Prime Location

“Chopping up wieners in my kitchen.”

Months or years down the road, when someone asks me “where were you,” that is going to be part of my answer.

With Canada and the USA tied at 2 in overtime, at the gold medal hockey game in Vancouver, February 28th 2010, I left my seat to attend to the menial – while the truly epic was going on. I struggle to explain even to myself, why.

The wieners are the easiest part to explain. Isaac loves them, and it was nearing supper time for him. God knows, I couldn’t eat. And it was probably not a good idea, in retrospect, to be holding a knife, trying to cut specific things not referred to as “fingers,” while such an historic occasion was going on. The knife was rattling on the cutting board as I tried to concentrate on the task at hand. But the TV was on, and I could hear the excitement of the crowd, of Chris Cuthbert trying to stay with the moment, the slap of pucks on sticks, the crashing of bodies caroming off the boards.

But I couldn’t bear to watch.

After the tying goal, scored by USA’s Zach Parisé, with only 24 seconds left in the third period, I had flown off my seat, ranting and raving; 2 posts earlier in the third! Sidney Crosby missed on a break-away! Whose check was Parisé anyway? And inevitably: are they going to beat us? Again? These were probably the same thoughts that were going through the minds and hearts of countless other Canadians. So many of us must have felt as though our doom was almost at hand. The Gold Medal – the 14th for Canada in Vancouver, and the most ever by any nation at any Olympic Winter Games – had been seconds away, and now it could be put out of reach altogether and forever: overtime would ensue and, beyond it, lurking in dark, un-nameable fear, the spectre of a shoot-out.

In steelheader’s terms, it was like having a 25lb steelhead not only hooked, but almost landed, mere feet from shore; only to have it turn quickly away, snap the shredded tippet and disappear. It's enough to make a wildly beating heart spiral down into the stomach, sinking like a stone to which you, me, all of us had foolishly tied our collective Spirit. I wasn’t at any of the thousands of public gatherings, in any bar or arena or public venue, so I didn’t have to face the dreadful silence that must have fallen on all those places. But I did not have any countrymen to lean on either, so that I could have the courage to continue watching. I was alone at home, except for a little child who did not understand what was going on but who was getting hungrier by the minute. I had to get him something to eat. And I couldn’t brave the pain of possibly seeing the game evaporate, of watching the dagger go in, live.

Then, who knows how close I came to cutting a finger; I heard Cuthbert say something about a goal. Was it over? For a moment, I think there was silence everywhere, a huge intake of breath across the country. Because a second later, the roar of the crowd left me no doubt, and I jumped out of the kitchen, my knife rolling about on the counter like Sidney’s stick after he dropped it on the ice, hopping around like a fool, picking up Isaac, my little boy, and hugging him and saying “look Isaac, we won! We won!” I opened up the patio door and sounded my victorious yawp across the rooftops of the neighborhood, to add it to all the other voices that were also cheering, here in Canada and around the world.

A day or two before the game, Stephen Brunt submitted a piece to CTV, which captured something important about Canada and the Vancouver Winter Games. It was inspiring. And I think that this hockey game was, in many ways, an embodiment of what Brunt was telling us. When Sidney scored the “golden goal,” it was more than winning a hockey game. It was about more than just hockey, or even the Olympics: it was about the joy of being Canadian. We all felt it.

So, where were you? Does it really matter? No. Not really. Because, for once, no matter where you were in the geographic world, our hearts were all right there in Vancouver, flying on the shot that went in, lifting in that single moment all our Spirits.

Where were you? The only real answer is: "Canada."

p.-

Gloom

Long

has this night gone on.
Long may it heap
upon my brow its corporeal darkness, its
dank, mundane, molassed
minutes; crawling to
a far, bleak horizon that with each
slow step
seems always further
away.

Each grey morning before I
open my eyes there
is a new “tick!” as
the black beads click on Time’s
exchequer’s abacus.
Each day. Again and again.
Unwavering. Unchanging. Slow.
Slow.
Slow.
Slow.

And such a wrath of despair sometimes
surges, enough to split the sternum
asunder like brittle sticks. Only the thought
that the disk is there,
coiled about with fresh line and waiting as I wait, keeps me whole.

In this wintry gloom,
I know not the sum he counts. But
let it be a large debt, half in arrears or more!
Because inexorably he
will count himself out anon, and
Spring
and the quarreling crows,
the red songs of armies of cardinals,
will echo and resound
through the forest as I ride his trilling pearls
at last to the edge of a river,
to collect the shining compensation
and gather the thrilling life
in the quickly milling silver bodies,
the bright, fluttering trout;

before they slip away
again
and the counting
returns, and
the tick
slows.
Down.
Again.



p.-

Folly Redeemed

Standing like
a forlorn ghost
by the river's sterile banks
the fisherman may seem
to the passerby
a fool
who has risen before the sun to
brave the wind the ice the
roaring current
to stand up in
water to his thighs
seeking
fish that the observer
does not see materialise

Instead the fisherman stands
there methodically
drifting
his tiny float down
and casting it up and floating it down
and casting it up and standing
there
lonely and intent
stupidly absorbed
like
a fool

And hours later or
sometimes days or
sometimes weeks and months
the little red float on
its passage through
the nebulous green
waters skirting
a seam or tracking
over the trench will
hesitate it
will tick or shoot down in
to the swirl
and the rod will bend upward
and there will be a great pulse and
muscular throb
of silver from the depth
and this is what
the fool
- now fisherman -
was waiting for.

The Scouring of the Shire

As the gods would have it, I was recently blessed with an extra vacation day, the result of an office raffle of which I was the fortunate winner. Out of about 100 people, I was the lucky person who ended up with the One Free Day. That it also happened at the end of an uncommonly warm Nov, just in time for an equally balmy beginning of December, smacked of fate - or better, the subtle influence of the ineffable Valar.

What, to a mind in the midst of the throes of severe Mykissian dementia, could be more Precious than this One day, unlooked for and unforeseen? The action was immediate and unwavering: I dispatched a mail message to Mike advising him of my fortune, and we set the date for Wednesday, December 2nd.

Where would we go? A few cross-border locations seemed to beckon, and plans were close to final, when a precipitation event further north changed our minds. A river that I had never been to, and that Mike had only fished once before, had received a goodly amount of rain and was just rounding into form. The choice of quality over quantity, of wild steelhead over stocked ones, is simple. We altered our plans and made arrangements. We would assault the Shire.

Shortly after first light, on the fateful day, we issued from Mike's car, ready to don our gear; to be faced with a local landowner, who was quite agitated. He made his reasons very clear. It was hunting season in the surrounding forest, and he did not want anyone getting shot on his land. He forbade us from accessing the river from his property. Both facts, that it was deer hunting season and that the trail to the river was on private property, had been unknown to me. So I was very thankful when he nonetheless offered us a substitute path to the river, as well as loaning us each a bright orange hat and vest – so that we wouldn’t be mistaken for deer.

So, down we went, into a steep valley, surrounded by mostly deciduous trees and, here and there, the dark green apparition of a cedar, or a tall pine. It was tricky going, as the leaves that covered the forest floor were still quite damp, and we skied down as often as we walked. Now and again, the echo of a shot was heard, reverberating in the naked forest, attesting to faraway attempts at procuring venison.

At the bottom of the valley, the river sped languidly, laughing and gurgling over white rocks, slightly aqua-tinged and clearing swiftly. We did not bother searching for a trail to take us up river, where we wanted to be, but set off against the current, over logs and stones, and through tall grasses. Soon, I was lagging behind. I couldn’t help but take in the serene purity of the valley; and it quickly became obvious to me why some of the gentlemen who fish here often refer to it as “the Shire.” But as I walked and took pictures, scanning the river all the while for signs of any deeper pools or the manifestations of fish, I began to think that the nickname is a slight misnomer. A deep valley, filled with trees and a rushing, crystal clear river smacks to me more of Rivendell than of the bucolic Shire, with its quaint villages, hobbit holes, farms and well-attended pubs. Still, assigning it a name from Tolkien’s epics is quite correct: one does feel as though time does not pass there, or that one could expect the distant song of elves at any time. The river is so close to farmlands and highways; and yet on her banks it is as though one had stepped through a portal to a stream that is exceedingly distant, both in time and in place. The occasional fracas of buckshot, far away, and Mike’s bright orange noggin, bobbing up and down in the distance ahead, were the only reminders of reality.

As far as the fishing was concerned, I didn’t play a major role or cover myself with glory. I managed only three fish, one of which I am convinced took my bait twice! on the other hand, Mike had known exactly where he wanted to go. And by the time I caught up to him, he was already releasing his fourth fish. His next five drifts would all produce more electrically chrome steelhead, except for the last, where the fish overpowered the hook and got off. It was an incredible thing to see happen on a northern river, a feat that few could duplicate.

Technically speaking, I found that the good pools in this river are few and far between and, in order for it to be really exciting, much higher water volumes than those that greeted us would be de rigueur. And although I managed to “salvage” the trip for myself, when we fished lower down in the river and well outside of Rivendell – back in normal time – I will time my return with the rains. But from a poetic stand-point, the river is its own reward. There are few prettier places in southern Ontario, truly.

Oh! I almost forgot: just past mid-day, as Mike and I lounged on the riverbank, enjoying lunch, we heard cracking in the woods behind us. An epithet reached our ears: someone was making jocular references to my hat. We turned and who should we chance to see, approaching through the woods? Two hobbits: my fellow blog authors from November Rains and A Screaming Comes Across the Sky – Merry and Pippin if you will. They sat with us for a while, and after a short conversation all four of us made our way back to our cars together. Strange... these hobbits didn't seem to like pipeweed.

When Mike dropped me off, back at the Highway 401 car-park, it felt like I was awakening from a dream; or is it that I was going back to sleep?




p.-

In a Flash

I had one hour this morning in which to test out a hunch (which was also a tip) and hopefully catch a fish. And it was a near thing.

One thing about being short on time is that one has no real choice as to the destination. I knew that I had no more than an hour today, because I needed a) a haircut and b) to be home in time (9:00am) to head for Santa Claus's Bowmanville hideout to have pictures taken with the boys.

I met my curfew, but about 20 minutes late. I'll explain later. But I should tell you now that the Christmas activities of meeting up with Santa and shopping at the Pickering Town Centre are anything but normal, when your prime reason is a special needs child. Most of my hockey games require less stamina than this. We didn't get a single picture where both boys were looking at the camera or even looking semi decent. In all the pictures, either Samuel or Isaac or Santa is out of kilter. At the PTC, I was amazed at Isaac's tenacity and stamina. I spent more than half the time wrestling with him - either to keep him from ripping open every shoe box in the mall, or from running off into oblivion, in the middle of the bustling crowd, indeterminately toward wherever without any consideration of where the rest of us (Laura, Samuel and I) might be.

When we got home, Isaac woke up on cue. As usual, after a long outing, he fell asleep on the way home, and as usual he woke up as soon as we parked in the driveway. Samuel, after my own heart, had no idea and slept right through. Laura took Isaac into the house & I decided to stay in the van & nap with Samuel. Angelic son! Not only did he help corral his brother all day, but he slept like a log when we got home; I woke myself up snoring.

I thought, then, as I was waking up, that I should take my roe into the house to put it back in the fridge, and I should rinse off my waders with the hose. I should probably also upload the few pictures I took this morning to my photobucket account. This exercise also reminded me that I had been rather lucky this morning.

The water at "river X" was extremely low. I had had a description of a section of the river that had fished well a couple of days ago, and I immediately went in search of it in the morning. It should have been at least 6 feet deep, but I found no such depth anywhere in the lower section. The reason of course is that the extended drought that ended just a week ago, caused all rivers in this area to clear and drop much quicker than usual. "River X" was no exception, and I was astounded at how dismally low and clear it was, even following a 20 mm rain - less than 3 days ago. In fact, the river was lower than I've ever seen it, even in Summer and, at first, the geese were definitely more interesting (and more numerous) than the trout.

Under no circumstance would I have gone out to fish it, if I had known how low it would be. I would have stayed in bed and woken up whenever the boys did.

In any case, in spite of my quickly vanishing window of opportunity (having spent most of my hour gaging the water in the section to which I'd been directed) I fell back on my experience: steelhead, having ascended a river recently and now being faced with low water conditions will congregate where? In the deepest water available, that's where.

It took me about 7 drifts in the water described above, before I got a "tickle," that alerted me to the presence of fish; then I took one more drift, in a slightly better line, and the float shot down. This is the best part: the float didn't simply shoot down, it rocketed down. Hooking this fish was like scoring an empty net goal in hockey. No amount of inexperience would have sufficed to cause any angler to miss it. Conservatively, the white "René" jig was dragged down 10 inches when the fish struck. Within a tenth of a second, the float was nearly out of sight. One moment, it bobbed gleefully at the surface of the pool, then it was gone in a laser beam streak.

This all happened at about the time I should have been leaving the river, of course. A "good boy" might not have even gone fishing, but he surely would have been leaving at the time my float went down. So the roughly 9 lbs male steelhead was largely responsible for my fall from the status of "good boy." He fought long, despite having been in the river a while and not being as fresh as he once surely had been.

Nonetheless, my hair is now cleanly cut, and our family's day's activities are done.

And I have something to show for it, too.



p.-

Delerium Oncorhychus Mykiss Tremens

Gone is the innocence. The bliss of ignorance was long ago taken under the float of sublime realisation, so sweet, so brief.


Yet not so brief that to taste it again is not merely delectable, but divine. Godlike the fish, godlike the strike of the fish, like lightning from a blue sky, mead where I expected water, wine where I thought there would be only dust.

In the short space of the great battle I lose myself in the maelstrom of jeweled fishes' armour, foaming waters, fins flying like wings, like the feet that walk on the water wherein it dances, struggles, darts. Ersatz, panacea, Eulalie, Tinuviel! Tinuviel! I am myself and not myself. I watch myself even as I live through the combat, the tug of war against the shining, unpredictable, powerful silver thing that pushes throbbing pulsations through my line, the graphite, the bone, to the heart, the mind in a resonating hum.

Then comes the realisation that this is all and that this is not all, it is everything you want and nothing - for you will want more, endlessly more.

I cannot sleep without a vision of the bright red slender sliver of balsa, waltzing on currents, over seams, over riffles, over slow deep pools filled with deep, portentious green water. And when consciousness glimmers in through the morning fog, as somnolence recedes, and before I turn on the light, I see it still in front of me in the morning gloom, the river, beckoning, flowing regardless of whether I am there or not; and an echo of a dream somewhere that says I fished all night.

Friends come and go in the storm, others like me who number among the afflicted, who have seen the passage to Kubla Khan and know not the way back, and who search as I search, even in waterless summer, for that time again, that first time, when the wild fish first took the bait, scythed line through water and splintered it into fragments of cobweb. Leaving only the thunder of a heart beating away its innocence with every breath, every thought of what was that? how big was it? where did it go? and will I ever see it again? and the wrenching knowledge that we will not.

Miles upon miles we travel, to find the trout. We will eschew sleep, good stout common sense, logic. We throw them overboard. Sobriety, duty, despair. We launch these from our minds and join the search for the pixie creatures that scintillate in waters far away.

Cold wind, rain, sleet, snow, ice and frigid waters are merely unheeded companions, minor irritants, necessary evils encountered along the way. They are not serious obstacles, nor do they deter the seekers of gleaming Mykiss. Hills we climb and we brave the fast water, we ski on the mud, we trample wayward brambles underfoot; for at the end of the journey is the drug, the prescription, the heartsfill.

Help me! help me!

But no, I don't want your help. I am happy in my dependence, my addiction, I do not want you to take it from me.

Because it is not really a drug, but a deep connection to the quiet of the way things were, the excitement of what they can be again and again, and the hope of another day - on the water, with friends, with sons or fathers, or alone. To see again the gleaming fish, before the end.


p.-

Losing Streak ( a Conceit)

Poor me. I feel like the Toronto Maple Leafs. Despite a few mishaps, I had a pretty good pre-season, with some unexpected conquests and the introduction of some promising rookies. All of this lead me to think that I could hope; and then the start of the real season comes & I can't win for trying. And to top it off, I actually am a Leafs fan. The Horror!

As I write this, the Leafs are losing (again) 4 - 1 to the Colorado Rockies, on their way to what is sure to be their worst start in franchise history. One more loss, and they will be 0-6-1, which basically ties their worst season. Or is it 0-7-1? No matter: they will achieve it. ...OR, will they come back in the Third? Was that a winged pig I just saw out my window?

Actually, they're kind of making me feel better about myself. There's no way my season's been so bad this far. I've only had 2 games, really. And both times I at least hit a few posts, with my float going down and coming up with nothing at the other end. Minimum, there was the tease of success, which I would have to say has not been apparent for the Leafs since the end of their first game. And whereas my "losses" have all been low scoring affairs, the Leafs have been donating unspeakable numbers of goals to their opponents.

My only real mishap, which was actually quite funny but caused me not to have any pictures, occurred during my first warm-up trip of the year to a large river on the north shore of lake Huron. There were three of us in the canoe. My dad, my friend Luc (who was turning 40 that day)and myself. We like to cross the river, to get a better spot from which to catch the pink salmon that congregate there. To our surprise, both sides of the river were fairly crowded. This must have had some effect on our collective judgement, since, moments after the first swirls of current enveloped the keel of the canoe, we tipped.

The water was really nice. Surprising, in view of the fact that a man had perished in that same river, a few days earlier. His motor had failed, causing his boat to get dragged into a nearby waterfall, with lethal results. Maybe Frenchmen float, because all three of us merely noted how nice the water was. Then, by necessity, we started laughing. We carefully worked our way to shore & did an inventory. Lost: 1 cigar. All electronic devices were soaked through and through. So were we. Otherwise, the fishing stuff was just as wet as the rest, but it was present.

We spent the rest of the day drying off and discovering that, during off-years, the run is smaller than during ON-years. We observed some wildlife sporting various gut-sizes and speedo-style underwear that used to be white but is now gray, and that this somehow must have a positive effect on one's success at snagging multiple fish. Perhaps the absence of clothing helps shave some of those vital nanoseconds from one's hook set? Anyway, that was the "low" point of my pre-season.

For the rest, I managed a few Chinook salmon in my local waters. I also brought my sons down to observe piscatorial movements at one of the nearby dams. It was neat to watch Isaac & Samuel as they gaped in amazement at the large creatures that milled about, mere feet from where we were sitting together. Are they going to come out and eat us? Are they bigger than dinosaurs? Isaac is not verbal, yet, but he was much more interested than I thought he'd be: just another of the pleasant surprises he's been serving us lately.

Afterwards, Laura and I decided to "divide and conquer - so Samuel got to have some "moi et papa" ("me and dad") time, fishing for salmon. We didn't catch any, although some of papa's roe bags were mashed up pretty fiercely. Both of us were rigged with a float, split shot and roe - it would've been great if he could have hooked one on his Diego rod! I would've had to hold on to him! But in the end Samuel got to see more fish moving around, wear some really cool fishing gear, and enjoy a well deserved nap on the way back home. I wish I could do that! There are times when a nap would be just the thing...

Anyway, where was I?

Right. The real season has more or less started. Steelhead are slowly making their way into our rivers. I've spent two half-days, one with frost, poking about here and there, watching others like me not catching anything, but eying with at least a small amount of envy the few lottery winners among us whose fate intervenes in the form of a pristine, silver steelhead. My own luck isn't too bad, as I've at least seen my float go down a few times. I don't know whether this action is always from big fish, but it does keep me on my toes!

The third period is on now... Gotta go!

Just kidding. I have some chores to do and, if they're not done by a certain time, there could be more articles of this nature: not so much about fish as about the lack thereof!



p.-