The fish and the man
The fast, swirling stream glittered in the sun. The sky, free of everything but blue. The wind was light to the touch. Bugs voraciously attacked every bare inch of skin, but they were ignored because a nice brook trout was at the end of my line.
The wall of willows was tough on the light line and hooks would get stuck on just about everything in a stream that had beaver dam debris from eons ago. Your cast had to be accurate and your lure had to tease brookies from their hiding spots in the shade. Your hip waders had to automatically judge depth while maintaining adequate grip on the slippery rocks beneath the current. Falls were as frequent as the swear words and the laughs that followed. In the range of 400 metres or so, the walk from start to finish took a few hours, casting and catching fish from favourite perches on rock outcrops jutting out of the rapid waters.
As evening approached, we noticed that uncle, who mysteriously disappeared every morning, kept coming back with monster trout. His haul made our catch of small fish look rather measly. I often wondered where he disappeared to on the long trek to our fishing spot as the years went by and this scene was repeated. Uncle, with his wry humour, would tell us it was easier sitting down and fishing than walking down a stream for hours. Finally, I saw his spot and it was very close to our departure point from the camp, a little pool that was barely 20 feet across and joined to the creek with a narrow channel. He used a fly rod and was happily pulling in the big ones!
Back in the day, we were weaned on sucker fishing by the riverside. The lure and bait recipes were treated as top secret and no one, absolutely no one, would ever part with their magic portions of water, flour and salt. This was sucker bait, by the way. A cast from a string, stick hook and sinker bait combo would definitely bring them in.
Later, when we were introduced to the fishing rod, some scoffed at the invention. They said that nets are much more efficient and noted that you didn’t have to be there for the fish when they were caught. In fact, I read about fishing rods before I ever used one, being informed by the great novel, The Old Man and the Sea, by the late, great Ernest Hemingway.
Today, the art of fly fishing is making it more challenging and fun. It’s the new way of the sport that has been around for more than a century. It would be nice if there was a fly-fishing contest for us land lubbers who can’t afford a 200-horsepower, twin-hulled craft with beer can coolers and a Siri-operated fish finder. Like heck, it’s not like the fish will swim faster than your boat. It’s about the power of attraction that matters. It’s all in the little piece of a hook tied to feathers and threads that could come apart in a rough bout with an angry trout. The lure could be made by you or made in Asia, but what matters is how much does that fish want your fly or lure.
Fishing is fun, except when the hook gets caught, the line breaks, the fish gets away, the fish tries to bite or eat you, the bugs are eating you, your rod breaks, your line tangles, or you fall in and nearly drown. Yeah, those kinds of un-fun things. Meanwhile, back in the rez, the towns are hopping with concerts, celebrations, vacations, weddings, beaches and movies. But who cares about those things while you are fishing?