Saturday, March 2, 2013
Family and Fishing.: Fishing and sibling rivalry. pt 1.....
Family and Fishing.: Fishing and sibling rivalry. pt 1.....: As a fly fisherman I take equal pleasure out of every fish I catch. I try to take the time, despite often freezing hands and adrenalin, to ...
Friday, March 1, 2013
Fishing and sibling rivalry. pt 1.....
As a fly fisherman I take equal pleasure out of every fish I catch. I try to take the time, despite often freezing hands and adrenalin, to acknowledge the beauty and spirit of every fish hooked, landed and released no matter it's size or species. However, there are some days when the poetry is replaced by something else, something dark and competitive that clouds my judgement, sours my mood and can leave me blinded to my surroundings and my good fortune to be out on the water. In fairness, the darkness has not visited me on the water for many years now but in the past it was often brought on by the competitive nature of my two older brothers and in particular Charlie both my best friend and nemesis. Ah, good old fashioned sibling rivalry.
I was about 14 and the entire family was on a road trip, driving from Medicine Hat across the Alberta prairies, through the Rockies,onto Tofino and then finally doglegging back to Campbell River "Salmon Capital of the World!" We were all squished into the Dodge, resplendent with its fake wooden sidings and cruise control. The Gas Guzzler. The Beast. Fishing, needless to say, was high on the agenda and when we arrived at the Campbell River Lodge, we brothers three were in a state of high excitement under pinned by high tension that can only be caused by sitting in between your two older brothers for hours at a time, fighting for leg room and being engulfed in caustic farts, accompanied by a seemingly endless nightmare soundtrack of Country F.M. "I fucking hate Garth Brooks!" I could hear Piers hissing. "I fucking hate Toby Kieth!"
I had been gabbling on about the Campbell River being the home of Roderick Haig Brown and the spiritual home of Western Canadian fly fishing and I think my eldest brother Piers, who was visiting from U.K, was just about sick to his back teeth with my constant diatribe! With hindsight, I'm pretty sure he had procured some Tofino dope and was smoking it at every opportunity he got and looking back I hardly blame him....So far the fishing had been tough for us. We were conditioned to stalking the wily chalk stream trout of southern England and these big Western waters were intimidating, hard to read and just waiting to destroy my little Hardy 4 weight and delicately placed Pale Morning Dun. When we walked into the local fly shop to ask for advice we were told that the trout fishing was iffy and were advised to target Pink Salmon. The dude then handed us an assortment of monstrous looking Pink Shrimps and told us to get them down and dead drift them and let them swing. I wasn't having any of it. After all I was a dry fly specialist and I was not going to lower my standards and flog the water with a handful of satanic looking pink Shrimps! It was practically cheating and very un-English! I was going to catch fat, Campbell River trout on dry flies like Roderick Haig Brown and that was that. Charlie on the other hand was soon tying on a Shrimp and with a shrug was off, sliding in between two red faced gear fisherman who welcomed him into the huddle with a "Hooowdoo?".
The river was crowded. It was pushing 35 degrees and the banks were lined with ice cream vendors. I tried to visualize Roderick shoulder to shoulder with Texans chucking big spoons and smoking fat cigars. I couldn't. Although I hooked a few small fish the idyllic Campbell River of my dreams was rapidly losing its alure. As I sat on the river bank I tried to ignore a whoop from my brother as another gullible, uncouth Pink Salmon peeled line off his Orvis Battenkill.
"You should give the dry a rest mate!" Charlie yelled. "These Pinks are awesome!"
"I'm a dry fly fisherman Charlie." I replied sourly.
"Suit yourself."
I don't know how many salmon Charlie landed before I finally swallowed my pride and any misguided notions of conceited dry-fly-superiority and approached him, meekly, palms cupped in front of me and look of humble respect on my face. Fly fishing was changing forever!
"Could you lend me a Shrimp mate?"
Charlie looked at me and laughed. "No. Piss off!" he grinned maliciously.
"You can't be serious?" I gasped. "Please Charlie!"
"No. Go and fish your gay little dry fly while I rip into some more salmon!"
I remember realizing that he wasn't going to lend me the fly. I remember the blood filling my face and tears of pure, white anger welling up and yelling "FUCK YOU DICK HEAD!FUCK YOUUUU!" as I stormed off up the bank, with his laughter stinging my back mixed with the guffaws of the beet faced Texans who had clearly enjoyed the show. I also clearly remember, once I had calmed down, hours later, thinking that Charlie had inadvertently taught me a profound lesson and that I probably deserved to be taken down a peg or two. Looking back it all seems so ridiculous and a touch "ironical" (Holden Caulfield) as I now spend an irresponsible amount of time skating flies for B.C Steelhead. Those chuckling chalk streams of yesteryear. Where have you gone? Charlie still lives in England and doesn't fish as often as he should. He will politely sit and listen, through gritted teeth as I retell tales of cartwheeling Steelhead, 50 inch Muskie following my popper and the mind blowing magnificence of the Canadian wilderness. So now when I'm out on the water, casting, alone with my thoughts, I silently utter thanks to Charlie for being a twat and not lending me that ghastly pink shrimp! Thanks Charlie!
I don't have any recollection of seeing Piers that entire day. He was probably stoned somewhere. Too cool. Piers had his moment of glory the following day out in the ocean, trolling herring for Chinook and Coho but that story will have to wait, on the ebbing tide of our memories. I love my brothers.
I was about 14 and the entire family was on a road trip, driving from Medicine Hat across the Alberta prairies, through the Rockies,onto Tofino and then finally doglegging back to Campbell River "Salmon Capital of the World!" We were all squished into the Dodge, resplendent with its fake wooden sidings and cruise control. The Gas Guzzler. The Beast. Fishing, needless to say, was high on the agenda and when we arrived at the Campbell River Lodge, we brothers three were in a state of high excitement under pinned by high tension that can only be caused by sitting in between your two older brothers for hours at a time, fighting for leg room and being engulfed in caustic farts, accompanied by a seemingly endless nightmare soundtrack of Country F.M. "I fucking hate Garth Brooks!" I could hear Piers hissing. "I fucking hate Toby Kieth!"
I had been gabbling on about the Campbell River being the home of Roderick Haig Brown and the spiritual home of Western Canadian fly fishing and I think my eldest brother Piers, who was visiting from U.K, was just about sick to his back teeth with my constant diatribe! With hindsight, I'm pretty sure he had procured some Tofino dope and was smoking it at every opportunity he got and looking back I hardly blame him....So far the fishing had been tough for us. We were conditioned to stalking the wily chalk stream trout of southern England and these big Western waters were intimidating, hard to read and just waiting to destroy my little Hardy 4 weight and delicately placed Pale Morning Dun. When we walked into the local fly shop to ask for advice we were told that the trout fishing was iffy and were advised to target Pink Salmon. The dude then handed us an assortment of monstrous looking Pink Shrimps and told us to get them down and dead drift them and let them swing. I wasn't having any of it. After all I was a dry fly specialist and I was not going to lower my standards and flog the water with a handful of satanic looking pink Shrimps! It was practically cheating and very un-English! I was going to catch fat, Campbell River trout on dry flies like Roderick Haig Brown and that was that. Charlie on the other hand was soon tying on a Shrimp and with a shrug was off, sliding in between two red faced gear fisherman who welcomed him into the huddle with a "Hooowdoo?".
The river was crowded. It was pushing 35 degrees and the banks were lined with ice cream vendors. I tried to visualize Roderick shoulder to shoulder with Texans chucking big spoons and smoking fat cigars. I couldn't. Although I hooked a few small fish the idyllic Campbell River of my dreams was rapidly losing its alure. As I sat on the river bank I tried to ignore a whoop from my brother as another gullible, uncouth Pink Salmon peeled line off his Orvis Battenkill.
"You should give the dry a rest mate!" Charlie yelled. "These Pinks are awesome!"
"I'm a dry fly fisherman Charlie." I replied sourly.
"Suit yourself."
I don't know how many salmon Charlie landed before I finally swallowed my pride and any misguided notions of conceited dry-fly-superiority and approached him, meekly, palms cupped in front of me and look of humble respect on my face. Fly fishing was changing forever!
"Could you lend me a Shrimp mate?"
Charlie looked at me and laughed. "No. Piss off!" he grinned maliciously.
"You can't be serious?" I gasped. "Please Charlie!"
"No. Go and fish your gay little dry fly while I rip into some more salmon!"
I remember realizing that he wasn't going to lend me the fly. I remember the blood filling my face and tears of pure, white anger welling up and yelling "FUCK YOU DICK HEAD!FUCK YOUUUU!" as I stormed off up the bank, with his laughter stinging my back mixed with the guffaws of the beet faced Texans who had clearly enjoyed the show. I also clearly remember, once I had calmed down, hours later, thinking that Charlie had inadvertently taught me a profound lesson and that I probably deserved to be taken down a peg or two. Looking back it all seems so ridiculous and a touch "ironical" (Holden Caulfield) as I now spend an irresponsible amount of time skating flies for B.C Steelhead. Those chuckling chalk streams of yesteryear. Where have you gone? Charlie still lives in England and doesn't fish as often as he should. He will politely sit and listen, through gritted teeth as I retell tales of cartwheeling Steelhead, 50 inch Muskie following my popper and the mind blowing magnificence of the Canadian wilderness. So now when I'm out on the water, casting, alone with my thoughts, I silently utter thanks to Charlie for being a twat and not lending me that ghastly pink shrimp! Thanks Charlie!
I don't have any recollection of seeing Piers that entire day. He was probably stoned somewhere. Too cool. Piers had his moment of glory the following day out in the ocean, trolling herring for Chinook and Coho but that story will have to wait, on the ebbing tide of our memories. I love my brothers.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
It's been a cold winter in Ottawa with some jaw juddering lows of -40 and some good snow storms that went on to batter Eastern Canada and Newfoundland causing massive electrical outages and general disruption. For all my complaining and whinging about the weather I take note that it could always be worse. In fact, as a family we have made some serious inroads into embracing Ottawa winters. Skiing. It's hard and well, lets face it simply dishonest to attempt to glamorize our local ski hill but with its 400 vertical feet of icy glides and the one circa 1800 chair lift that creaks and groans its way to the summit - however, we have still managed to find some kind of winter solice amongst the chattering teeth and watered down hot chocolate. It's simply astonishing how one can adjust to sitting and slowly freezing to death in the 15 minutes it takes to reach the top with the promise of a 31 second 'schuss' back down to join the line up of die hard locals, all with back-slapping-shiiit-we're-tough-grins frozen, quite literally to their wind rasped faces. There is of course a sense of solid satisfaction and a quite reaffirmation of one's manhood for sticking it out in -45 conditions (with wind chill) with a wife who is 'cold intolerant' and a 5 year old boy that has a habit of throwing his gloves off the chair lift with absolutely no sense of fear. "Can I jump off the Chair Wift Dad?" Noah's L's are being elusive. "No," I reply making a mental note of the cast away mitt and handing him mine with a wince. Skiing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)