Anticipation Fulfilled

For what can seem like eternity, excitement builds when the leaves change color and begin to fall. The summer dry will soon be moved out by cold air and wet weather. It is the adult angler version of what I felt like during those days that led up to Christmas morning. I would check the tree every day before going to school. No presents. I would come home and run through the front door. No presents. School would be done for the year and that was the signal that the big day was near. Decorations around the house and prepping for the big feast meant the smell of baked goods would fill every room.

It’s the fourth quarter and we are up by 10. They have the ball on their 20. Several plays later the 2 min warning reveals a possible win is about to result. The coaches make changes and delay the play as much as they can, trying to slow the momentum down. A slippery bootleg and we find ourselves faced with an onside kick leading by only 3 with plenty of time to be humbled. I sat the bench for kick off. Fine with me. Less pressure to mess things up but at the same time, it was my graduating year. There would be no more post-secondary football. Still I sat with intensity waiting for the final whistle.

For myself and Brad, the anticipation was finally over. At the last moment, I booked the day off and dusted off the gear. Everything was pretty much how I left it this past spring. There is something to be said about being already rigged up that makes things so much easier. Chasing salmon as they enter the tributaries is not the most regal experience of the great outdoors one will have. With what is left these days, getting to the “wilderness” meant testing your patience as you fight through traffic and automotive gridlocks. Similarities the salmon face. Ironic somewhat.  Arriving to the river, we surveyed the best route and place to make the first drift. It took a bit of adjusting as I eventually hooked  up with an angry king. It had already crushed my present and was now determined to rip my hands and fingers apart burning up and down the pool. Every so often it would come out and flip me the fin. I would have respectfully exchanged greetings and released him had it not been for an oblivious bloke that drew his float and hook over mine and ripped my line so hard that my gear came back to my feet in a blink. Urban fishing 101.

The day was filled with joy and laughter. Exchanges of words, hooks, floats kept things from going stale. It was a circus of events. Guys coming and going. Towards the end, we had played till our hearts were content. Exhausted by the day and the lead up the night before, we dragged our soreness up the path. The excitement still lingered as we shared the day on the ride home. It’s the beginning. The beginning of what is hopefully, another stellar year chasing migratories.

Summer

Since the opener of bass season, it has become very humid. The main river running through our fair city struggles to maintain its flow. In some parts, one could walk across atop the sun-bleached rocks. I have been down to various parts of the Thames in search of some river smallmouth bass. In previous summers, one could easily tag onto several high flying bronze backs in notable sizes. So far this summer, there has been nothing over 3lbs.



( zonkered)



At times, getting a fish to hit was a brow sweating task. Hell, finding runs deeper than my knees meant longer walks from the usual access points.



( getting bent)



( high sticking)



Brent and I have been hitting the gravel around the dinner time slot. Streamers, buggers and poppers. I had all the flies I needed for the evening in one small flybox. An extra leader and a spool of tippet. Everything fitted in one little fanny pack. A far cry from steelheading.

If you are willing to take a hike, you will be rewarded with some healthy, albeit, smaller than usual fish. On our most recent outing, Jack Frank suited up to partake in some of the action. I don’t think he was none too impressed with the smothering heavy air either.

( WTF are you looking at? )

It is what it is. A low flowing river that has me wondering where the big bass are in the places I grew up spending my youthful summers, hiking, canoeing and learning to fish.    



( a good fish from Brent)



Tubes

Here’s the irony. I can’t swim however if I know I am safe from drowning ( or that the odds are in my favor that I won’t), I am completely comfortable in over my head.

The opening of bass season was quite enjoyable. My good friend Jack joined me for some pond bass. I was able to get a second float tube from best bud (Brent) so both Jack and I could float about and get pulled around by the bucketmouths. It was unfortunate that Brent could not have joined us. He knew he would be nursing a hangover and wisely manned up bailing on this trip.

No early start. I was still rubbing my eyes open when Jack rolled up to the house at 6am sharp, to the minute. A quick pit stop for air (of all things) and we made our way to the launch. This would be Jack’s inaugural trip in a float tube. I was looking forward to seeing him get man-handled on the water.

                                 

He did well. In fact, too well. A quick study and he was on his way, flipping around me and re-positioning himself to face the weedline drop offs. Jack struck first with a small fish. He would go on to complete the morning with the best fish between us. One healthy largemouth.

Me, I took the time to de-stress and simply enjoyed the time carefree of all else. Not to be left off the board, I found some eager and aggressive fish here and there

Time

For the past several weeks, I (we) have been immersed in the world of competitve youth soccer and although this means less angling, so be it. I would never think twice nor regret watching the both of them grow and develop into a sport I grew up playing. They are by far playing several years ahead of what I was accomplishing at this age. The level of coaching alone they are receiving pales in comparison to the small mortgage payments we invested in them.

An ex-Team Canada Mens Team whom played pro in England is slowly grooming Brandon into a formidable threat on the pitch. He is already surpassing half of those in the age division he is currently playing in, which happens to be one year up.

With a coach about to receive his national coaching credentials ( and apparently there are only 3 in all of London, Ontario and the greater area ), Kayleigh has gone from a last minute recruit (playing on a regular competitive organization ) onto a regional team, to earning a starting position amongst the eleven that look to have a ton of potential this year to advance the team to a provincial level.

Hopefully they are not developing too fast physically leaving the mental aspect of the game lagging. I have seen many peak early and burn out only to never receive a look entering into university/college. By no means am I pushing for full scholarships and a course to professsional sports as a career. My mother brought me up to always focus deep and do the best I can at whatever I spend my efforts and time on..... and then add one extra effort cause you just never know.

All this has kept me away from some of my favorite hatches. The calendar for the rest of this month and July show very few holes for fishing. The rivers may just have to wait. I did sneak in an ill-timed trip to some local waters but that will be a new set of details to share.

Less is more

“A lazy person will never find fulfillment and/or satisfaction in life. “

……….. And it is this disinclination that almost resulted in a day wasted. Part of me had just wanted to sleep in and do nothing so when the alarm rang, it was snoozed for another five minutes. Not sure why there is an option for such a short time. In those minutes, I did not get any more sleep and really, spent that moment contemplating on whether or not, to go. Logic set in. I would not have gain anymore sleep and would most likely be lethargic all day having only a few hours of rest. I would have been useless at home.

The day began late but there was no rush. Unlike other mornings where there is a tendency to speed along under the cover of darkness, the car crept on while I enjoyed the morning drive.

 It was great to actually see the sun rise. The morning had lured the deer out from the thick and there were a few turkeys strutting about.

It was a surprise to see only two cars ahead of me. I flipped a coin as to which direction to venture or rather which direction the others went, up or down.  To have the first few spots to myself was great but I had to wonder if I was fishing second water. No takes on a few different patterns. On the next run, I decided to lean back on a fall down and watched before flogging it to death. Sure enough, the breeze ceased and a few risers showed their presence.

They did not seem like big fish but then again, I have hooked decent fish that barely broke the surface during a hatch. There was a big temptation to tye on a dry but a soft hackle seemed like a better choice.

I made my way down the twisting creek and up ahead, there was car one. Minding etiquette, I ducked into the bush and squirmed my way below him. Curiosity got the best of me. The creek seemed void of much action and I was thinking that if this was the case for him, I would not invest anymore time or energy in this stretch and book back out to another access. Fate must have been looking down. Car one was a friend whom I had not been in contact with for over 6 months. Andrew and I caught up on life and laughs. He too had sporadic action. We decided to continue down as far as time would permit.

We would flip flop taking turns for first casts as we made our way. The action got better and more consistent as the morning grew.  Still, the big fish did not show. Perhaps it was not a day for them. We were now a few kilometers from the vehicles. Working a few of the more productive runs our way back proved to be entertaining. I am glad I did not allow laziness to set in. Seeing a creek healthy full of trout and catching up with a friend is so much more than getting a few extra hours of sleep.

Colours

There are those that only pursue big fish.  Small fish are bait to them. Small trout is an opportunity for me to break out the fly rod and challenge my abilities to read water and tye patterns to fool mother nature. Let’s admit, trout like any other fish can be easy to hook when they are in the feeding mood. But how successful can you be when they are not hungry or have become spooky and wary?

The other day, I set out with a good friend Tony for a morning of fly fishing for resident trout. Checking the evening prior, the conditions for fishing would say that we could be in for a challenge. The conditions for us would be nice. It was to be sunny, warm and no wind. I pulled up to the access first. Taking a quick walk over the small bridge, the air was cool and crisp but you could tell it would warm by mid-morning. Tony showed up minutes later. Sleep deprived but raring to take it to the trout. With only the morning to fish, we agreed to hit only the most productive runs.

Tony was a true gentleman and gave me the first run while he went up 50 yards to fish a small chute. I slipped on a weighted beadhead caddis I had tyed up on a no.10 scud hook. Should be a big easy meal for the hungry. Sure enough, with a few passes between two submerged boulders, I had my first resident trout for the season.

A nice little brook trout.

It would not be long after, Tony would strike his first resident for 2012. We would alternate drifting specific runs, plucking trout. It was not till we reached a run ( I dubbed to myself the “ boxcar”) where we started to see some vicious surface action. A very narrow but fast riffle running along a bush line. I was still getting hits on the BHCaddis however very tempted to switch to a dry fly. I had watched a trout come head over tail out of the water for a fly that landed on the surface. Tony was smart and quickly slipped on a big elk hair caddis dry.

First drift through the feeding lane and the fly was molested. I have yet to tire watching dry flies take fish off the surface.

“ DO IT AGAIN TONY!”............ And he did!

We worked our way downstream as far as we have ever gone in this stretch. The low conditions made the next bend less appealing. We decided to turn back and fish our way back to the access. On the last section (dubbed the “Wisconsin Flats”), we hit a double header. Small they may be but the colours are simply brilliant.

Our next trip together will need to be a full day (and then some). A few hours felt like only minutes shared.

Hot or not ?

We pulled into a small town after a day of fishing to grab some grub. Stopped at the side of the street for some unknown reason. ( I think Brent wanted to check his phone messages). I looked out my window and this is what I saw.

Linder art with influences from Winkleman ?

No, it was not a tackle or bait shop. This was an actual house. Someone's residence. I wonder if my daughter would be proud as a peacock to bring friends home with this on our front door, or back door, or any door for that matter?

Opened on Easter

Anymore these days, trout opener is less about fishing on the day the season opens and has become more of a tradition for a few old buds to get together. 

It started back around 1999 (maybe a year sooner) when a few of us really started to embrace the last Saturday of April on our Ontario Rivers.  It started off as a day trip but soon turned into a two day affair. (Really, I think there was an underlying excitement of getting away, consuming copious amounts of alcohol and acting immature.) In most recent years, we decided to push this event a day up and fish the open sections of the river before the entire waterway was to open up. Guys would come and go but there is still the core group that have carried on this tradition. We have all found ourselves quite busy these days. So busy that the probability of the four of us being available at the same time is so low that you may have a better chance at winning a free donut or coffee on Roll up the Rim at Tim Horton’s. 

Unbelievable. I looked at the flow data, the weather forecast and with all of us confirming our attendance; this could be it.  So what that it’s not the actual day of the opening season. Further, we would be fishing a US river that does not have restricted seasons. Hell, we weren’t even staying overnight. The main point was that we all got together to share a drift. Finally! This day would be proclaimed as “Opener 2012”.

I heard the rumblings on the morning drive. “Why the hell are we going so early?” (Grumpy old men) I'll admit now, it was but hey, early bird gets the worm, right? “We won’t make first light. We haven’t done so in the last eight years!” True enough. The sun had cleared the horizon when we were putting on our waders. There was only one other angler at the big pool and he hastily picked up and left when we showed up.





We pretty well had the entire section of river for the morning. Only around noon, did a few anglers pass us on their way back from what they said was “a wasted hike upriver….. Just a few jacks are all we got”. Perhaps they were just saying that though after a brief conversation, they seemed genuine with the information they shared. Since they had pounded the water we were considering, we decided to move on to a different access point but not until after Rob (just had to) step into a drift that Brent had released a fish, flogged further and given up. In what I call a cowboy move (walking in immediately after others have fished a run, make one drift and hook up), Rob would hook a very angry fish that aggressively challenged him into shin deep water; and we still had a difficult time controlling it.

A mix of jacks and spent adults proved to us why we love this so much. Add in some giant coarse fish and decent smallmouth bass, and the fun can be endless. When that float drops and you feel that initial take, you have no idea what hit. I got schooled by two big trout, one of them towards the end of the day. Ironically in similar fashion, I got to see both of them as they left the water. They took my offering with them sending just the terminal tackle back. It’s odd that from a distance, the entire fish goes aerial yet what stood out was their eye for those few seconds.

Opening day usual marks the near end of the spring migration but I am sure there are many fish still in most systems. I may forgo my favorite runs for dropbacks or hopes of some very late fresh spring runners and shift the focus to smaller creeks and tributaries with the 5wt. Guess I should start tying.

Kicking the Cat(t)

Jack has heard me speak of many tales of fishing the Cattaraugus Creek in Western New York. It had been since this past summer when we last hooked up for a day of fishing. I asked Jack if he would have a day off and sure enough, it was the same day I had. It must be close to two seasons since I last fished the "Catt". The challenge has been trying to time trips around its sensitivity to precipitation. Looking at the flow and visibility charts the other night along with a report from a good friend and fellow angler helped confirm the decision over a few other options. Jack would get to drift some new water and I was to get to fish one of my favorite rivers again. The events of the day would make this trip,  one for the books.

The plan was to get Jack his NYDEC fishing licence and hook up with another friend around 8:30am.

-     Wal-mart’s licencing system has been down for two months. (I find that hard to believe that a major US retailer would be comfortable not being able to issue hunting and fishing licences to compliment their fairly large sporting goods department.)

-     A second Wal-mart had me paying at a different department because its sporting goods counter had run out of register tape and its supply of additional rolls. ( I thought Wal-mart had excellent service. It was a supercenter for goodness sake)

-     Without warning, speed limits are reduced from 55 to 35 in a matter of meters, or feet in this case. The State Trooper was most understanding and only warned me to pay closer attention to the road signs. ( I was trying to navigate the GPS and look for the next turn off while listening to Jack’s hunting story)

-     Taking wrong turns to get to the access point and then the incorrect trail, we finally touch water. It was 10am.

Meeting time was blown so we re-routed to a long shot. The Zoar Valley is incredible. The scenery and solitude alone, is worth the several hundred feet decent (approximately 400 though it feels like double on the way up).

Jack took a few keepsake pictures.

There was only one other truck and we never crossed paths with anyone else.

With each turn and run, we were hoping for decent action in such zenquil surroundings. It was so quiet even the sound of running water seemed lost in the open gorge. Jack would be only a few yards from me but any conversations seemed long distanced.

There was not much going on and we had covered quite a bit of ground. Had the aformentioned events not happened, we may have considered exploring a little more. Time had started to become a factor and we still wanted to meet up as planned earlier.

We climbed out, made our way to another section of the river and found our friend whom was winding down his efforts with decent results. Although we only briefly shared drifts, it was great to see him again.

It was not to be a day of internet fish numbers for us though we did not go home white-striped.

Jack got his first US trib fish. It was not the size of the fish but the joy and feeling of success written on his smile that summed it all up.

Today began as a quest for new water and refreshing the soul. It ended up strengthening a friendship. Jack is now part of those many tales I will go on to tell.

Spontaneity

St Patrick’s Day used to be a big day for us. The festivities would start right after lunch and carry on until the next morning. Wake up still intoxicated and the smell of alcohol coming out through our pores. We would scramble to the nearest greasy spoon for the hangover fix since we had missed the nightcap of street meat. Not so much anymore. These days the after effects of binge boozing outweigh the day’s entertainment and the several hundreds of dollars invested in this celebration. This St. Paddy’s I would go fishing after my son’s hockey game and come home to dinner and a movie.

It was the very first thoughts as soon as I was awaken by the alarm clock. It had to be a sign, right? I figured it would be the usual day consisting of a game followed by a putter around the house for the remainder of the day only to confirm after dinner that very little was accomplished. The week had an unforeseen hectic pace and it was time to drop it down a gear. Yesterday, the goal was to slow down, chill and enjoy the river for a few hours.

On the way up, I passed an old one room schoolhouse that has remained standing against all odds. I pondered how simple life would have been. The building is an incredible site in today’s society where buildings are blown up, torn down and new ones built over top, burying history.

And then there was this home, struggling to stay upright. Protected from overgrowth and trees younger than itself, its existence may not survive too many more wind storms and harsh winters. Unless you slow down and take your eyes off the road, chances are you will miss it. Set back from the county road, it will surely be forgotten as the farmer ploughs and grows his crops around it.

Arriving at the access point mid-afternoon, the air was quite warm. The sky was clear and bright blue. The sun was high, making its way westward. Getting out of the car, I immediately started to glow. I was overdressed.  Walking to the river, it felt like April, just before trout opener. The surroundings seem to be weeks ahead of Mother Nature’s normal spring schedule. As I reached the banks, I sat for a bit before setting up. There were two others already there. I watched them cast repeatedly in the same drift until the one nodded to the other and moments later; they had their rods broken down and their chins tucked under. The river itself had a nice colour to it. Not gin clear but also not that preferred steelhead green. None the less, a call for chartreuse was in order.

For the first two hours, I was simply washing hooks and exercising the lungs. I moved from drift to drift, seam to seam, making short presentations in order to maintain line control in the fast flow. The wind was picking up but the decision was made to go to the lake section of the river to chance on what may be making an early run in. I loaded up the float to its maximum. The slightest interest would pull it under and many times, the surface current did just that. The float would pop back up and I would soon learn this was to be the norm and not necessarily that I was catching bottom. On one particular drift, I feathered the float in between two seams, into a flat spot. The float disappeared and did not return to the surface.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working the glossy slicks in what turned out to be one of the most relaxing days on the river I have had in a while.