Ontario Trout Opener 2014 - A Photo Epic

No, I can't say that I came away with quite the piscatorial success that I'd hoped for this Spring. Some reasons or excuses might be the equally expectant crowds, the unusually high water flows, the sudden upturn in recent temperatures; even age might be starting to creep in a bit.

But somehow it hasn't mattered much. My passion for the sport remains undimmed, and hope of numerically more successful tomorrows will probably only die with me. Whether it's being out on a fine Spring day when the weather's clement, or in the Fall with her early sunsets and chill drizzle; it's a fine thing to swing a rod for these fish, especially when the company is even finer.

I've struggled quite a bit with how to represent this year's opener to my scant readers, and I've concluded that I want to be a little lazy this time. I'll let the pictures do the talking.

Sam. The most intensely successful fisherman I met in my travels this Spring. Mike may have beat him in numbers, but he surely didn't go 0-5 in 15 minutes of white-hot night-crawler induced steelhead action. Needless to say, I am quite proud of his exploits! I hope they foretell even better days to come.

First fish. Sadly, I only landed my first fish near the end of opening Monday. I'd had quite a few hits early on, but was either late in the hooking or had had fish come off early - including a straightened hook.

Mirkwood. Even after the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit movies, "Mirkwood" triggers a spellcheck error. No, it didn't lead to giant spiders or elf kingdoms; only a quiet river with neither lots of fishermen, nor lots of fish. It was a sheltered place, perfect for enjoying a cigar quietly, out of the wind.

Me. Lucky me, to have Khalid stationed right behind me during one of my rare successful moments this Spring. Almost, one would swear, the gentleman in the photograph appears to be a master of the craft. Would it were so!

Khalidian success. My good friend caught this drop-back hen a day before the shot above. Classically beaten-up by its spawning journey, it was taken in a smaller stream less susceptible to the ravages of the intense rainfall we received during the opening week. 

Mike. Incredibly, he confided to me a sincere interest to join me on my home rivers. This after many years of swearing that he'd rather stick needles in his eyes. I kept all my needles hidden on that day. The Steelhead Ninja pose is still going strong, as is Mike's new site: Canada Fishing Guide. I'm glad to see him putting his considerable talents to good use!

Khalid. He caught the biggest fish I saw any of myself or my pals land this Spring. If it returns this fall, it could push 14lbs. 

My biggest. Note how well recovered this fish is. It's almost as silver - on May 2nd - as it was when it first entered the river. It gave an outstanding battle. I would've loved to have had a picture with it, especially as Khalid was just over the nearest bank. But he couldn't hear me when I called, and once a fish is ready to go, you really ought to release them.

Mike. "Ah so, Steelhead-san! You will not escape me now!" ... couldn't resist... :)

A release. Another steelhead goes free. This is perhaps the nicest thing my new Lumix point-and-shoot camera can do. Its wide angle lets you take some interesting release shots.

Sett'n'er up fer a rip. Ah NY state! We showed up late, as it turns out. Late in the season. As far as setting out, we did that early - 3 am. Richard himself wouldn't get back home until 1:30am. (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

The Grass is greener. If there's a reason why I need to find myself at least a used DSLR somewhere, to take on fishing trips, here it is. Look how green that grass is! Not only that, but images and lighting are all superior. Envy!  (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Spring morning. Just looking for a likely place to start. It didn't take long to figure out that the water was a bit too warm for the Steelheads' liking.  (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Drifting... I hope to return to this stretch in the fall after a rain, when the river's on the rise.  (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Richard. When he pulled this one out, we thought it was a good omen - at first.  (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Richard again. The pics tell the story. Richard had the best attitude. As soon as this little silver dollar was landed, his day was made. Smiles all around!  (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Slurp. Tell me this isn't the life. Beer in one hand, schmoke in the other, rod tucked under one arm and river at my feet. This shortly after missing a rocket that had launched itself 2ft out of the water, after taking a blue bag. Surely this drift would spot us a few more fish? Surely not...  (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Oliver. Same as I was, enjoying a drift on a high, clear NY river. 

Downstream view. Note the bright, fresh springtime green of the birches on the left. At no time in the year is the colour of foliage more delicate or vibrant.

Richard, in the trees. Classic drifter pose!

Small Tributary. When fishing was decidedly slow, we ceded to the temptation of checking out a nearby tributary to the main stream. Idyllic beauty flowing through rural prettiness, with nary a fish to be seen.

A second wind. Re-rigging for an afternoon foray on a different stretch of the river. (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Sparking envy. Should any Canadian beer aficionados also be checking out this blog... (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Drop-back success. Ok, not really... More like a drop-dead. Somehow Richard managed to hook this recently departed fish in the nether regions. It was good for a laugh! (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Little ones. Lots of smaller yearlings were jumping around. Some of them that came to hand were atlantics, although I can't tell in this picture if this was one of them. (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Jig time. Countering desperation, when all else had proven futile, I started toying with jigs.(Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Tying one on. If you observe closely, you might get the pun. Sorry about that. Mind you, I do think (notwithstanding the subject) that Oliver took a great picture here. (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Getting one on. And taking it for a rip! The surprise and delight are not feigned. (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

What she took. I got some love from bass with this jig as well, but wouldn't land another fish. 

Botched. Despite botching a fish picture, it ends up being quite expressive nonetheless. I like it. (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Friends on the river. Richard's venerable 14' Raven IM8 finally succumbed to statistics on this day, after the tip section snapped at the ferule. In this picture, Oliver is giving him a hand untangling his spinning setup. Richard tried a few plugs and spinners but, in the end, to no avail.

Putt'n'er away. Now looking forward to a dinner at Five Guys, we started putting our stuff away. I used to hate this part of the day, but fishing with Richard, Oliver and Chesley has renewed my appreciation for it. Recapping has its own special place in the order of every fishing day. (Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Storm cometh. A presage of our home receptions? Not really, thankfully! But it was quite a site to see this giant alto cumulo nimbus roll over the countryside. I had images of twisters sprouting from it, but we didn't see any materialize.(Photo: courtesy Oliver Marx)

Adios! I hope you enjoyed this latest post and that you'll forgive the lack of steelhead pictures! There were more than what I show here, of course, but not that many - and nowadays I just don't take as many pics as I used to.

Thanks for reading!







Oh, and finally, where all this "rippin" came from... 

p.-

Equinox Chronicles

Part I - Late March

From four, the tale dropped to three, then two, then finally just one: me. Richard, Chess and Oliver had all removed themselves from the upcoming trip, one at time. And it was a near thing for me too, since I ended up having to sacrifice most of the morning for a sick boy with the flu. But as it turned out I'd be able to spend first light and then the afternoon, chasing Steelhead on nearby streams, thanks to Laura.

The conditions seemed as though they would be ideal, so I went to bed in a fair degree of excitement that night. I slept, though a little on edge...

4:49am - Through the thick veils of sleep

I hear something. It's not my alarm. It's my cell phone. Sleepily I wonder who could be texting me so early and I fall back asleep.

5:30am - The alarm rings and now I get up; like a shot, ready to go. I check my phone to see who texted me. It was Oliver. "Hey bud. I'm up early. Now I'm wishing I would have gone. How's the river?"

5:55am - I respond, "Still not too late :). Not there yet, but the graph spiked really high. So it could all be for naught. Pulling on my waders now and should be fishing in 30 minutes."

6:14am - Oliver: "So you're not going to where you said you were going?"

6:15am - Oliver: "Good luck with it!"

6:21am - Oliver: "Let me know how it looks. I'm super curious!"

6:44am - Me: "Standing in the river now, watching the sun rise. Waiting to see what the water colour's like..."

6:50am - Oliver: "Cool! Wish I was there..."

Less than fifteen minutes later, any reader more perspicacious than I am (which is not hard to imagine) will already have anticipated the fact that the sounds I heard behind me, of some impertinent angler intent on destroying the quiet stillness of the morning, were made by none other than Oliver himself! I was happy and sad, surprised and disappointed all at once. Happy to see my friend, sad that I wouldn't be able to spend the whole day with him, disappointed for him that he'd made such a long trek for possibly only a very short time together, and of course surprised to see him there. I was a little hopeful that we'd get a chance to fish together later in the day, but I knew he'd probably have to leave before I got free again.

The air had kept a small tinge of winter, but it was very still. From where we fished, we could see the lake spreading out its vast mirror to the quickening sunrise. Smoke from a cigar curled up around my hat brim as we spoke quietly, anticipating the coming successes of the season ahead - and even in the gloaming before the full light of day we were somewhat surprised that no rod anywhere had yet indicated the presence of some unwary fish.

By 8am, I had to leave, and we were in wait-and-see mode as to whether Oliver would still be around, by the time my Mr. Mom shift ended. There isn't much to tell other than that, while I cleaned up the house and kept my cub warm and attended to, Oliver hopped from creek to creek in search of any kind of bite. I finally did manage to catch up with him on the far eastern portion of my home range. We had enough time to share a smoke together, attempt to catch fish as we and other fishermen stared wistfully at the blue horizon of Lake Ontario, and as usual share good conversation and quality time together.  

Part II - Early April

Little less than a week later, it was Bill's turn to pay me a visit. We planned to fish on the Sunday, so we expected to meet some fairly serious fishing pressure, which is not generally as bad on weekdays. Mind you, when I was a lad, weekdays, the rivers were usually pretty much deserted... *sigh*.

Bill and I met up in the parking lot, arriving almost at the same time. Being close to home, I had already donned my apparel and was ready to go, so I went down to the river first - ahead of the rest of the gathering crowd - to make sure that one of my favorite spots at least would be ours for the morning.

I can never get enough of quiet Great Lakes mornings. Taken in contrast to the enormous roar and foam of the Lake when in storm, still mornings - with a baby's breath no more powerful than any wisp you might encounter in your living room - seem almost miraculous; hushed as they are, with only the cries of far off gulls and the gentle tinkle of wavelets on the rocky shore entwining in a never ending and calming music, just within hearing.  It is a murmur so gentle that it seems to accentuate the silence rather than break it. Even the most brazen and loud-spoken angler seems to revere it; and if someone laughs, it simply gets rolled up in the cottoned air becoming part of the overall andante, the morning "berceuse" that it is our rare privilege to experience.

However, this wondrously late Spring would deliver no greater piscatorial success to Bill and I, than it had previously to Oliver and I. It seemed that a curse might have descended upon me somehow, and I was bringing bad luck to my friends. As I finish this up, with the opener getting closer and closer, I hope this unlucky trend is discontinued shortly.

Part III - Mid April

In retrospect, I can see that timing was at once more difficult and important than usual. There were precious few days where the water temperatures were high enough for fish to actually be active enough to bite; and I missed all of those. When waters were high, there was still a good deal of run-off, which in turn meant that waters ran cold - too cold for fish to actively feed or jump, but evidently not cold enough for them to trickle slowly up-river and up into the safe zones.

I could not ask for better proof of this than the results of this past weekend.

On Easter Saturday, I went out for a quick morning foray and found the usual haunts mostly devoid of anglers as well as their quarry. I did manage to locate at least one fish, probably a 5 or 6 pound steelhead, which twisted and pulled and yanked itself free in a little over 30 seconds of battle - the silver of its sides had glinted beautifully in the green water, lit with sunrise as it was. Though I saw another pair of fish hooked by other anglers, we mostly just flossed water. And the tale was the same from everyone; everywhere they'd been, the anglers were present but the steelhead were not.

As nature delivered two warm days back to back, the answer became gloriously obvious. It seems that the trout have been trickling their way up river, even through the heaviest of the thaw, and they'd been waiting just below dams for the water to warm up enough to allow them to leap and finish their upstream journeys. They came in droves, sometimes five and six at a time, attempting to conquer waterfalls and dams.

Time for blogging has run out; time for getting ready is short!

Part IV - End April (TBD)

p.-

Winter Steelhead Classic

"Remiss" is a word I allow myself to use too often, especially in this space. I keep my blog as a diary and of course I indulge myself: I write here whenever the urge comes upon me. But sometimes, like almost everyone else, I let myself be coddled and addled by the routine of every day, and I too often seek the forgetfulness of sleep when I could be casting back into memory for something worthy to write about.

Surely, I do my friends Chess and Oliver some undue dishonor in this regard. After all, I met them only because I write here, and they reached out to me because it made them feel something good, something we share. Sometimes I even mull over the idea that maybe that was all this blog ever needed to be for me: a beacon to guide these two gentlemen my way. And when I wonder if this is true or not, or if this is the whole truth (and not just a small part of it), I often feel that the means has achieved its end; the tool has done its work - so maybe now I can put it down.

The irony, of course, is that I would probably disappoint them if I decided that - and there's still this little kernel, this acorn of willfulness deep within which rebels against such laziness and laissez-faire. There's only so much neglect that I can accept even from myself.

To take it to another level, I can truly say that though I am not a particularly

religious man, religion - and one particular catholic mass especially - taught me a lesson which even now confounds me, as much as its apparent inner contradiction delights me. That is, from a well spoken sermon, I learned that our talents are, in fact, not ours at all. It takes a minute or two to realise what this means, not just for one's self but for everyone. At the time, it knocked me for a loop: that I wrote mainly for my own pleasure, and in private, was to withhold my talent from others. So, in the very act of the self indulgence which this little, otherwise insignificant little blog represents, I quite possibly commit an act of kindness. This is how I share the gift I was given, with anyone else who enjoys reading my stories and my reports - and my perhaps interminable detours into philosophy and spirituality (of sorts). 

I have Laura to thank for this, as she is far more devout than I am; but I follow her, and I wouldn't be true if I couldn't find something there for me. 

So it's decided. I will continue to write here for as long as I'm allowed to. And this is something that I hope will bring some kind of satisfaction to my

buddies, and to anyone else who happens upon my little offerings.

Certainly, this decision - not that I was seriously considering anything otherwise - allows me to recount our winter trip together; Chess, Oliver and the Average Steelheader, raising rods together to conquer frigid winter steelhead! I won't waste any more time deliberating, but - well, let's dive into the story, shall we?

Sometime after the December ice storm, and before the weeks of unrelenting -20C weather of February, during a short interlude of above zero daytime temperatures, we met at our designated rendez-vous point, an hour out from our destination, and piled into Oliver's truck. Everything was set: rods were polished, reels were clean and for the most part freshly filled, flies were tied and roe bags were ready. We had beads a-plenty, our pockets brimmed with floats and there would be no shortage of terminal tackle. Granola bars, sandwiches, water bottles, beer cans and enough brandy to share (and warm the blood) were packed into our gear ready to be called upon at need. And of course, a few south american tobacco creations were nestled safely in tubes, awaiting a flame in some corner out of the wind. 

From the onset, a certain harmony settled over our interactions, and our decision-making flowed effortlessly and amicably over the mild doubts and

deeper questions of the day. No one sought to impose direction, but suggestions were almost always accepted, and we took little time at every junction of the day to discover that we agreed with eachother at almost every turn.

We began where we began last year, behind a farmer's field, in a small valley lined with mostly deciduous trees and little patches of tall grass; or at least there must be tall grass there usually. This year, much of it was covered by a thick, crenelated layer of heavy, semi-snow semi-ice, which made our walk down to the river somewhat treacherous. We all fell at least once or twice as we tried to find some access to the river,lower down.

Once we did get down and started fishing, it was clear that the river was not quite ready for us. Big piles of lumbering slush kept rolling by downstream,

too numerous and thick to permit easy fishing. Worse, within about a half hour of flouting these unappealing conditions, I started to notice that little balls of fluff were getting attached to my nanofil main line. At first, I thought I could just brush them away, but soon found out what was really happening. The ice was causing little strands in the line to shred and peel off, and the result was that - here and there - it started looking like a balling old woolen sweater! Luckily, though it was inconvenient, it didn't completely prevent me from fishing.

By the time I started noticing the fluff on my line, we'd worked our way down to a lovely, deep bend with good movement. Though it was snowing a fair amount, it seemed to be relenting and maybe, just maybe, there seemed to be some slight thinning of the constant rushing clumps of slush. Regardless, I designed to take a break for a while and just watch the other two as they plied the pool for a while. I leaned my rod against a tree, emptied the contents of one of those tubes I mentioned earlier, sparked a flame from my lighter, then began to enjoy the aromatic billows of smoke that rose from the end of the stick. Hands in pockets and puffing contentedly, I stepped out closer to Oliver, and we shared a laugh or two while he flipped his float up and down the quiet stream. We were quite high up, on an ice shelf - with no net and consequently no idea how to get any fish out, should we hook any ; and with the wind slowly dying, and the weather apparently changing, it was really quite enjoyable to just stand there and watch my friends for a little while.

Boom! Suddenly, Oliver is falling straight down and a little bit backwards. His rod floats in the air for what seems like an hour, as he lets go; I'm too slow. I can only watch as his eyes widen. He falls. He reaches out with his hands, scratching at the surface of the snow, only a meter or so away from my feet - then he disappears over the edge of the shelf. But no! there he is, standing in maybe 18" of water, 6 or 7 feet below where I am standing, and there is now a gigantic chunk of iceberg floating downstream behind him, rolling off the shallow river's edge as the current pushes it along. Oliver still has his rod, somehow; maybe he grabbed it again during his fall. On the ice, at my feet, his sunglasses. He checks himself up and down, as if to make sure nothing got broken; then we laugh!

However, our trust in our little shelf is broken. Chess, who somehow was quicker than me, has gotten around to help Oliver get back out of the water

and onto the dubious shelf. And while the rescue mission is going on, I inspect the ice all around us. In its ebbs and flows, the river had broken its rough wintry mantle many times, and all about us were many big blocks of this stuff, all jumbled and piled together willy-nilly, but showing exactly what had happened to Oliver. In one cross section, it was clear to see that only about a two inch layer of solid ice,  an inch or two from the surface of the shelf, was all that held it together. Beneath this layer was, in some places, six and seven feet of softer stuff, more akin to frozen light slush than to ice. Oliver's - and my - weight, combined with the virtual tonnage of all this pseudo ice/slush, as well as the warming temperatures, would have been too much for only two inches of ice to hold together. We were keenly aware that luck had shone on us: six or seven feet of iceberg had fallen away, leaving Oliver unharmed; but it could have fallen on. That would not have been as funny.

Shortly thereafter, the snow did in fact stop falling, and the weather warmed slightly; and the river quite suddenly became more fishable. Even though I

still felt it was too early for fish to start biting, Oliver and then Chess both proved me wrong. Oliver with a lovely pair of brown trout, and Chess with what was probably the biggest fish of the day; a sparkling silver hen, which he took in a spot where we had crossed earlier and where I had remarked casually "we're probably walking where we should be fishing." It was lovely fish, and it gave a good account of itself. Only a few quick pictures were taken before we released her to complete her journey.

The rest of the day was very much as I described above. We flitted from spot to spot, most of which I'd never been to but which my friends knew well, looking for slow tail outs, and stretches of river sheltered by boulders. It took me a while, but I finally caught my first few fish, under a bridge in a very

productive spot that held several lively specimen, some of which even gave us the occasional leap despite the frigid water temperature. 

It was a day where not all water that looked promising held the fish that it probably should have, but whenever we located fish it was rarely just one. At the end of the day, we had scored a very respectable tally given the time of year and general conditions. 

At the end of the day, we found a stretch of river that runs over mostly shale and steep steps - very much like Cattaraugus creek in western NY - which I found very pleasant to fish. I felt well at ease there as I puffed another stick and, in the declining light, I was able to pull out the last fish of the day. It was a small male, probably the most coloured up fish of the day as well, a

handsome fish who was surprisingly strong and bullish for his size. Oliver zoomed in on it with his camera, as I prepared to release it, and at the same time he probably also snapped the best fish picture of the day.

One of the things that I will best remember from this trip was its melancholy ending. It wasn't so much that our day of fishing had ended, as it was that our day together was coming to a close. I think we all shared the same feeling. Certainly, we were grateful for our successful day, spent in gradually strengthening friendship and camaraderie, and there is always joy in that; but looking to the future, who can tell when we'll return together? 

It's only too simple, as usual: Steelheade diem. It's a bad play on words, perhaps, but you know what I mean!

p.-

What is Built (Fall 2013 Recap)

I think back to a time, not so long ago, when the ice hadn't come yet. We smelled it in the air, we whiffed the frost; we knew it was coming, as surely our bones did. Nothing can prevent the Winter from descending with its own pack of blessings, not even wishful thinking.

Imagination alone can do something about it. Because without this most perfect of tools, we cannot properly anthropomorphosise the world around us; we cannot imbue the frozen trees with the white scintillation of religion or the glittering promise of gifts beneath the one that stands before the hearth; we wouldn't build back yard rinks, put skates on our feet and teach our children this alternative to flight; without imagination, it all turns to a gray and white, meaningless waste. A long, glum, pointless vigil for Spring.

But imagination has this other side, that it can enliven what we recall. It can paint memories with new colour, breathe into it the life of dreams; as indeed must all our enchanted memories be in the kaleidoscopic picture-book re-forming that each one of us weaves, in the privacy and mystery of our own

minds, and to just that pitch and brightness that we desire. It is a masterwork that none of us is ever quite finished with. The plans may change, the brush stroke depictions may lead in new directions, but each tomorrow promises a new brick, a new stroke, a new colour - and looking back over what we have built and conceived serves only to spur us forward.

Far from being merely artful, it is also a mechanism that can help us stand when we swoon. When we walk and function automatically, like machines - and our hearts aren't in it, or when we've suffered some blow or setback that shakes some part of us; and maybe even causes some of the past colours to fail, shimmer and wink out. Then is the long-standing, the half-growing half-constructed dream-tree of remembrance of our imaginations, most at our service. Like Faith, its boughs, its walls and the lights and photos with which we ourselves once decorated it; these lights guide us steadily along, until, someday, slowly, a new dusk of hope paints itself on the purposefulness of our every new day. 

So please indulge me as I regale myself with memory. I scroll back down to the colours of November, when the trees were newly bare and the grass had freshly turned to gold; it is the lovers' month for steelheaders, as those of us know who do. Then is it most likely that we will meet with our dearest opponent, the scintillating mystifying acrobat which (in my case) just because it flew out of the water, landed on a tree stump, flipped back into the water and broke the line - just once, but the first time - keeps us so enthralled that we will travel untold miles or wait even years to find the perfect time or place, where again the electrifying combat can take place. 

November; late November, with a sprig of Oliver, a goodly serving of Bill and of Fidel, and a heavy portion of Mike - only to find the Salmon river over-anxious and her fish largely unwilling to engage. Oliver did alright, for the morning before having to leave us, and Fidel wrangled a pair of smaller fish; but Mike and Bill caught nothing - and all I got was water in my waders and a dead camera, courtesy of a phantom sandbank on the bottom - which somehow turned into a hole when I stepped on it. We abandoned the Salmon and drove all around, looking for fish; and one stream that Mike and Bill spurned, served me two good fish - and the promise of a finer tomorrow.

And a fine tomorrow it did bring, indeed. We wasted little time getting there

in the morning; Fidel and I. For Mike and Bill, other waters beckoned and other pizzerias doubtlessly with clientele of greater alacrity than the night before. Fidel and I are not well acquainted with Pulaski (were... we are now) but we hate to inconvenience the fine cuisiniers; who were however quite gracious. 

Regardless, it being all water under the bridge, this is exactly where we headed and where Fidel ignited the waters with almost unholy precision. I flossed the river and made sure it was clean, but no piscatorial chunks of any kind came up for me. That came later, downriver and up, in runs and pools that we found and dredged most of the day. I'm older now, I guess, and I reach a point where I am satiated much sooner than when I was young. In the afternoon, I watched as Fidel continued his success in waters that were much too shallow and "pockety" for my taste. He gladly took the lead, and by the end of the day our combined tally was a good 30 fish landed, and ... we lost count of how many more were missed. I put Fidel's tally at 17. He can correct me if I'm wrong.

A few short days afterward, Winter set in. The brooks and creeks that

neighbor my home froze up quickly, locking away their precious silver ingots - seemingly for rediscovery only in the Spring; but by the beginning of December, a quick thaw turned the corner, and it was time that Oliver and I return to the Salmon for another perhaps final try at its ever-promising bounty. In an irony that I don't fail to recognize, and even savour to a certain extent, the site of Fidel's and my previous success was the opposite of what it had been. High, muddy, and harboring high grassy banks that ruthlessly and treacherously promised solid footholds - only to withdraw them, presenting gaping depths that chomped our gait, throwing Oliver more than once into the stream - the river held its fish mostly in reserve. We managed a few, but in general they were dark, tired, already beaten. Beautiful to look upon, as always; but not the bright, fresh, silver battlers we were seeking. 

We found some of those later, and in an unfortunate dovetail, I did all the catching while Oliver graciously and very kindly did most of the watching and pointing - "cast there; a little further out; just there; you got it, etc..." Fate, Luck, Nature, all three can be volatile. You will have their curse one day, then their blessings; and sometimes (often times) their indifference. All three seemed to curse Oliver for a while, as all his equipment got wet, and even his camera got into a little too much moisture, and then when true chromers were finally available they were all allotted to me. Mother Nature, though, did take some pity on him, and a few sips of Southern Comfort and brandy, followed by aromatic, warm clouds of tobacco seemed at least a consolation of some sort. At the very least, these things also meant that we were fishing together and sharing the day; its defeats and its successes. 

Another bright spackle of paint, or a beam, a strut to hold up a wall or an arch; something to look back on with delight, now, next week, in ten years from now. Something to hold us up, or raise us, when we will need it; or just something to look back on that brings a smile. Something warm to take with me, as the stream of days flows on relentlessly, on.

p.-

In Gratitude

As I emerged from the brush to look out onto the Lake, I paused. There, across the river mouth and silhouetted against the glimmering sheen of dusk on the water's surface, I could see a Great Blue heron.

The little camera tried in vain to capture the stoic shade where it stood, gazing out onto the lake; as it also paid attention to the large, bungling creature that had just appeared and seemed about to disturb its vigil. Blur after blur snapped through the lens and onto the little memory card, whilst the eyes took in all the details down to this silent bird's clear beak-tip. One step forward on my part, and the great wings suddenly unfolded to snatch it up and carry it towards less inhabited shores.

As my feet crunched over the gravel and sand, another movement caught my eye, further inland. An older gentleman stood by the river's edge,

contemplating me as he lit a cigarette. Not very observantly, I asked if he'd had any luck (as he put the two pieces of his rod together), and he chuckled that he had just gotten there himself. After a quiet exchange of pleasantries, I set up my own rod and quietly waded out into the lake.

I was in no hurry, to tell the truth. I'd taken a quick look at the river graph before I left home. Though there had been some rain during the previous day, it had hardly been enough to create more than a small spike in water levels. Still, it was a quiet morning, and I hadn't fished since the previous weekend - when I'd watched JP again miss a couple of fish - but I had caught nothing. I pulled a cigar out of my pocket, placed a roe bag on my hook, cast my offering & started to feel around for my lighter. It didn't take many drifts for me to recall that I had left the lighter up in the car; nor to ascertain that there were indeed fish in the area - as my float took a sudden swerving dip and something bright and silvery pulled and yanked at my arms for a few seconds, before disappearing into the as-yet sunless waters!

I remembered that the other fisherman, just a few yards upstream, had been smoking a cigarette, so I went quickly to beg him for a light. Once this was accomplished, I returned to my spot and started again. I savoured the luxuriant smoke as it wafted over my head and off into the gentle breeze. I also reset my offering and whisked a cast into the current.

What followed was an exhilarating two hours of mayhem, filled with crushed roe bags, snapped-off hooks and severed tippet. One moment, the float would

dip quickly and the offender was gone before I could set the hook; another, a large, angry fish yanked the float down and sped off at uncontrolled speed until the pressure abruptly vanished, and my line came back with nothing but a forlorn corkscrew of line where the knot had broken under stress. It was the kind of morning where one doesn't count - though, of landed fish, there weren't many, I must admit. 

Still, I managed to bring two ashore that made for good photographic material, the best of which a fellow angler very kindly took pictures with my camera. You can see it to the left, and below, a beautiful, pristine hen steelhead which fought with more electricity and vivacity than any of the chinook I had been allowed to master up to then. In fact, when I first hooked it, it had freakishly rushed at me - right under my rod - dragging the tip squarely into the bottom and dangerously risking a "break off" of the absolute worst kind! Only a quick spinorama on my part, aided by letting off all pressure on the line, saved my rod tip from utter fracas.

Then suddenly, there was an element of the surreal as I peeked at the time: 

9:17am

Time. Like the heron, my morning on the water was gone. I packed up my rod and headed for the car, with only one last wistful backward glance at the lake; and in Thanksgiving, for the incredible good luck that had brought about the coinciding of one of my rare trips with conditions of even rarer occurrence. I'd promised 9:30am but wouldn't make that now... 

Time to start the engine, put the car in gear, ease into the ever increasing rush forward: the long road awaits. 

p.-

Return of the Chinooks

Roe bag number thirteen was quietly riding the slow current, snugly held up by a float just above it. Twelve other roe bags over three trips had gone and done the same; they all died in vain. Munched, torn, shredded - one or the other had happened to all twelve. And the thirteenth was to be no different.

But whereas the twelve that went before it had missed their mark, the thirteenth would not.

That is, the ball of nerves nestled in the otherwise empty space that governs the movements of the hand, which in turn is connected to the float and roe bag, through rod and reel; this ball of nerves would relax long enough to count:

"1... 2.... 3..."

Then the hookset came, and there was a Lake Ontario Chinook salmon now,

where a moment before the thirteenth roe bag had been. They fight much differently than steelhead. The first thing that always seems to happen is a big lurch at the surface. The fish will come up and thrash and splash for a bit, before getting back down, swinging this way and that - like a plane on a runway; to take off with incredible thrust in one direction. After this - assuming the hook holds true - a tug of war ensues, a few more runs are attempted, and finally a chinook salmon is lying on the bank. 

This September has been pretty special for me, since it has permitted me not only the leisure of affirming certain theories I've been entertaining, but also because through the salmon I've been able to share the river banks with quite a few good friends. You may already have noted, from the opening picture,

that Oliver has been among my river buddies this month, but that number also includes Khalid, Jean-Pierre, Isaac and Sam's uncle Steve, and of course the boys themselves.

Isaac kept me very busy, when Sam and I took a look at one of our local tributaries, or I might have had occasion to take a picture of some of the fun. Still, there was reason for excitement as the thing was very close. Sam and I both saw the float go down once, but the hookset was a tad late. Then, later, probably when I was trying to coax Isaac into another 5 minutes of patience (by bribing him with my decrepit, crack-screened iPod), another roe bag came back totally crushed. I really hope I get the opportunity, this year, to see the look on Sam's face when he has a salmon on the end of his line, for the very first time!

Most recently, "uncle Steve" came by for a visit, specifically to come and join

me in the hunt for the "boots." We had an interesting time visiting rain-swollen tributaries, and watching hordes of large salmon working their way in from the lake. Neither of us caught very much as the rain was falling, but the next day proved productive and saw us land a few fish, and hook and miss many, many more. 

I don't usually get this much time on the river and, in fact, I feel almost dazed by it. It's true that we're not following a crazy "rep" hockey schedule this year, so my time isn't all spent at the rink. But even so I suppose it helps when friends and family from afar serve as the reason for my forays, especially when favourite Fragile X helpers like "auntie Colleen" show up for the ride. Still, this marks the first time in a long time that Laura actually sent me fishing not once, but twice! I can only hope that this unusual blessing follows me during the upcoming steelhead installment of the season.

Certainly, J.P. and I have probably found a good compromise that should work

most weekends. That is, use the few hours between sunrise and kid-rise to indulge ourselves on our nearby creeks. This way, we get to have a couple of quiet hours fishing, without being absent or otherwise neglecting important engagements, tasks or assignments given to us by those whom we naturally accept to be wiser than we are... I mean that! So, I've also got a reasonable expectation of hope that I can finally manage to get J.P. onto some serious salmonids, quite soon. If not, it won't be for any lack of trying!

So then, a fine excuse materializes that will or should allow us to watch the season pass slowly, even as our turbid lives rush past. Every now and again, it helps anchor the soul to watch a tree turn its colours, or fish swim upstream, or better yet - just stand there a while, as the sun rises and the great painting unfolds across the sky; not as though we had any expectation of fish, but that this clear, bright, peaceful day-break was all that we came for. 

p.-