up to these days.

I wonder if he/she likes the Trico hatch as much as I. Only one way to find out. . .

The Spectrum of Emotion

2006-08-15T15:33:00.000-04:00

Today, at 3:30 pm, I sit here exhausted from the events of today. Not that it was a particularly grueling day, but when one goes through the spectrum of emotion over such a short period of time, it does take its toll, and it was nice to peel off the waders and enjoy the comforts of home (for now). These are today events:

Anticipation
As is usual the mornings I plan on fly fishing, I arise with thoughts of emergers riding the river's flow, clouds of mayflies hovering and swaying , and of fish rising to this beautiful occasion. I pack the car and head north to the place where these dreams just may come true wearing the usual silly grin - I arrive at the river uneventfully.

Serenity
I arrive at the river to find that the BWO hatch is heavy again and the Brook Trout aren't passing it up. The pool appears to be boiling under a stove top at times with all the activity of its jeweled inhabitants - The silly grin grows ear to ear - I quickly tie on a BWO emerger and slowly, on my knees, work my way upstream. Just as I had hoped while tying this new pattern last night, the fish eagerly rise for the fly. Most fish are in 6-8 inch range, which is the average for the Upper Credit. At times I just hold the fly line and rod in my hands and sit there enjoying the boiling and popping of the river's surface film. What a perfect beginning to the day.

Their colours are nothing short of brilliant this time of year

Anger
Within an hour of my arrival to the river, a man and his son walk up to the pool I am fishing and immediately proceed to throw bass lures. The sound of these monstrosities hitting the water make me cringe. A number of choice words come to mind but I keep my cool. I immediately strip in my line with the intent of leaving when I see treble hooks attached to their "gear" (Note: regulations for the Upper Credit River are single-pointed barbless hooks). I inform the "gentleman" of his infraction; he thanks me and proceeds to leave. Satisfied that this man will show respect for these regulations in front of his son, I make my way down to the next pool. Upon my arrival, I look back to find that the man and his son have returned and continue to fish. At this point I am irate, and am about to call the authorities to report them. I decide not to as I figured they didn't have a chance in hell of catching a trout with what they were using anyway. On second thought I should have.

Jubilation
After managing to bring my blood from a boil, a tie into a nice female Brook Trout on my now trusty BWO emerger. I then land another on a Pheasant Tail Nymph. After a while of nothing at all, I decide to put on the lowly San Juan worm. Immediately, fish are striking it aggressively and I land 3 fish in 3 casts, the largest being 9 inches. I switch up again with no success. I decide to throw on the San Juan one more time before leaving, and bam, something attacks it! I immediately see the flash and for a second I think it's a brown from the thickness and brute strength (although browns are not known to be in this stretch of river), but this premonition fades quickly when I see its vibrant colours. After a bulldogging battle, he finally obliges to greet me streamside. I'm in awe of his colours and the girth of his shoulders - 11.25 inches long - a trophy to Upper Credit standards.

Panic
I pull out my camera, and the trophy squirms; with all my attention on making sure I don't lose him, my inattention to my camera finds it on the bottom of the river. Jubilation quickly leads to panic, as I pull the dripping metal conconction from its nemesis. The choice words once reserved for the "fisherman" upstream are uttered.

I ended up taking a pic with my phone, but of course the colours and quality are poor and if I don't get the camera working, I will redefine the meaning of "domestic strife".

The camera is now dissected and a fan is blowing on it at full force. If the camera is in disrepair, this may be my last blog. . . as I may be without fingers.

Minute Muse

2006-08-11T15:52:00.000-04:00

I snuck away this morning to get my much needed dose of nature. Actually, the last time I was out was the night before, with Dave, but one can never get enough. The past few days have been quite mild and water temperatures were a cool 60 F. The cloudless sky made the crystal clear water seem nonexistent, until I would step into holes that I thought were only inches deep to find they were much deeper.

last night, the Brook Trout were rising readily, and once again I managed to lose the best fish, landing only the naive juveniles. Dave managed to land a few at dusk.

It was a slow day today, although Blue Winged Olives and Caenis were proliferous. Today, instead of words, I leave you with a few shots that do a good job of telling the story.

This was taken using a camera phone, hence the poor quality - I'll try to keep these to a minimum

Gin clear water meant very spooky fish but this fellow fell for a BWO emerger pattern

A new stretch of river that shows some promise

The Better Half

2006-08-06T11:47:00.000-04:00

Rice Lake was eerily quiet. The sun's rays penetrated the treeline and shone on the glassy surface, invertly reflecting the world around it. A Lake that is typically infested with boats and pontoons saw only 1 other boat upon arrival (August 5th). This had the potential to be a good day, I thought.

This day, I was to go fishing with my wife. Although my wife is a talented fisher, it is a rare occasion that she suggests that we go fishing; whenever this occurs, I drop everything, grab the gear and throw it in the car before she has time to change her mind. So far, she has been resistant to flinging feather and fur, but I believe that the day will come (hopefully soon) when I will be standing by her side waste deep in one of our favourite trout streams. But today, we were to pursue the Bucketmouth using top-water lures.

Although they say that compromise is the key to a successful marriage, I would hardly refer to this as one. Watching the aggressive attacks on the surface by these voracious predators can be exhilarating and nothing short of a lot of fun.

The bass seemed to still be tight to shore probably because of the cold front and rain that had come through a few days prior, so we stuck to a couple of my favourite spots on the Eastern and Western shorelines.

After about 4 hours of fishing, it wasn't a day of quantity, but it certainly was one of quality. 3 of the fish were in the 3-4 pound range and their classic leaping head-shakes were picture-perfect.

My wife was able to land a spunky one along with a multitude of Pumpkinseeds, Sunfish, Perch and Rockbass. I must report that it was just a perfect day to be out on the water; not because of the big cooperative fish willing to entertain us (although it doesn't hurt of course), but because I saw the joy, the fascination and the thrill of fishing that I feel each time I'm out there in the eyes of my wife. Now I just have to find a way to sneak a fly rod into her hands. . .

Jewels of the Stream

2006-08-04T17:04:00.000-04:00

As intended, I headed for the upper most reaches of the Credit River this morning (August 4) in search of the Brook Trout.

The weather has continued to be unrelenting in its grip here in Southern Ontario. The smog, humidity and heat have made for a very sticky combination. It's days like these where I wouldn't mind being a fish swimming in some nice cool water.

For the past 2 days, the thick, wet air lead way to severe thunder storms that sparked tornados, downed power lines, and wreaked havoc on commuters. But it also produced a cool breeze, gave new life to the flora, and brought cooler stream temperatures.

I arrived at the river rather late this morning, but it welcomed my tardiness with the grasshoppers frantically popping at my feet as I approached the first deep run, and a healthy population of emergers floating downstream when I got there. Just as I had left them 3 months ago, the Brook Trout were bulging and swirling at the surface, capitalizing on this breakfast buffet. It was nice to see that even though I'm not always around to witness it, nature continues its course. The Hendrickson's in May, the Sulphers, Green and Brown Drakes, Isonychia and Light Cahills in June and July, and today the BWO emerger - the Brook Trout on the other hand are there to see it all.

Over the past few months, I've been spending my time in pursuit of the elusive Brown Trout, and much of it was spent nymphing and wet-fly fishing. My rusty lack-lustre skills as a dry-fly and/or emerger fisherman were very apparent today, by losing a number of very nice specimens due to poor hooksets or no hooksets at all. The Klinkhamer Special was the MVF (most valuable fly) today - if only it would signal me when mouthed. Of all missed strikes, I would have to say that the missed surface strike is the most painful. One juvenile Brooky, as if to see my frustration, hit my fly in slow motion, giving me a chance at success.

When the surface activity dwindled away, I gladly tied on a nymph and headed downstream.

The Credit River's wild brook trout don't possess the power and size of the wild Browns that it inhabits, but there is something magical about each encounter with creatures of such startling beauty. It represents nature in its purest form. Our Brook Trout are true gems and today I wondered why I had stayed away from them for so long.

Dog Days of Summer

2006-07-25T16:21:00.000-04:00

If it was up to me, I would be out on the water everyday, but unfortunately, not everyone in my life shares this ideology and I have had to take some time to enjoy the other summer activities.

As is typical for this time of year, water temperatures are starting to reach the upper limit of safety for our finned friends. After 2 weeks of 30 C (86 F) plus weather, Mother Nature finally loosened her grip, giving us a few days of comfort. On July 19th, I managed to escape to the river, albeit for only a few short hours.

Water temperature was noticeably warmer than my previous outing, but still within the comfort zone for Brown Trout. Not a cloud could be seen, and the sun seemed to concentrate all its efforts on the back of my neck. Rain had fallen a few days prior, and the river's flow appeared to be running extra fast in its futile attempt to escape the beating rays of daylight.

Thoroughly, I fished each pocket, pool, and undercut but the fishing was fishing, and not much catching. I had intended on taking a few pictures this day in appreciation of the area's beauty, but I broke rule number one of blogging by leaving my camera at home.

At the end of the day, my efforts yielded 2 pint-sized Browns and 2 even smaller rainbows. But as all fishermen say when they've had a less than stellar day, it sure was great just being out there - and within this phrase lies much truth. I think I'll pay a visit to my speckled friends upstream the next time I'm able to escape the confines of everyday life. . .

One of Those Days

2006-06-28T09:03:00.000-04:00

Yesterday (June 27), after work I excitedly packed up the car in anticipation of a nice evening of fly fishing. Being able to slip away early today (which is a rarity) made me even more gleeful of the outing ahead (Gleeful in a child's-anticipation-of-Christmas-morning kind of way - a feeling I often get before fishing for some reason). I was to meet up with Dave, a good fishing friend of mine.

As I proceeded down the long road to the river, the sunlight began to dissipate, the sky darkened, and the cotton-ball white clouds became charcoal. Rain of the torrential type soon followed - the silly grin I wore lead way to anger and some profanity. But nothing was going to stop me from wetting my line, and I continued down the long road. Persistance paid off as it was just a passing storm, and the sunlight and cotton-ball clouds began to reappear.

Dave had done some pre-fishing before I arrived, and was now waiting at the access point. He was waterlogged but still high in spirits. We exchanged a few words and a few laughs and proceeded down to the river.

As expected the river was slightly up and slightly stained, but still very fishable. Surprisingly, there were other fisherman where we would rarely see another soul so we continued past them. Stopping at a shallow riffle, Dave immediately had a take and toggled with a small Brown. We stopped by to see Pat, but unfortunately, it wasn't in the mood for hospitality and that did not change for the rest of the evening.

Further downstream is a pool that has been good to me, and I was telling Dave about my past experience with it. The pool was made for trout, but was certainly not made for fishing and I have lost many hours of hand tied flies in its depths. It is strewn with 2 fallen trees, bush and debris and I imagine most fishermen just walk right past it.

Dave got the first drift and was once again in a one sided tug of war with a small Brown. I drifted in after him, and found myself in a battle that would bring my blood to the flow of a river after a heavy rain. The Brown Trout used every obstacle in its home to my disadvantage and fought with such ferocity that I was sure it would soon end with tears shed on the bank. I tried not to put on too much pressure, as I ascribe to the theory that it's best to tire a fish slowly in tight, snaggy quarters. After some great runs in attempts to get back home, this feisty brown took a moment to greet us streamside for a picture. It was not a 20 incher, but it sure had the heart of one.

Dave would proceed to land one of similar size in the same pool and another further downstream. Both of us played with a smaller Brown or two along the way.

Satisfied with what the river offered up to us this day, I paused to look around at my surroundings and soak in the moment. The sun was beginning to set behind the layers of cedars and maples, through hues of pink and red sky and a white mist formed over the river and stayed there, as if to protect it from the darkness of night.

It was one of those days where I'm reminded why I spend so much thought, energy, and time in pursuit of not just the fish, but of the whole experience that fishing provides.

Pat - Perpetually Elusive

2006-06-23T12:39:00.000-04:00

I decided to make my way back to the same area of the Upper Credit River yesterday (June 22nd) to actually wet a line this time. This stretch of river is for the time being my favourite place to be. From the access point is a short walk where the river's straight narrow run segways to a meandering flow through age old maples, wild flowers, and overhanging trees, where the only sounds you hear are the birds, the rustling of wildlife in the brush, and if the timing is right, the slurping, bulging and rising of fish. It is where I feel "away from it all". But there is one more thing that keeps me going back. . .

It likes to feed near the surface in the mornings between 9:00-9:30, and in the evenings from 8:30-9:00. It always feeds right on the seam, where the tail out of the riffle meets the almost stagnant water. It does not like Hendrickson Emergers, Caddis, BWO Emergers, Stonefly Nymphs, PT Nymphs, PMDs, Light Cahills, or the Kinkhamer Special- at least none of mine. Because I have never seen it in full, I would have to say it is over 25 inches. A fly fishing buddy and I have agreed upon Pat for its name for the sake of androgyny. Once we know its gender it will either be Patrick or Patricia.

I arrived at Pat's pool to find very little bug activity, aside from the mosquitos gorging themselves on the newly found buffet fumbling through the bushes. The air was eerily empty. A fellow fisherman (the only one I would encounter the whole evening) would blame it on the change in barometric pressure. I waited patiently for the usual feeding time - Pat, as if to feel pity on me, entertained with a couple bulges on the surface. I had noticed BWOs floating about a few days ago, so I decided to try an emerger once again. Being in the best possible position to obtain that drag-free drift (although it seems this is never easy where the big fish lie), I put my fly a few feet in front of the last location of surface activity. I repeated this with various flies. I waited. . . and repeated again - nothing. Pat decided not to entertain this silly man any further and remained in the depths for the rest of the night.

It's a good thing not all UC fish are as cruel as this aforementioned specimen.

But how I yearn for the day when I can behold Pat in the cradle of my net and call it by its full name.

An Unusual Breed of Man

2006-06-22T13:40:00.000-04:00

I had planned on fishing Monday (June 19th) at the Upper Credit River, but ended up chatting it up with a fellow that pulled up beside me riverside. This guy in his late 50s was a real purist in the truest sense and as cocky as can be, but I had to stick around and pick his brain just to see how guys like this tick. He was appalled by my one split shot 12 inches above my bead head nymph (the bead head, he also found offensive). He said I wasn’t fly fishing; I was just fishing with a fly – go figure.

He opened his trunk and suddenly I was transported about 75 years. Inside laid a couple cane rods in old vintage wooden cases, reels in old leather pouches, and an old Orvis canvas bag holding a pile of fly boxes. One of the reels was a Vom Hofe and one of the cane rods was a restored vintage over 100 years old (which had a name that I cannot recall). - Everything he owned was vintage, from his fly line, the clothes he wore, to his old pick-up - He was kind enough to put one of these masterpeices together and let me cast with it – the feeling was unbelievable. The smoothness and fluidity of the movement was surreal – to see him cast it was amazing. The rod was like a pendulum that knew exactly what its job was and proceeded to do it on its own.

I sat there and listened to him talk about the history of Brown trout in North America, to the first hatchery in Mumford, to his Scottish heritage and it’s relationship to fly fishing, and the painting on his tailgate of him fishing the Catskills (yes, it’s this is pretty funny, but the painting was actually well done). It was obvious that this guy eats, breaths, and dreams fly fishing.

So at the end I stripped off my gear after barely entering the water but I went home satisfied with my encounter of this unusual breed of man.

A Little Background - fishing with my old guy

2006-06-21T23:00:00.000-04:00

My first fishing memory took place in the small town of Fort Erie, ON. It is the place where I would live out most of my childhood, and it is where I would become acquainted and spend countless summer days in the water with its inhabitants. Whether it be in search of frogs, various creatures for my fishtank, or fishing, my love of water and the lifeforms that inhabit it spans as far as I can remember.

I was about 3 pumpkins high when my dad took me fishing. The lake was a short hop, skip and a jump from where we lived, and I was able to get there in 3 minutes flat even with my short stature at the time. But if you had captured a glimpse of us on our way there, you never would have guessed what we were about to do. Most of our "equipment" was stowed discreetly in my dad's pocket. It comprised a spool of 10lb test line, a hook, a split shot and a few worms from the garden - he said this is the way he used to do it when he was of my stature.

I watched in awe as my old man swung this contraption over his head like David about to conquer the Goliath sea. He released this cyclic ball of energy he had created above him and the line flew off the spool as if determined to reach as far out into the unknown as possible. We sat there and waited (to be truthful, he waited and I ran around like madman), but it wasn't long before the glass surface was broken by frantic headshakes of a dark brown creature with fins, covered in slime. He would later tell me that this "thing" is what they call a catfish.

Athough I probably could not describe what I felt at the time, I was fascinated with this creature that I had never seen before. I was intrigued that with this contraption, I could touch (although I refused to literally touch it) something wild, something from the mysterious depths of this great body of water, and not know what it is, or what it looks like until it finally surfaces for the terrestrial world to see.

This was my first memory of fishing, and it was where my lifelong journey in pursuit of our finned friends began.

Over the years, my spool of line led way to a rod and reel, giving me countless hours of enjoyment and memories on the Upper Niagara with my brother and of course, my old man.