SGN Page 18

Friday
April 20, 2007
SGN.org

Volume 35
Issue 16

search only SGN online

Sunday, Oct 12, 2008

PREVIOUS EDITIONS

SGN ADVERTISING INFORMATION

site map

Suicidal Blackwater trout

Suicidal Blackwater trout
by Rev. Barbara Allen, CMP - SGN Contributing Writer I'd had an hour or so of good instruction from Dusty about how to hold a fly rod, use the reel, "lay out line", cast by going first forward to 9 o'clock, then back to 2 o'clock with a slight pause so that the line could straighten itself out in mid-air, then gracefully but forcefully forward again releasing line while focusing on where one wanted the fly to "alight". I'd read cover to cover the illustrated Cunningham Fly Fishing Bible she'd provided. We'd brought tackle along including special lures called "flies," many of which had been hand tied by she and her kids. This family might not pray together, but loved fly fishing together. It was their passionate pursuit, reason for living, complete with its own rituals, vestments, "bible", dogma, sacred ritual objects, and gurus. They collected odd bits and pieces of things, feathers, wool, fur, whatever, to later be used creatively as an art form in creating flies. There were special "vises" for holding a hook while the fly was built around it, forceps and other tools. It takes a steady hand and a great deal of finesse to tie proper flies, each of which mimics the natural fish food of the area and season. A fascinating art with a functional purpose. I'd carefully watched the film: "A River Runs Through It", on DVD, stopping and reviewing casting as shown by what Dusty later identified as respected expert fly fishermen being "stunt doubles". The natural beauty of the river was inspiring. There is a scene in which one of the young men has learned to create airborne figure eights and other graceful, lovely patterns above his head with the fly line for long periods of time before completing a forward cast. It was all fascinating to me, who had only lure fished before using conventional reels, spinning reels, monofilament lines with bobbers, live, frozen or jarred bait or the kind of lures you'd buy at the hardware or sporting goods store. And so it was that shortly after our float plane landed at the Eucheniko Lodge dock, and we'd had lunch, we were in an aluminum open boat skimming across Eucheniko Lake and up the Blackwater River. The sun glittered bright diamonds upon the water, blue sky, clean fresh wilderness air (so long as we stayed upwind from the noisy gasoline outboard motor), white wake astern, wearing warm hats with brims, life preservers, fishing vests over warm jackets, special multi-pocketed fishing sport shirts from Sierra Trading or Cabela's, sun block, and mosquito repellent. While the weather was mild in the early afternoon, it would become cold on our way home, including a wind chill factor. Layering was prudent. The river and lake had frozen over the northern winter. Fish had survived as from the beginning of time, on the little they could find beneath, and now with the ice gone, and water flowing freely, were RAVENOUS! Insects were beginning to hatch-out. Prime fly fishing time! Dusty and our guide, Darcy, discussed and selected the proper dry flies to use for these conditions&set up the rods&and Dusty began casting flawlessly. In the next 2 minutes she caught eight fish, 5 of them "Squaw fish", and three young fighting Rainbow Trout. I'd never heard of such fast and furious fishing, (except perhaps from a barrel, tank, or overstocked commercial trout pond). Darcy swiftly, deftly, released them as fast as she caught them, while she cast out again and caught ever more. I watched, amazed, happy for her joyful success. This was apparently a fly fisher woman's dream come true. Eventually they noticed my open-mouthed awe and urged me to cast, which I wasn't in a hurry to do, never having tried to use a fly rod from a seated position in a boat as she could. Hoping I wouldn't embarrass myself, I swung forward, laid out about 20 feet of line, brought the rod back, but never had a chance to go forward getting the fly to the intended area of the river. On the back-cast, before I could cast forward, a rainbow trout had flashed out of the water and grabbed my fly. I had to reel the fish in backwards! After an hour of us fighting off fish, which hit the flies as fast as we could cast them, and with some fish trying to leap into the boat, I concluded that Blackwater fish were suicidal, at least at this time of season. Dave, the Lodge owner, had allowed before we went out that I could catch and keep one trout only&.I did, the biggest catch of the late afternoon, a 15 incher shared at dinner with everyone. Dusty went fishing without fail, every day, mostly with Darcy as guide, once with Dave. I went along four times, fishing three of them. My last day on the Blackwater, I became more interested in how I was casting, remembered scenes from the movie "A River Runs Through It", and managed to keep the line aloft in circles or figure eights while laying out more line with each horizontal cycle until I got close to 30 feet, which sometimes laid down well, but, with any light breeze, might not. I'd lost interest in catch and release, which seemed a unilateral sport, not enjoyed by both sides. Fishermen enjoyed it, fish did not. Just handling a fish can compromise its protective skin coating. Sometimes the hook caught on their eye, which bled just as ours might if so injured. The fish needed food in order to survive. Catch and release is not about humans needing food. The Buddhist in me wasn't comfortable with potential harm done to some of God's creatures in the name of sport, whether trophy hunting animals or aquatic life. Fishing and hunting were for me part of ancient instinctive food gathering for survival. (I might have been the only person for hundreds of miles with that viewpoint, which could have bothered the lodge folk if expressed. Lodge owners Maureen and Dave Harrington hunted their own meat, including moose, and pleasant moose meatloaf was on the dinner menu one evening.) Instead I went into a state of "Buddhist Beginners Mind", meditated as part of nature, enjoyed photographing the great beauty of the area, when not lulled by breezes rustling, fluttering birch leaves, seeing from the water huge lived-in beaver lodges, one after another on the shore of the river, white pelicans (I'd mistakenly thought they were strictly a southern bird), eagles, and moose grazing in a fresh water marsh. I remembered and honored our National Park Rules: "Take nothing but a photograph, leave nothing but a footprint." In fairness, it must also be noted that some of the most effective organizations and lobby's protecting our waters and fisheries are sportsmen's groups, including fly fishermen. Those who love this sport, support keeping rivers and lakes clean, unpolluted, and an environment in which trout, steelhead and other varieties can thrive. As with most ecologists and environmentalists, they want to see this great beauty and resource preserved in perpetuity, not just in designated National Parks and Forests. As we'd headed north in British Columbia, we'd noted large areas of pine trees that looked brown or black. From our youthful lodge guides we heard that this was because of the "Japanese" pine beetle. Darcy gave me a small piece of bark with a pinhole in it that the beetles had used to burrow into the tree. They blamed this plague on the Japanese, and on the B.C. government, which hadn't burned the first area which showed the infestation, thereby stopping it from spreading. I learned later that the infestation was related to global warming and climate change, which made proliferation possible for the insects because the winters were no longer cold enough to keep them in check. Later on, I'd hear that the wood of the infected, dying or dead trees, turned purple, and might have use in the furniture industry. Whatever it was or is, it's devastating B.C. forests. Yet, it's ridiculous to blame it on any Asian nation. The pine beetles had always been there. Our irresponsibility in contributing to Global Warming was destroying the B.C. lumber industry, and more. On the second day up the Blackwater, we were not alone. Two men in full fly fishing regalia were wading in the river. They'd been brought in by a float plane from another lodge, which landed and checked on them while we were there, then left, assured the men were enjoying themselves. They'd be picked up in time for dinner at their lodge, a distance away. Darcy did not take us to his most favored spot that day, for which we could not blame him, but to another less productive area. Guides, like mushroom hunters, protect their secrets. On the fourth fishing day, I agreed to accompany Dusty and Darcy on a Polaris 6x6 AWD Ranger trip down the historic rugged Alexander McKenzie Trail to a good easy entry at another part of the river for wade fishing instead of sitting in a boat. Declining to put on waders and boots or to fish, I quietly enjoyed and photographed the river, nibbled on the mild aquatic mint that grows underwater there. We ate our brown bag lunch, she happily continued fishing, seated in the stream on a chair Darcy provided, and moved for her as needed, because Dusty uses two crutches and cannot stand long, or use a pole for support and fish at the same time. I napped on the seat of the vehicle, swatted at mosquitoes and black flies; listened to the water, wind, trees, and watched the sky, which became dark. Then wind, rain, sharp hail, thunder and lightning struck. We were out of the river as fast as possible, soaking wet in the Polaris which had a roof, but no windows, driving at top speed through a now flooding and slippery mud trail, lightning and thunder crashing around us -- high drama -- arriving back at the Lodge compound soaking wet. Darcy dropped us off at our rustic log cabin, then went to check on the other visitors who had gone upriver to fish: California businessmen and their wives who dressed in designer jeans. The Hollywood-sophisticated blonde had worn her mink trimmed denim jacket. She and her outfit now looked more like wet dog (but smelled better). The wives were not happy about what the deluge had done to their hair, makeup, and clothing. Further, the cabins had no electricity for hair dryers! We just wanted to get dry and warm again. As quickly as the storm had struck, after a while it ceased and passed on. We toweled off, changed clothes, hung our soaked things up to dry, then enjoyed drinks, appetizers, a delicious hot dinner, good Canadian wine and beer at the Lodge. Having survived the deluge, full of food and liquid cheer, the California husbands set their cigars aside to play vehicular polo using croquet mallets and ball. One mounted the lawn tractor, the other an ATV, and they squared off. Then, all retired to their log cabins for a night's rest. (I think Dave was relieved his guests didn't want to use his trail horses for polo that night.) Thereafter, as I recall, the wives went trail riding with Dave, and came back with tales of his derring-do dealing with his semi-broken mount. Dave had been a rodeo competitor. After a week, we enplaned back to Nimpo Lake, the RV park, and Laundromat; unpacking and stowing clothing and gear; and dealing with intense humidity and swarms of voracious insatiable mosquitoes. For the past week, daytime temperatures had been in the 90's. There was no let-up predicted. We briefly considered driving west on Hwy. 20 to Bella Coola, but the infamous 18-percent grade deterred us, particularly in the heat. Dining in the closest restaurants wasn't exciting. We headed back, east towards Williams Lake on the same difficult road we'd come in on. It would turn out to be a dangerous frightening and stressful day I'll never forget, with us needing rescue from real peril. But, that is another story.


After dinner lawn polo