Back Out

Here's a quote for you "The first half of life consists of the capacity to enjoy without the chance; the last half consists of the chance without the capacity." (Mark Twain)

I've recently been granted a golden opportunity, of which I can say I took the most complete advantage, to truly understand this quote. I've never read it before tonight. But a recent back injury, incurred while lifting Isaac out of the back of my car, has got me thinking that I'm not 25 anymore. It's also got me reading a bunch of quotes about aging. And Mark Twain's "chance without the capacity" really caught my funny bone.

Two doctors and one chiropractor all agree that I've seriously strained some muscles in my lower back. But Experience has a different point to make: for example driving for even 30 minutes anywhere, and then coming home, means an agonizing morning to come. Also, "thou shalt not sit or stand comfortably in one place for more than 5 minutes at a time," and "thou shalt beg thy wife to tie thy shoes" appear to be among the more salient of the many commandments of Experience.

You would think that nearly 2 weeks would be enough to put the old man back on his feet, but that is apparently not the case. Today I elected not to drive to Peterborough with my family, and tonight I decided not to go casting glo-spoons off the nearby pier; not just because I have to concentrate on getting better (so I can get back to work), but because I risk some pretty nasty consequences should I not follow the octogenarian rhythm of my inferior vertebrae.

This brings me back to Twain's quote. My back woes have kept me away from work for almost two weeks. Under more favorable circumstances, this should have provided for an opportunity to tangle with some Chinook salmon, but I have simply not had the means. My rods and lures sit in the basement collecting cobwebs and dust, and I've been looking at my fly box with less relish and hope than I have at my little bottle of Tylenol 3's. My empty waders, hanging from their hooks, fill me with dread at the prospect of the horrifyingly painful task of having to lift my legs, bend them inward (OUCH!) and then plunge them into place, one by one.

When something you love scares you this much, just because of the acute physical discomfort it may cause, it's a sure sign of old age! In other words, "The years teach much which the days never knew." (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

p.-

Opener 2010: Epiphany

As I sit here, finally writing down my thoughts on this year's opener, I still waver. I still doubt myself, and I still don't know quite what to write. I think it’s because I have suffered, and because I have had an epiphany.

Is it moronic-ironic to say that I "suffered" an epiphany? And yet, this is what has happened.

It will take me more than a few sit downs to write this entry, I know. I am in no mood to shorten things, so you might as well go to the fridge, get yourself a beer then pass by the pantry and pull out a bag of your favourite munchies, before you sit back down in front of your computer. Because, unless this space usually makes you want to expel the full content of your stomach (in which case you're not even reading this), you will have full leisure to attend to your chosen drink and snack, and then some.

First, I must take down the ridiculous "countdown to the 2010 opener" counter. Done!

Then, I must tell you about this spring, how much I looked forward to it, how much I finally disdained the fishing conditions it offered when it did arrive, and what in truth were the redeeming circumstances. I don't really know where to start. I'm so late in writing this, mostly through disgust, and yet there really is something to tell. I have to set my nose to the grindstone and finally get it done.

Alright then: what kind of an idiot books a week of vacation to go fishing - during a drought? And who goes fishing with a full blown pneumonia? Granted, I didn't know it was pneumonia at the time, and I thought it was just a foreshadowing of old age that caused me to lose my steam half-way through opening day. But eventually, even in my feverish mental state, I concluded that pulmonary difficulties don't usually persist beyond a couple of weeks and a full set of strong antibiotics. It took a second prescription of even stronger stuff to finally cure me. Even now, as I write this, the lungs are clear and the sinuses have finally begun to follow suit.

But fishing during a drought? Never, ever, in my entire life have I seen our rivers so low. I have seen all of them in the summer, and they were never so devoid of flow. It is the terrible proof of the drought that has hung over Southern Ontario since September 2009. Even as most people (and my lower back) have been thankful for an easy Winter, I know what it means when we get no snow.

It invariably means low, clear conditions, skittish fish that fear even the faintest hint of the appearance of a float over their heads, regardless of what is dangling beneath it. Worse, when the fish are visible, everyone sees them. And whether you are like me, more apt to release them carefully… or not - you will see them, too. And if you are so inclined, you can kick them at your leisure, after you beached them with a hook down their throat. You can slit the males' bellies to look for eggs. You can keep them all. No wonder those that are left fear your float even more than the sight of you: if the appearance of the white corpses of their peers is not enough, then the rush-hour-like congestion of floats and bobbers overhead is a sure sign that danger is nearby.

There is little or no true float fishing skill involved in presenting to trout that are readily visible. The first part of the equation - locating fish - is already resolved for you. You hardly need to read the water to determine where the fish might be. And if you are crafty enough to be the first to arrive at a likely pool, just as the sun rises, you will not be denied. One or another of the sleepy fish will engulf even your clumsiest offering.

But to locate these fish in high water, when it is not clear, when pools are not obvious and fish cannot be seen... that is a real skill. I trumpet myself a little, of course, because I know that I possess a reasonable measure of that skill. And I can also tell you that, under these conditions, fish are rarely spooked; so that, if you find them in any number, you will surely have a good day. Give me any eastern Lake Ontario river in spate, and I will guide you to the fish. Give it me in a drought..... and I will guide you to the nearest beer-stocked cooler. Why bother panic-stricken trout? If they could partake, I would share the refreshing contents of the cooler with them, rather than whatever I might attach beneath the float!

And yet, and yet... Many trips are defined not only by the fish you catch, but by the quality of the company you keep. In fact, when the fishing goes south, your friends will more often than not salvage the whole affair for you. Their presence, and the fun you share, makes the whole experience worthwhile. And as such, what an opener it was! I walked more than I fished, and I got to share it with some excellent company.

Thanks to René, Dan, Jean-Pierre, Samuel, Marie-Eve and Khalid, I had a pleasant opener. Despite some surprisingly crowded conditions, rivers in an agony of hypohydrosis (no water) and a season at least 2 weeks early, we had fun. While it is certain that I thoroughly enjoy "double digit" days, it is equally true that days spent fishing with friends are never really fruitless.

I suppose that I've come to a cross-roads in life and in fishing life. I've long been in the habit of putting off the pursuit of angling perfection, for an extra hour or two in the company of my wife and of my sons. But this has solidified, now. Why go at all? If the gods do not deduct from the allotment of a man's life hours spent fishing, then surely they treat the joy of the fleeting years of the infancy of his children with the same indulgence. It is easy to forego a slow day of fishing alone, for hours spent bathing in the happiness of a hearth rich in the laughter of children and the love of an inimitable wife.

I've turned myself inside out. I don't want to go fishing in the heat anymore. I will wait for the autumn, and for whatever rain the steelhead gods are so kind as to let fall within the compass of my leisure time. Returning health has fueled my optimism that, yes, every drought has its end; and it has helped me understand that one should harvest always what is most in plenty and readiest to be plucked. During a drought, and with two funny, cheerful, adorable four year-olds, and with a wife who is still young and beautiful, I can readily discern the complete futility of chasing the shadow of past piscatorial successes. Carpe diem.

So I've just come in, now, from a warm May evening, that feels more like late July, and I have smoked the first cigar since I don't know when - a gorgeous No.4 Partagas, and probably the best I've had in a long, long time. I don't snarl so much at the drought - which I can't control - but rather am inclined to sit in wonderment, enjoying the experience, and ready to wait and see when this dry spell will end, and what will come round the next bend...



p.-

Creek Hopping with a Friend

Somewhere in the tangled energies of steelhead fishing fever, there is the catalyst of self destruction. And when this volatile trigger is depressed, though accidentally, it is always a good thing if friendlier, more wholesome forces are at hand.

It was 6am. Or I think the alarm clock read "6:02am." This took a second or two, to sink in. In fact, it was supposed to say "3:35am." Oh no! I slept in! J.P. was supposed to be here at 4am, and we were supposed to be an hour away from our chosen destination by now. Noooooo! In the beffudled madness that ensued, I managed to pull on some long-johns, get my feet into some socks and rush almost head-long out onto my wet driveway where; miraculously, he was still waiting for me. This is the quality of the man: that he could not bring himself to wake up all the inhabitants of the house, for the foolishness of just one of them.

Now, in hindsight, I know what I did not do. I did not check to make sure that the little dot, which signifies "alarm is on," was lit. That's all. In my unthinking hurry to get fishing, I forgot to merely observe the simplest, yet most important detail which would have meant more fish for both of us. Build a better mouse trap (i.e. use more alarms) or pay attention: either way, it was an embarrassing first for me, on the first truly "epic" steelheading trip that my friend was going to experience.

Of course he laughed at me, and by 6:15am his positive energy had us hurtling eastward, in time to catch the first hour of sunlight on a favourite estuary. But I already knew what the result would be. By now, I've fished my little eastern Lake Ontario tributaries enough to know when they will hold good numbers of fish, and when they will not. I knew quite well that most of the steelhead in these systems were either upstream, spawning in protected waters, or already pushed out of the rivers by the recent, moderate rainfall.

But again, Jean-Pierre's energy proved our salvation. He didn't mind the difficult conditions in the slightest. He was very happy to be out, fishing together and learning a new discipline, as well as several new fishing spots. So we hopped from creek to creek, fishing one that was clearing and lowering, fishing another that was still quite high and dirty, fishing another that was low and clear... Wherever we could, we did some extra walking and scouted for the open season to come.

The comedic highlight of the day, other than my confused wake-up routine, was feeding time for a rather large, recovering hen. She was resting her approximately 35" length, close to surface, on the upriver side of a bridge, in waters that will not be open to fishing before April 24th. I was waiting for J.P. to join me, munching on a granola bar, and I decided that this magnificent specimen, who was swimming right beneath me, might also be in need of sustenance. I pulled a fresh roe bag from a container and idly let it drop. At first, she seemed a little spooked. She zigged, then zagged. Then, as if catching the scent of the offering, she dove quickly to retrieve the bag; only to spit it once she got to the surface.



This made me laugh and I called J.P. to hurry up and come see. When he arrived, I tossed a couple more roe bags, one at a time. The fish gobbled them without hesitation. And, below her, some of her peers were getting the drift & seemed to want to get into the action as well. But, even though they were also large, she was the biggest, and her influence held sway. I couldn't help but talk to this fish, and chuckle gleefully, as she ate her lunch along with us. I stopped at five roe bags, though, as I was afraid that too much tule in the stomach might not be a good thing...

Unbelievably, on the last river that we visited, I caught a nice sized drop-back female. It was close to the end of the day, as it always seems to be with me when this sort of thing happens, and I was swinging a white "René" jig through a well-known pool. When the float dropped, I thought I'd gotten tangled in a log or a rock. But setting the hook proved otherwise. She had not wasted much movement in the capture of my offering, but she had nearly engulfed it. She was freshly off the redds and took a while to revive. My hands were numb from the cold water, when she finally thrust herself away, back into the deep green.

I cannot remember the last time that a fishing trip with such abysmal results left me with a feeling of such unbridled excitement. Any fishing trip with Jean-Pierre would prove interesting and entertaining, but a steelheading trip is beyond compare. I find myself looking forward to the opening season with renewed enthusiasm, because I hope we get the chance to find - and actually catch - some trout together. I will enjoy taking his picture, when he lands his first one!

Who's the Sherpa?

Last March, I amused myself by picking on a couple of friends, after a slow day of fishing. Because I'd caught the only one, I jokingly called them my "fishing sherpas".

*sigh*

Well, the joke was on me this past weekend.

Wallacio and I got out for a much anticipated morning visit, to a tributary that is among our favourites. The water was just a little higher and dirtier than we would have liked, but we were game nonetheless. We hiked down to a large wintering hole and started fishing.

Once there, after a few drifts, I decided I wanted to have a smoke, so I reached for my cigar. I then promptly found out that I had forgot to bring a lighter. I also found out that my friend appreciates a good stogie from time to time, as well - I suppose forgetting the lighter in the car was a form of justice, then, as not bringing an extra cigar to share flouts proper etiquette!

In the meantime, it wasn't long before Wallacio hooked into a fish, which he said was big and heavy. Only, the fight didn't last very long and, soon he had a giant, gleaming sucker on the bank. This is a bit early for suckers to be in the rivers, to tell the truth, and it wasn't the only one we'd catch. I was experimenting with a new "secret" roe cure, and I found out that the suckers liked it very much.

But the steelhead, the one that was caught and landed, liked Wallacio's roe better. When it came boiling to the surface after being hooked, there was no doubt as to which species it belonged to. The fight also lasted much longer than any old sucker could've offered.

Finally, Wallacio had her on the bank. We snapped a few quick pictures, then released her to continue on her maiden spawning run.

A few hours and many frozen toes later, I ran out of time and had to make my way home. The sherpa was done, skunked, but glad nonetheless to have spent the morning with such a fine gentleman; and one who didn't brag at all or carry on the way his "sherpa" once had...

Next time, I bring two cigars.

p.-

Thaw

After all the angst of my last post, May manifests itself in March. Just like that, the ice receded, the rivers rose, the fish ran and the rain came.

And by miraculous chance, I was afforded a day and a few hours to launch myself into this early Spring, with rod in hand and fish on the brain.

I visited some of the smallest flows available, as well as the very biggest - the Niagara river. I won't tell you that my success was stellar on the Niagara, because the hot bite was "so last week," but I acquitted myself well everywhere else I went. Mind you, the Niagara fresh from ice-out is a wonderful thing to behold. Such a greenish turquoise hue lights up the water, that one can stare at it for hours - which is really easy to do when the fish aren't biting.

Elsewhere, the water was either on the rise or on the drop, fresh from ice-out, teeming with opportunity. Whether I targeted fish that were hampered by an obstruction or swiftly passing through a wide open lower section of river, I managed to make a decent number of connections. I also got to fish with one of my newest friends in the steelheading community. Rene is not only a superb fly and jig tyer, but he is a superlative steelheader. He exhibits all the characteristics of the rest of us addicts: careful indecision and indomitable enthusiasm. Is the wind too high? Is the water too brown? but all these doubts will disappear in a cloud of laughter the moment the float disappears under the flow.

But for me, these past few days, it's as though nature and fate have wanted to remove all doubt. At perfectly timed intervals, my most trusted "advisors" have made the often torturous decision of "where to go" quite painless.
Very timely, unexpected meetings and phone calls have resulted in good advice and good fishing, for which I'm thankful.

The most memorable fish over this little stretch is probably the last one I caught. She was neither big nor incredibly strong or acrobatic, but she was definitely enthusiastic in her expression of hunger! After having watched Rene "out-dozen" me, I deduced that he'd sprinkled some sort of magical faerie steelhead-attractant dust on his roe; and fifteen minutes of drifting with one of roe bags he'd tied proved the point. The above fish was the result, and I've rarely seen a more aggressive take. There was a little stream of air bubbles in its wake, as it literally torpedoed down!

But that's only speaking for me... As far as Rene was concerned, well... Need I say more? Let me say that I eyed that thing with envy - and looking at the picture now, I can honestly say that I'll beg him for his bait can earlier in the game next time!

So what now? Back to hand wringing, I suppose. That, and staring at my "days to the opener" counter on my blog.
I'll probably go and flick through my pictures, and then those of other fisherfolk who are so kind as to share their success pictorially, while I work and raise kids. Sigh. Big sigh. HUGE sigh.

But these sons of mine will keep my busy enough, I suppose. And that's a good thing, as it can make time go by really quickly - and if they beat me up enough (remember: twins, and they're 4 years old now!) I will actually deserve the break!




p.-

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.-