The Sky is Falling!

I hate to say it, but... actually I love to say "I told you so." Sorry!

Last weekend was supposed to be warm and sunny, both days, in southern Ontario. Instead, our cars got a pretty decent wash.

When I was pier fishing, I remember that there was a lot of pessimism among my local interlocutors with regards to the weather: "long range forecast isn't calling for rain for the next two weeks." In salmonid fishing circles, this is bad news because it means river flows won't be high enough or cool enough to entice fish closer or into streams.

But I had read an article in Ontario out of Doors , years and years ago (so I have no idea in which issue it was, or who wrote it) about watching clouds to predict rainfall; and I could have sworn, as I sat listening to that rant about blue Prince Crafts, that a weather change for the "better" was on the way. I had been watching the clouds, and it seemed to me that rain was definitely the forecast. But I'm not the weather channel, so I shut up about it at the time. And yet as it turned out, I was right. Good for me. Here's a cookie, me! Yay!

It's quite simple: if you see cirrus clouds, really high whispy & almost diaphanous clouds, a weather change is imminent. This is because cirrus clouds are moving in ahead of a front. Now, a front can be good or bad, but if the cirrus clouds are followed by altocumulus clouds (see photo caption above), it usually means rain is on the way. I found more confirmation of this at the Physical Geography.net website, along with other formation combinations that lead to precipitation. It's actually a neat site that explains a lot more about cloud formations, as well as air masses, with links to definitions for most of the cryptic scientific terms it uses.

This is not to say that we should never trust the weather people. It's just more proof that independent observation often yields a truer outlook than anything offered by large associations, and it's always a good idea to keep your own wits about you!

p.-

1/2 Day Cashed In

Laura and the twins are spending time with their Grammy and Auntie Colleen, this week, so technically I'm a free man. And since I still had a half day left on my father's day gift, and feeling rather "squeezed" - or maybe it was just missing the activity of tossing a line out - I decided to go pier fishing for chinook salmon last night.

The eternal curse of the occasional fisherman is invariably uttered thus: "you should have been here yesterday" or "the fishing was great all last week." My blessings are elsewhere these days, so I just tip my cap down and keep casting; to not much avail as it turned out last night!

Nonetheless, it was time spent fishing, for which I was deducted nothing more than an evening spent on calm, dark Lake Ontario. The lake was "turning over" which added to the general despondence felt by most of the fishermen on the pier. It means the salmon move out, beyond the reach of our casts, to more comfortably cool waters. Although two had been caught early, with mating colours already quite dark, that would be all we would see for the night.

As if to make things worse, and as a consequence of the lake's shifting, my side of the pier suddenly accumulated quite a mess of algae. What I had orignially taken for the promising boil of a surfacing chinook was, in fact, the bubbling up of large clumps of weeds, created by the wave and current action of the lake against the pier. It did not let up. As this made fishing unpleasant, if not impossible, and as I didn't wish to muscle in on anyone else on the other side, I broke out a cigar, snapped open a can of Warsteiner, and started chatting with one of the locals.

Our conversation covered everything from the fish I missed out on last week, to the bottom structure of the waters around the pier; from fish stocking in the great lakes to stories about poachers in the area & arrests that were made. Ironically, I also learned about the rudeness of "frenchmen" who come to the area to fish from their "sea of blue Prince Crafts." Apparently these rude people will follow too closely behind other trolling fishermen, scaring the fish. I say "Ironic," because I am a francophone, although without the unfortunate drawback of owning a Prince Craft. Tabarnak. But I didn't take offense, because I've experienced this very thing with Mike, in a place where the operator of the blue Prince Craft was definitely francophone. Coincidence, n'est-ce pas?

Also, I learned something quite useful that I didn't know before, related to tossing glow-in-the-dark spoons from piers at night. Always carry a camera flash. Used properly, it "recharges" the glow of your spoon in a fraction of a second, and it will not affect your night sight. Finally, always bring these two senses: humour and awe. The humour I hope was covered already, but of awe: how the lake looks at night, under an overcast sky with nothing solid on which to attach your peripheral vision; you no longer feel your feet, but are floating over the somnambulating waves, like a night bird edging off to flight.

Anyway, I no longer feel squeezed (or stressed)!

p.-

Loons & bass

So, for Father's day I got a one-day surcease from the foolish promise I made last May, and I chose to use it not on Steelhead, but on bass fishing in a small lake in the Kawarthas.

I was lucky enough to be accompanied by Laura's brother in-law, Steve, and we headed out early Sunday morning, before the twins could wake us up. Unfortunately, we had to be efficient, as Steve had a deadline to make. So as "luck" would have it, the results weren't great.

Other than three or four little bass, nothing serious was landed; although a fair sized largemouth bass (3lbs or so) chose to rest in the shade of my float tube for a few minutes, after deciding that the texas rig it had followed wasn't so appetising after all. It disappeared when, shortly after the wind rose, I had to kick to right myself.

The loons, however, were something else. The picture I have posted here is, unfortunately, not recent. I am forced to appreciate the irony whereby, for this fisherman, this was an opportunity where a camera would have been far more useful a tool, than a blind fishing rod. Quite truly, the lake on which Steve and I found ourselves fishing, was nothing less than an aerodrome for loons.

I didn't count them, but at one time there were at least 9 of them in one quadrant of the lake. There was lots of gesticulating going on, wing-skipping, taking off and landing; as well as it seems diving and fishing. Twice, a loon came close enough that I could have tossed a lure at it with high expectations of hitting it; and one of those times, the bird came so close that I might have touched it with my outstretched rod-tip, if I had tried (or had had the time).

No wonder the bass weren't biting. They were on the lam!

Compliments and Blessings

I recently got a very nice compliment from Joe Ahmad @ www.steelhead-diaries.com , which you can find as a comment on my 2006 Trout Opener blog. He also relates that I'm lucky to have had the chance to spend so much time, recently, fishing with "papa." It's not as though we spent all our time catching fish! On the contrary, as the picture above shows, the fellow under the hat, and amid the jetsam of a lunch stop, is the old man catching a much needed forty winks instead... But Joe's comments started me on a meditation over the events of the last five or six month of my own life, and on the tremendous changes that have occurred which have brought some affirming and sometimes earth-shattering realisations.

On December 28th, at roughly 11am, I was sitting at my desk. I wasn't really working, but talking to Mike, when my second line started to flash. The voice that came over the line was my wife's; "my water just broke!" By 11:30pm that evening, Isaac & Samuel were born.

Never in my most delerious moments had the thought ever attempted to cross my mind, that it would be possible for me to feel that Ferraris going 0 to 60 in 6 seconds (or whatever) would seem unimpressive. Dull. Whoop-dee-doo. But I know better, now. Life itself accelerates from 0 to the speed of absolute chaos, in a fraction of the fraction of a split second. As I held my twin boys, fraternal and therefore completely different from one another; proud father, elated and scared as hell, I dimly realised that I had just gone through such an acceleration in Life.

Only the parents of multiples know or can truly understand how the next 3 months would unfold. I can honestly say that I have never before experienced such emotional tumult, nor so much love, nor pride, nor fear, confusion, anger and great, great joy. And yet, in all of this daily chaos and struggle to keep up, there was always a relative involved, staying up late with us or for us, making breakfast, lunch, dinner, cleaning the kitchen, holding one of the babies or bathing him, changing diapers and on and on; and sometimes one of those relatives was my own father.

His caring and his involvement in our new life, as parents, moved me. When you have children of your own, turn back & look at your parents. You see them as children, once, and parents, as they were and are for you, and grandparents now; and you see yourself, as you will also someday be. And if you look down at the little bundle in your arms; suddenly, you no longer merely know that time is a limited commodity for us all, but you can feel it. You can feel it like the icy hand of a creditor on your shoulder, and yet it affirms life and the importance of "now." "Now is the time." "Today is the day" ; every day.

So, I go fishing with my dad, while I still can.

I greet my boys joyfully every morning before I head out to work, and I greet them equally happily when I get back home.

I try as hard as I can to express my appreciation of the incredible heroism of my wife, Laura, and even try to get ahead of her & figure out before hand those little tasks she needs done that will make her life easier.

I hold Samuel til he falls asleep, snap pictures of Laura playing with Isaac and participate, as my father taught me to, in as many aspects of my childrens' lives as I can.

I even promised not to go fishing until next fall. Let's see. Now, that was nice of me, wasn't it!!!

p.-

2006 Trout Opener

Predictably, this year's opener was rather slow. A warm winter & early thaw contributed to the steelhead beating a hasty retreat to Lake Ontario & Lake Erie. Low and clear waters, bearing only the palest remaining tinge of last week's rains, did not help much either.

However, some stretches of the rivers I fished did make for surprisingly good fishing, providing among others the spawned-out male in the caption, above. I also managed a pair of wild brown trout, which is always a big bonus in southern ontario. Furthermore, I was lucky enough to make the acquaintance of a doe and her fawn.

But, best of all on most days I was joined by my father (his first opener), some of my steelheading buddies (Mike & Andrew), my brother in-law, Richard, his brother, John, and his "Schöne," Inge. The highlight of the opening weekend, therefore, was only indirectly related to fishing: a camping style fish-fry by the banks of one of my favourite tributaries. We sat in the shade of newly unfurled leaves, savouring the rare treat of the freshest, butter-fried trout possible. I don't usually like eating fish, but with Mike as the cook, it's a no-miss proposition! He turns it into candy every time.

Close on the list of highlights was the final day of fishing. It was only my father and I, and he managed all the fish! It was a great honour to "teach back" to the man who first instilled the love of angling in me. He's still not used to long steelhead rods & is only starting to get the hang of rigging the float, spacing shot etc... but he catches on quickly. Watching him fight and land a lovely spawned-out hen, pushing 10 lbs, was truly joyous.

So that settles it, again: the sport of angling is not all about catching fish. To be sure, the trout themselves are a precious (in my opinion priceless) resource. But whether one fishes alone or with others, a communion occurs whose blessings and rewards are only partially attributable to the fish or the fishing. There are no words to label it, which is good; only the secure knowledge of time well spent, out of a bank that proves, in the end, far too poor.

p.-

An Inspiring Trip

Last Thursday's was not as fish-filled a trip as anticipated, but I did manage a few surprisingly fresh steelhead on a south shore Lake Erie tributary. It was a long trip, almost 1000km there and back for me. And, although it made me wonder at my sanity in view of the expense in gasoline alone, it was worthwhile as a learning experience. Truly eye opening. I'm still kicking myself for having forgotten my digicam, as I would have loved to share a picture. So many opportunities, other than fish, presented themselves... So, though the attached photo is thematic enough, it's from a couple of years ago. It shows my good friend Mike, waiting for a strike.

In any case, the numbers of fish are quite high in this tributary, because even though the water was very off-coloured (or as Mike often says "barely fishable") three of us managed well in excess of 30 steelhead landed. In my opinion, we had no business catching so many under the conditions that we faced. Therefore, as soon as I can string a couple of days together, when the flows are clearer, I'll be going back to that very spot!

In the meantime, I was moved to poetry & I share it with you now. Think of an earlier than average morning, before the coffee really sets in or the endless road-miles stop ticking in the back of your eyes, sometime shortly after the first cast, when you are not ready, nor are your fingers that grip the rod more like paws than articulate digits...


Strike


strike!

down goes
the float float
down goes
the down
the goes float
goes float the
down the goes
down float
float goes
down ! the

rod swings
up up rod
swings the swings
up rod up
swings the
rod !

too late. nothing.
only a shade
swimming
swimming in dream
dreaming in the water
of a thought of
Perhaps.

p.-

Anticipation

Already, the rod is prepared, cleaned and polished. The flies and jigs are in their boxes. The multicoloured sacks of spawn are quietly waiting in the freezer. The waders are by the door, as is the jacket and the vest with all its zippers and pouches and rattling containers. The hat is hanging on a peg.

Will Thursday be a great day? Unforgettable, humming even through the headstone once all these things have come to naught for me? The forecast looks promising, and the river is preparing the scene, lashing its eye-green ribbon through the countryside and under the boughs of trees. Tuning its orchestra of voices to rocks and ledges through riffles and runs.

I could go fishless. The steelhead may deem me, on that day, less than worthy & will not wish to play for me. They will see the long baton, the light note of the float as it rides the murmuring current, and yet find me wanting in prestige. No great music can come of him!

Luckily, not all symphonies or rock ballads or little country tunes need the great clash of bright cymbals, though beautifully striped with red and pink as these. The cardinal has a fine tenor, and the white breasted sparrow a soprano that embodies and instills ease. The river also needs only to be listened to.

And then when I come home, like Sam Gamgee, I will say "I'm back," but also - as I've already done now many times - read in my sons' smiles and my wife's, "I'm here."

p.-