What am I DOING???

Isn't this the cat's meow?

The picture in the caption is a gross misrepresentation of what Lake Ontario must look like this morning; still somewhat wavy, but generally windless - and overcast. But since I'm in no position to offer you an updated version, I have to use this very old one from 2004.

Given yesterday's generous dollops of rain, I imagine that several creeks are clearing, right this minute, beckoning fish.

*sigh*

When I walked out of my door a couple of hours ago, I was immediately aware: no wind. F*&^*! WHAT AM I DOING???

Going to work! ...not fishing.

Thinking about it doesn't help, either. But in my opinion, the conditions and time of year are perfect for a little lake-side steelheading - my favourite now, since the fish are always so ultra-fresh, scintillatingly bright and eager to accept offerings. Runs and jumps galore.

What a rotten day to have one's priorities "straight," sipping rancid, paleolithic coffee from a styrofoam cup & watching videos of our EVP's magnanimously thanking us for our "outstanding contributions to this latest initiative in leveraging opportunities for the Business."

Ugh.

Is that a tickle in my throat?

*cough!* *cough!*

p.-

Right up my Alley

Part of me laments the popularity that certain Lake Erie tributaries now enjoy which, even five years ago, were relatively unknown to most great lakes anglers. It means that when I undertake the long drive, I have to ask myself whether or not I'm willing to face a crowd.

Last Monday, I decided that both the conditions & fishing crowds were acceptable, and headed out to one of the tributaries in Lake Erie's famous "Steelhead Alley." Together with John, Mike and Richard, I figured to "crush" some steelhead.

It didn't turn out to be the total victory that we'd hoped for, but all of us got fish nonetheless. I got some nice shots of John fighting a chromer, just before the camera's batteries died; the photographer in Mike once again revealed himself, by snapping this shot of a lovely little hen rainbow; Richard was captured on digital, a little gollum-like, doing the yum-yum unacceptable (if you ask the members of certain forums on the internet); and Mike released what seemed to me the biggest fish of the day, a gorgeous nickel bright hen in the 9-10lbs range.

The story of the day, however, was the beautiful weather and the scarcity of crowds - so there was no lamenting! The morning afforded quite a few good shots, as this one on the right, and the few fishermen we did meet (with one minor exception) were in the same mood we were: happy, sun-warmed & friendly.

As a case in point, near the end of the day, one of the "fly guys" helped me locate fish; which is the only time this has ever happened to me (they are normally aloof when they see the "pinners" coming). Perhaps frustrated by water conditions that were still a little too coloured for presenting flies, this gentleman from Ontario directed my attention to a tail-out where he'd seen fish surface before my arrival. His coaching worked as, after a few drifts in the spot he'd indicated, my float slipped beneath the surface at the urging of a spunky 4lb-er whose eagerness to get back in the water almost cost me the picture...

Now I'm making plans for this weekend. Lots of rain this week. Who knows where the next blog entry will come from?

Not me! Not yet, anyway...

p.-

Inspirations

While Laura is out getting supplies, I've finished bathing and feeding the twins , and I've put them to bed. Since they are now both counting little sheep, and I've finished a number of my appointed chores (including "brownie point" chores), I've taken time to check out blogs by Joe A. & SD.

Their entries for today, respectively entitled "Why Steelhead?" and "A lull...", are both about the same thing: the odd behaviour of those who chase after a fish (i.e. steelhead) that is more easily catchable during cold-weather periods.

Joe is very poetic and philosophical in his approach, whereas SD represents the physical example: discussing centrepins and planning to go out, after a rain, while recovering from a pneumonia.

When SD talks about going out "pneumonia notwithstanding" he asks why it is that he would do such an apparently crazy thing. But I don't see it as crazy or abnormal at all; in fact Joe gives him an answer of sorts, correctly pointing out the exhilirating unpredictability of the fish and the fishery - which seems like a good reason to me. Because if you really want to catch steelhead, you will seek them and you will do so in the short window of time that is alotted. A "perfect" window is so rare, that given only the capability to stand, not one of us will blame any steelheader for being brave, and driven. One day there is a throng of them, the next they are gone like "La belle Dame sans Merci" in the famous poem. And who knows when that day has truly come, without going out and testing the waters ourselves? We are not omniscient...

So, what can I add? What words of mine can equally describe, for anyone who does not seek this fantastic creature, why we do it or what it's like? I don't know. I have a bunch of poems on the subject, that I've written myself, but I won't bore anybody with any of them here.

But whatever "steelheading" is for anyone else; for me, I guess it's all of these things at once: art, discipline, meditation, prayer and earnest battle. Oh, and fraternity (not excluding any "she," who are rare and exceptional), which includes the odd beer.

I'm thinking about my next trip now, and where it might be, and if I will go alone or with anyone else, and how many, and how beautiful the fish I/we will catch... where's the button on Time? You know... the fast-forward...?

Oh, never mind!

p.-

First Chrome

Somehow, the Steelhead gods must have found it amusing to grant me my wish.

It was uttered thus, at about 10 o'clock on Sunday morning: "This sucks. All I want is one fish. Just one fish."

I can imagine some Loki-type deity responding, Ok... if you'd been just a little more patient, we were going to grant you 10 fish or so from 11 O'clock on... but, since you insist. Fans of "Star Trek: The Next Generation," insert "Q" here.

I visited three eastern Lake Ontario tributaries, today, each at a different stage with regards to the salmonid fall migration, and each having behaved quite differently to the 5mm of rain we had last night. It stands to reason, then that the larger of the three, and the one most sensitive to precipitation, would be where I ultimately received my gift from the gods.

At the first two tributaries, all I really got were messages from the animal spirits sent by the Steelhead gods themselves. The pensive egret said "valiant average steelheader, nay! cast thy tackle over these waters no longer! eastward lies thy boon!" The three ducks agreed. When I went further eastward, where to my great chagrin the water in the river was too low & the surf in the lake far too high, the two-headed swan said "unimpressive tosser of balsa sticks," (swans are more imperious, and somewhat haughty) "angle thou here if thou wilst. 'Twould amuse me to witness thy futility..." But I thought the egret & the three ducks too sincere to have sent me to this place, so further east I went.

By now, I should just call it "My pier," or to amuse some of my friends, "My peer" - the same place I've written about twice previously. Yes, I arrived at "My peer" (peer, not pier, haha); to witness pandemonium. Large boots were flying out of the water everywhere. Bottom bongers were having a heyday (those who were in fact bottom bonging) and/or uttering growls of dismay whenever the fish got off. Large boils dotted the surface of the water, haphazardly, and every now and then a chinook salmon, variously shaded with mating colours, would fly out and land with a splash.

But here and there, a staccato splash, or boil, would occur. Smaller, quicker, and somehow more timoroulsy voracious than the big lento kabooms of the chinooks. Something was out there, that by its surface activity could be read as being at once actively feeding, and accutely aware of its enormous, dangerous and territorial cousin: there were steelhead off My peer.

Anyhow, I began alternately to drift roe and jigs for them. But either they were too spread out, not yet in enough numbers, being chased around by the boots, or all of the above; because, they didn't seem interested at all. About an hour went by. Finally, feeling quite discouraged with the way things were going, I intoned my little prayer to the Gods. One fish. Just one fish.

Moments later, they complied.

The float hesitated, then zipped downward with such force that it nearly splashed. I knew immediately, upon setting the hook, that it was a steelhead. A chinook, when it's hooked, will usually make a big splash, or shake around a little, decide it's probably in danger, point its nose in one direction and blast its way there. They're like a jumbo jet: big, heavy, lumbering, powerful. A steelhead, on the other hand, is like a Spitfire. Wheeling, diving, climbing, yawing, and just as capable of pulling out a long, wicked run. This one did not disappoint. He shook his head madly when he felt the hook, leapt at least six times, ran twice and even attemped at one point - or so it seemed - to rub the line off on the cement of My peer.

He's the lovely 30-something incher who graces this post, in the caption above. Seconds later, he was back in the water, and I wish him luck in his endeavours and in his romantic pursuits.

The last thing I have to say, in deference to the Steelhead Gods, is that I am happy with my day - though by no means content. When is a steelheader ever content? When fishing. Otherwise, we spend a good chunk of our time planning our adventures, watching the weather and guessing what has been decreed for today, for tomorrow, for the next day...

But I humbly thank the Steelhead gods for my one fish. He is magnificent, and the gift of his apparition made my day!

p.-

Fish & Rod

"Yes!" I growl to myself, as I feel a tug at last. It's night and I've been tossing a glow spoon from this pier for over an hour now. Lake Ontario is eerily phosphorous on one side, big waves rolling in dim shore lights; and on the other side of the pier, all is dark and the chop is flattened by the outflow of the swollen river. Behind me, all I hear is the loud, droning wavecrash where the swells are stopped in their interminable march by the unyielding rocks. And, overall, wind.

"Alright!" I finally hooked into something. I can feel the pull... wait. It's too soft. I think I got someone's line. I can see it hanging from my spoon, now; it's shiny new. "Ah, f#*&!" Not a fish. Just fishing line. Jeeze, there's a lot of it! What a mess.

There's another guy on the pier with me. I look to see if this might be his line, but he's casting glow spoons of his own.

What a night! Anyway, I shouldn't leave all this line out there. So, I untangle my spoon from the unwanted line, gently put my rod down & begin to pull it all in, carefully rolling it up with my fore-arms.

Suddenly, there's another tug. What...? There's something at the end of this line. It really is brand new, so... could it be? a fish? I'm here looking for chinook salmon... maybe...? So I keep pulling, and sure enough like a dog on a leash, the fish starts to come in with the line. As I get it closer to the pier, though, the enchantment ends suddenly; and I'm glad I was using my forearms to roll that line in: there's a big splash, a very rough tug and then... nothing. If I'd have been using my naked hands, I'd have been cut for sure.

All this line, and that fish wasn't even hooked by me. And there's more line out there. So I keep pulling. There's pressure again. Another fish? No. It's kind of just a dead weight. Probably an egg sinker rig, or something. There are lots of weeds at the bottom & if you catch a clump of that stuff, it's really heavy. Pull, pull.

Rod. Reel. Holy mackinaw! A freebie!

I am suddenly reminded of the discussion I had with that local fellow, the last time I was here. He'd said something to the effect that "those damn fish pull hard, when they're on. Every once in a while, some idiot leaves his rod there to light a smoke or get a beer, or something, and whamo. Rod's gone. It takes off like a rocket."

So, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. I've heard of this sort of thing happening before, of course, on piers frequented by intrepid chasers of salmonids, but I never thought I'd be the main character in a similar story!

(Mental note: buy lottery ticket tomorrow.)

The rig, as it turns out, is comprised of a 9ft shimano IM-7 blank & a Daiwa "D-force" 4 ball-bearing spinning reel. It serves as the model in the caption, above, for this blog entry.

Later on, I will finally connect with a couple of our finned friends, landing a bright silver male - who is only just starting to show the first telltale yellow/green stain; 22 lbs or so - and missing the other. The one I will land will give me not one, but two blistering runs; a lot of fun, when fishing in the dark.

At 3:09am, my head will hit the pillow. And it will be a few moments before the hopeful images of bright chrome throngs of october steelhead, conjured by my cold and windy but fruitful night, are extiguished from at least the conscious part of my brain...

p.-

A Day at the Pink

To prove that life is full of surprises, I learned last year from Mike's endless internet forays, that the north shore of Georgian Bay has a healthy population of a much ignored species of salmonid in Ontario: pink salmon.

Pink salmon first made their appearance in the great lakes in the mid 1950's, introduced by accident into a tributary close to Thunder Bay. For a very nice synopsis on pinks in Lake Superior, read this article from Wisconsin Sea Grant's "Fish of the Great Lakes."

Because pink salmon are rather diminutive, growing only to about 5lbs at the biggest, they do not excite the imagination of fishermen in general. After all, who wouldn't prefer chasing Chinook salmon, which grow to 30lbs, given the choice? And for most southern Ontario & U.S. anglers, the bigger salmonids such as steelhead, chinook salmon and coho salmon, are by far the most accessible; so why waste the gas on such "minnows"?!

In any case, because my parents live "up north," I have more access to Georgian Bay's north shore than most. And as curious anglers, my father and I made a visit to a local tributary last fall, just before Thanksgiving; only to learn that we were a bit late. There were fish in abundance, but most were dead or dying, and very few were interested in our many offerings.

This year, however, we went much earlier - last Friday, actually - and found the action much more to our liking. The run is not yet in full swing, and many of the fish are still relatively fresh and reasonably game. And although many of the locals don't exactly follow what we southerners would call "proper stream etiquette," there are plenty of fish to go round. And their fight is surprisingly fierce, for such a seemingly small fish.






We didn't count the fish we landed, but it was well in the thirties. The action was sometimes quite furious, as evidenced by the two photos above, where my father hooked into a fish between camera clicks. He seems to be smiling indulgently in the first pic, then the strike comes. In some sections of the river, furthermore, there were so many salmon lining up to ascend the rapids, that snagging them was completely unavoidable; in fact, future visits will be made with barbless hooks.

What did they like? Krokodiles, mostly, silver panther martins and salmon roe drifted under a float. They seemed to like their spawn sacks tied in red or ... you guessed it: pink.

What did we like? the salmon. Fileted & fried in butter, with a light batter of flour, lemon/garlic spice, salt, pepper & parsley.

p.-

More images:
My father with a typical male, destined to the frying pan, after landing it.
And I managed to pick some off with the camera as they surfaced.

"Krispy Kreme in my Future"

Would you pay this man 4.5$ million per year?

Ok. This being a fishing blog, I will be brief. But I just can't help but comment on this one.

I was so shocked that I almost didn't finish my last blog. There is some serious insanity going on in Long Island!

As some of you may already know, the New York Islanders recently signed goalie Rick Dipietro to a 15 year, 67.5$ million contract. Dipietro is now 25, so this contract will keep him warm til he's 40 in 2021.

The last time a contract this big was awarded in the NHL, the guy's name was "G-r-e-t-z-k-y"... ever heard of that guy?

Ever heard of Dipietro? If I told you he played for the Nashville Predators, would you even know that I was lying? My point is that he is at best a B+ goalie. He is not the equal of present talents such as Roberto Luongo, Miikka Kiprusov or Cam Ward. And, unless you're a hockey fan, you've probably never even heard of those guys. Ken Dryden? Know that one? And not even Dryden, nor even any other goalie, ever had a contract that long. Not even close. And Dipietro will likely never do anything as big as this contract, to get himself into hockey history; he's just not that good!



67.5 divided by 15 is... what...? 4.5$ million. So, basically, by the time Dipietro is replaced- maybe in 6 or 7 years, maybe in 3 - he'll be sitting on the bench or in the press box, laughing his face off into a huge box of Krispy Kreme donuts. 4.5$ million a year to eat donuts. Can you say "Jackpot"? "Laughing all the way to the bank"? "Always fresh at Tim Hortons"!

All I can say is: one team less for the Leafs to worry about in the post season!

p.-