I’m not a religious person. Far from it really. But I swear…there’s someone up there who really likes to mess with me.
Two weeks ago, after a few missed attempts over the months, I finally got a chance to accompany my fishing buddy Steve Ford in his shiny aluminum drift boat on a full days drift down the upper fly fishing only section of the Cowichan River, here on Vancouver Island. As we prepped for the trip the river was sitting at a nice level, with just the right amount of flow and colour in it to make a person dream that the possibility existed of catching a nice chrome winter steelhead on the fly.
Gear loaded, hopes high, and the lunch I had so painstakingly made the night before left in the fridge at home (not the first time) we hit the river early in the early morning and spent a full day fishing with fly rods and boxes full of magic gear that was “guaranteed to work”. Over the course of the 8 hours on the water, we saw hundreds of spawning trout pairing up in the gravels, and a few steelhead that were extremely wary of anything floating near, above, or beside them. Super nice to see so many fish, and equally super frustrating to watch them ignore fly, after fly, after fly.
Out of the three experienced fly fisherman aboard, and despite valiant efforts by all of us, only one trout was landed for the day, and another one caught for a very brief moment before spit the fly out.But a day wasted? Hell no. I made a new friend, saw some new stretches of the river, and spent some quality time with a good friend.
After that trip, I started thinking about drifting the river again….and soon. With the trout soon to finish spawning, their focus would be back to eating and replenishing their energy, and it would be a bonanza of opportunity to catch multiple fish each day. The weather is also starting to warm up, and hatches of mayfly are starting to become more frequent. So with all that in mind I committed to taking another shot at it the following weekend.
Skip ahead now to the following Sunday, 7 days after the original trip. Not having Steve around meant the aluminum drift boat was out of play, so instead I packed up the Water Master raft, and committed to a solo trip instead. It was my first time with the Water Master, having previously only drifted using my Water Skeeter River Guide pontoon which while larger, is considerable heavier and more cumbersome for one guy. With the boat set up and loaded with two rods and more variety of flies than I would ever need, I set off to duplicate the drift from the week before.
As soon as I got settled in the boat and underway, I saw the same large numbers of spawning trout flitting back and forth below me, jockeying for the best position, best mate, and most promising gravel reds. But as I headed down the first few kilometres of river, stopping at the same spots we had stopped 7 days prior, I noticed that the river had significantly more volume moving through it, and that the spots I had previously comfortably stood and cast from were now difficult for me to maintain my balance in with the increased flow and depth. Once again the fishing gods had played their games and dealt me a bum hand. God damn it! It never fails.
So what do you do when faced with this? Stomp your feet and get grumpy? Or blame Donald Trump for his lack of protection against Global Warming (fake news apparently)? I did what any fisherman does when faced with adversity. I stood back, soaked it in, and decided that the worst thing that could happen to me that day is that I had not tried. So, with a good 12 km of river left to drift before the takeout point I put on a heavy T17 sink tip, a weighted egg pattern fly, and flogged the fast moving water the best I could. I knew that it was unlikely to produce anything, but honestly I didn’t care. I was just happy being out on the river and enjoying quite time amongst the mossy trees and cool clean water.
When I had started my day, there had been two inches of fresh snow on the ground and a damp chill in the air. But as the morning became afternoon, the sun came out and took the snow away, giving rise to a crisp spring day with patches of warm sun that reinvigorated the soul, not to mention my cold and wet hands.
With the increased river height came larger rapids to deal with, with bigger and heavier standing waves to maneuver around and over. Being the first time out on the Water Master, and being used to sitting much higher above the water level in my pontoon, I’ll admit to being a bit nervous at first. But after running though some of the heavier sections of water and feeling how stable the raft felt, I quickly gained confidence in the little boat and soon felt right at home. My only complaint was that being closer to the water meant I got more water in my face than normal. Who needs Disneyland..I had my very own private Splash Mountain! But overall, I was very pleased with the raft, and I’m keen to take it on some new adventures this year.
As I came to the last few kilometres of river, I came across a slow moving section with deep green pools of water that just begged to be probed with rod and line. I fished a long stretch of the this section, quartering my way down the entire run hoping to get that tug on the leader at the end of the swing. As I cast and waded, the air was suddenly full of swallows, swooping and whirling through the air like mini fighter jets in hot pursuit of their prey. There were so many at one point that I stopped and watched, amazed at just how these tiny birds are able to not only spot mayflies and other insects on the wing and catch them mid air, but also pick them off the surface as well.
I must have stood there for a good 15 minutes, watching some of them dip into the water, and then miraculously “fly” our of it. As I observed the swallows, I heard the familiar streaking call of a Bald Eagle, and soon spotted him sitting high atop a big Maple, overlooking the whole stretch of river. With the leaves still not out on the trees, I was also able to spot his nest, just a hundred meters or so from where I was standing. It was a massive structure, having been built and reused by the Eagle year after year. How cool would it be to climb that tree and take a look inside!
Having soaked up the scene, I hopped back into my little raft and made the run the last few km to the take out point, where my friends would be waiting to pick me up and take me back to my launching point and my truck. I hadn’t caught any fish, but who cares. I had been serenaded by huge fallen trees hanging down into the river and drumming off the bottom of the river bed in a rhythmic beat. I had heard the soft whispering of a cedar tree’s fronds being brushed by rushing water as they dangled gingerly against the surface. I’d gazed dreamily at slow flying brown mayfly spinners as they made they way through the air, as if in slow motion, as their singular day of life took flight. I had watched more trout than I’ve ever seen dance amongst the boulders and the gravel, as they courted their mates and their hopes to pass on their genes to the next generation. And I had felt the warmth of the sun on my face as I lay down on a dry gravel bar to enjoy a snooze after lunch.
So my advice to you all is this. The fishing gods can be cruel and fickle and Murphy’s Law will apply more times than not. But do not despair…simply sit back, and enjoy the ride.
Back in the late part of the summer of 2016, I was introduced to my next door neighbours son in-law Mark Shannon, visiting from Calgary,who had been admiring my ocean boat from across the yard. After a quick conversation in the late day on a beauty of a summers evening, I soon found out that like myself, Mark had been bitten by the fishing bug and it wasn’t long before we quickly found ourselves in conversation over Steelhead, spey fishing, and the thrill of catching these incredible fish. Mark mentioned that he would be back again in the fall, so I threw out an invitation for him to bring his waders and fly gear, and hit me up for a day on the water. As I left and went back next door I remarked to my wife that I had met a fellow Steelheader, and that we may cross paths again. I wasn’t sure if I would ever get call from Mark, but something told me he was genuine in his interest to go fishing on Vancouver Island again.
Fast forward now to November, when I received a call from his mother in-law at my house. “Mark’s coming for 10 days, and wanted to know if you were up for a day of fishing? Could you forward me your cell number” she said. “Sure!” I replied quickly, why not! Mark had just returned from his annual guys fly fishing trip to the Smithers area, and after connecting up with him via text I was soon receiving photos of his recent trip and the amazing fish he was fortunate enough to hook into. It was completely unfair mind you that I was receiving these photos while at work, thus making my desire to hit the river grow from the usual gnawing in my stomach to a raging impulse to throw on the gear and go! After a week of texting back and forth, swapping stories, and connecting up on social media, we made our plans for a day on the river and I waited for his arrival.
For those of you who know the Pacific Northwest, you’ll be more than familiar with the term “when it rains, it pours”. And rain it did. Each and every day for the week prior to Mark’s arrival it rained, and rained hard. Knowing how easily the rivers here are affected from the runoff, and our plans to hit them with fly gear on the weekend, I was getting a bit concerned that our fishing day would be ruined. As each evening passed I was watching the hydrographic reports, checking river levels, and watching them peak higher, and higher. “This can’t be good” I said, watching one of the indicator rivers I was eyeballing hit a huge spike of water flow two days before Mark’s arrival. I observed the levels rise…1 meter above the norm, then 2 meters. Things were not going my way! Then miraculously on the Wednesday night before our planned trip on Saturday, things changed in our favour. The rain eased off, and for the next two days I saw the river levels plummet back down. On the evening before our trip, the river had settled into a fishable level and we were pumped for a fun day!
As any Steelheader will tell you, the best time to catch fish on the move is a few days after high water, as the levels come down and the clarity improves. As I went to bed on Friday night and confirmed an early start time of 6AM with Mark, I could barely sleep for excitement. Over the week I had learned that Mark was a professional photographer (Mark11 Photography, ww.Mark11.com) and we had agreed to collaborate with his photos, and my writing. As an amateur photographer myself I was excited to see his work, and to be part of something cool. Most of the time I am behind the lens so it was a new experience to consider not only being in front of it, but to also see Mark’s work and check out his perspective and take on fishing photography as well.
At 6AM Mark and I took off in the dark and rain, intending to fish a section of the Gordon River near Port Renfrew BC that I knew would provide some interesting terrain and a decent likelihood of running across some Steelhead. Over the course of the hour and half drive out to the river, the rains were pretty consistent and sometimes pretty heavy, but I was feeling confident at the river levels I had seen online the day before. My optimism might have been a bit misguided, but I was excited about the day ahead so I pushed it aside and pressed on.
When daylight found us, we had made our way to the lower section of the Gordon river, fully fuelled by caffeine and the thought of fishing. Intent on checking out the river heights, I headed to the logging road that follows the river from Port Renfrew to Honeymoon Bay, stopping on the high bridge that overlooks a lower section of the river. Much to my dismay, the river was raging heavily, and had swollen to the point where it had completely consumed any exposed gravel bars that are normally available to walking and casting. “Aw crap!” I said to Mark, “Looks like the upper Gordon is a no go. But, don’t worry I have a few other spots that may not be so bad”. Truth be told, I really wasn’t certain of that. But with Mark keen to go and check, I was up for the trip. My heart sank when I realized that it must have rained heavy all night long, and that I should have checked the river levels before I left from home.
Backtracking along the logging road, I took us up to another location, this time along the San Juan River instead. The San Juan is a nice spot to fish, meandering down from higher elevations in the Port Renfrew area, stopping to spill briefly into Fairy Lake and then onwards to empty into the ocean at Port San Juan. In November the river is usually full of spawning salmon, a mixture of Chum, Coho and Sockeye. The Chum and Sockeye would be well past looking pretty, spawning earlier in the fall. But the Coho should be in better shape, being the last to enter the rivers and traveling the highest. With Steelheading looking out of the question, I figured Mark might enjoy trying for some fresh Coho instead.
Finding a place to park the truck, we geared up and gave the San Juan a go. Once we got down to the river banks, we could see that the water levels were quite high, and well into the trees. Not to be beaten, we waded into the water to see what we were able to do. Unfortunately, it wasn’t very much! With the water so high in the river, trying to find enough “air” to move a 14ft spey road was a challenge. Wading deeper into the river, we were faced with either not enough space due to flooded trees overhead, or sudden drop offs that put you in a precarious position. After only a half and hour, we conceded defeat at this spot and decided to try elsewhere.
Heading back along the bumpy logging road we passed a side road that looked like it held some potential in getting us closer to another part of the river. We parked the truck and headed off into the bush, using our best guess as to direction and hoping that we would hit the river. Bushwalking in the rain, getting showered by a fresh deluge from above each time we bumped against a tree or grabbed a limb for stability, we made our way over a steep bank and down to a small stream below. Thinking that this may be a side channel to the river proper we followed it
for some time, watching in amazement as huge Northern Coho scooted along by our feet through the rapids, and in some spots catching glimpses of Cutthroat Trout hanging back behind them waiting for freshly disturbed eggs to float by. After following the stream for some time, we realized it was not going to lead us anywhere promising so we humped it back up the hill, and back to the truck.
It was now raining hard, and we were hungry so the most logical thing to do was head to the local pub for some heat, some food, and a few beers to decide our next move. Knowing now that the rivers around Port Renfrew were a bust, the only fall back plan I had was to head back toward home and stop in town of Sooke on our way home, and throw some flys in the Sooke River for Chum and Coho Salmon. After a nice hot meal, we got back in the truck and made tracks for Sooke.
At the end of our day, I at least did manage to hook a few fishing the Sooke River. Nothing to brag about though, as I caught 1 nasty old Chum, but I did manage 1 fairly fresh one as well. With our day wrapped up with not much success, we broke down our gear and turned for home. As far as fishing went, the day was a bust but as far as making a new fishing friend, I think it was a great success! Over the next few days we hung out some more, spending the entire following day searching for bears and lower water along with another friend of mine further out on the Nitinat River system. We had lots of laughs, ate well, had a few drinks,
and generally had a great time. It’s days like this that I have to remind myself that it’s not all about the fish. It’s about the experience, about friends old and new, and appreciating the gifts that surround us in nature. Sure it would have been awesome to post some great “Grip and Grin” photos of us with dime bright Coho’s or spectacular winter run Steelhead, along with this story, but I get just a big a kick looking at the photos we both took regardless of the fact that there were no fish. And that’s really how it ought to be, isn’t it?
Until next time.
Well here we are again..it’s the fall (my personal favourite), the weather is changing, fish are making their move from ocean to river, and that means that a fishing trip must be in the books!
Those of you who’ve read past posts will know how my stories normally begin. A phone call is received, followed by more calls, searches on Google Earth, selection of a site, confirmation of time off at work, last minute gear organization and fly tying, and then the countdown to departure begins. This fall my friends and I decided to forgo the normal pattern of finding somewhere that was boat or float plane access only, in favour of something a little more accessible and easier to retreat from (or relocate) if things didn’t co-operate with the weather, wildlife, or the fishing. Sure it would have been great to swoop in somewhere in a de Havilland Beaver, or nice 30 foot aluminum water taxi, but sometimes as much as those trips are great it’s not always required. More often than not, there are fish closer by, easier to access, with no aircraft space/weight restrictions to worry about. I mean after all, how can you pack your Coleman stove, oven, coffeemaker, portable heater, and all the other “essentials” in a float plane!
Our destination this year was the Artlish River, located on the west coast of Vancouver Island approximately 45km by logging road from the nearest town of Woss, BC. From Victoria, it’s about a six hour drive from house to campsite, and since I was really wanting to stay at home for an early Thanksgiving feast, I had planned to meet up with the rest of the boys a few days into their trip. So on a sunny Sunday afternoon, with temperatures in the teens, I kissed my wife goodbye and left home just after 5pm with plans of heading as far north on the island as I felt I was able to, before stopping for the night. Truth be told I could have made it the whole way in one sitting, but not being familiar with the logging road routes I needed to take I decided that waiting for daylight would be more prudent.
As darkness fell, my excitement started to grow as I begin thinking of the fishing, the bears, and my friends and I soon found that I had no problem staying wide awake for the journey, making it almost the entire way to the turn off past Woss by about 10:30pm. I knew of a fully equipped rest stop about 5km or so south of Woss, complete with luxurious washroom facilities, so upon reaching it I cleared out the passenger seat of my truck, curled up in my sleeping bag as best I could, and tried my hardest to sleep. I say try, because not matter how late it got I just couldn’t wait to get going and had a heck of a time! So, many, many rounds of Candy Crush later, and about 100 pages into my new novel for the trip, I finally crashed.
When 6:00am finally came around, and since I was now awake and ready to rock and roll I stashed my sleeping bag, took a quick walk around the parking lot (aka..went to the can) and after admiring the amazing display of starlight hopped in the truck and hit the gas. For some reason I had figured that Woss, being a logging town, would have a restaurant open early to cater to the loggers. So with a growling stomach I flicked on the blinker and eased my way off the highway into town to see what I could scrounge up to eat.
Now, if you’ve never been to Woss at night, well, it’s something else. Not even 200 meters from the highway is the Lucky Logger Pub, and General Store, which is lit up with flashing led lights along the roofline and edges of the buildings to a degree that would probably outshine most EDM clubs in a big city. It was ridiculous! I should have grabbed a photo but to be honest I was too hungry and just wanted to find somewhere to eat. As it turned out the town had nothing to offer me at that time of day, so after driving around for a bit and seeing the lights of logging vehicles and trucks everywhere as they warmed up for the day I figured it was a wash, and headed back on the highway.
About 20km from Woss I hit the Zeballos Road Junction, where the logging road that leads towards the communities of Zeballos and Fair Harbour meets up with BC highway 19. Turning off onto the logging road and passing a few logging trucks checking the chains on their loads prior to getting on the asphalt, it felt good to feel the rattle of the dirt road beneath my wheels again. I love driving on gravel roads, always have, and I think it goes way back to living on a dirt road myself growing up as a kid in rural Newfoundland on the east coast of Canada. The feel of the road, the spit of the gravel against the wheel wells, even the view of the dust cloud swirling behind me in the rear view mirror gives me a good feeling inside and considering that most of my adventures seem to start this way (combined with memories of coming home from school) I guess it all makes sense. Some sort of Pavlovian response to the call of the open road and what lies ahead perhaps. Either way, I love it.
After an pretty uneventful trip in on three logging roads (all be it with one wrong turn and a 5km backtrack later) I rolled into camp right around 7:30am or so. The boys were up, somewhat groggy after what I later learned was a long night of story telling and general bullshitting, and I was keen to get unpacked and set up before the next rains came. The weather had been nice for my drive up but the forecast was not looking great for the rest of the week, so I was anxious to get tarps, tents and gear unloaded before the deluge. A few hours later all was settled, and took an early nap in my newly setup “house” to make up for the lack of sleep the night before. I must have needed it because 2 hours later and I was still asleep! Once up, I spent the rest of the day getting things sorted just the way I wanted and sat by the fire catching up with the gang, and receiving my first real fishing report.
Bruce Milne and his brother Steve, plus by buddy Paul Zozula, had been fishing hard for the past two days without much success. There were definitely fish in the river, with both Chum, Chinook and Coho salmon being spotted. But nothing was showing any interest in either fly or gear. Truthfully I wasn’t that surprised about the Coho, since my experience has taught me that generally they become pretty tight mouthed once they enter the rivers and are often tough to catch. Chum on the other hand are generally more aggressive and easily tempted to take a fly, so that did concern me a little. With so many fish around, what was the issue? Bruce informed me that he had walked up river some distance the day before and had spotted a large school of fresh looking Coho, which he was hoping to go back and target. Paul had apparently hooked into a trout, but had not landed it. After being in the area in the early summer, Paul had the most local knowledge, and proclaimed that the river was very productive at that time of year for trout. Makes perfect sense, as that is the time of year when the fry would be falling down the river out to sea, making for very tempting meals of any anadromous cutthroat trout cruising in and out of the river from the estuary.
I had brought crab trap with me as the camp site was located right on the ocean, and Bruce was eager to chuck it in so we could gorge on wild Dungeness crab We spent the rest of the night talking about plans for the coming days, eating marinated pork chops from the barbecue, and tossing back a few drinks to help lubricate the story telling. After such a wild night the previous evening and a long day of messing around at camp, we all hit they hay early and I was soon transported off to a very restful sleep.
Come morning, as I lounged luxuriously on my camp cot while enjoying the warmth from my tent heater (yes…I am one of these people who have been spoiled. Don’t mock it until you try it!), a solid rain had begun hammering down on the tarp. “Well” I said aloud, “pretty normal weather for a fall fishing trip!”. I got dressed into my waders right in the tent, and made my way out to the camp kitchen area for some breakfast. Bruce, who always takes care of the food for these trips and has held the position for as long as I have known him, had a mess of pancakes, sausages, and french toast already prepared for us and we all had fully stomachs when we finally gathered up our gear to hit the river. Bruce and Steve headed out first, deciding to hit the lower section of the river. Paul and I took the high road, and began our day about 5km up from the estuary. As we hit the river, the rain really started up, coming down in buckets as we waded up the shallow river, exploring pools looking for tfresh fish. As it was, the rivers all over Vancouver Island were all very low due to lack of rain, which made access easy but fishing tough. The fish were extremely nervous, and with the gin clean water it was difficult to even sneak up on them and fire out a cast without them scattering.
Paul and I went a few more kilometres up river and found that the river just kept getting lower and slower, with large lazy flat sections that were not holding any fish. Backtracking, we headed down river instead and ran into a very nice deep pool with green waters, perfect to hide fish in. With the rain hitting the water surface we were offered some camouflage from the fish but even with this cover we were not able to convince anything to bite. After spending enough time trying to no avail, and feeling the cold rain now running down the inside sleeves of our coats from casting, we turned back for the trail and splashed our way back upstream.
Just as we were about to reach the trail head where we had clambered down the soggy cedar lined banks to the river, a noise off to our left got both of our attention. Two young black bears, probably this years cubs, were climbing just as fast as they could up a large fir tree, looking furtively over in our direction. Of course, where there are cubs, there’s a momma bear. And sure enough there she was, shoulders square to us, standing at the edge of the brush by the base of the tree looking very intimidating. Not wanting to irritate her, we slowly started walking upstream and away from her, keeping our ears and eyes out for any charge. Being that we were about 100 feet away when we first encountered them, I felt pretty safe so I snapped a couple of pics before we moved on. The encounter ended without incident, which is just about how every encounter I have ever had with a bear goes. Give them distance and respect, and they will do the same. Be stupid and reckless, and you can expect trouble. I’ve only had to fire off a bear banger once while fishing or camping, for a bear that was far too used to people and habituated to free and easy food. My bear spray has never left it’s holster, and I hope that it stays that way.
After making it back to the truck, Paul and I headed even further upriver on the logging road to a point about 9km from the estuary, where we observed a nice school of about 30 – 40 big Chinook salmon resting in a canyon. Impossible to catch, but fun to watch none the less. They were sitting in a deep slot pool, about 15 feet deep, surrounded by steep canyon walls. Our guess was that they were waiting for higher waters as further up the canyon were a number of small waterfalls that needed navigation before hitting their spawning grounds. I took a few pictures of the area, and we headed back to camp. That night, we all had a great feed of chicken kabobs, pitas and salad. Turns out that Bruce and Steve also had no luck lower down river, so we all drowned our sorrows and all retired defeated to our respective tents.
After a night of heavy rains, we awoke to blue skies overhead and hopes of better fishing now that some water had moved through the system. A quick breakfast was had by all, with Bruce and Steve heading back to the lower section of the river to try their luck one more time. Paul and I decided to take the canoe out for a paddle around the estuary and up the river. With such beautiful sunshine and calm seas, it was the perfect opportunity to get out and onto the water. With the sun now above the mountains and sending some much needed warmth, we paddled out from our camp with the first order of business being to check on the crab trap. After pulling it we discovered only two small Red Rock Crabs, so we loaded up the bait with the remaining salmon heads and tails that I had brought from home (a result of successful salmon trips on the boat that summer) and dropped it back down in a deeper location.
The water in the inlet surrounding the area was glass calm, making for an easy paddle. The estuary itself is not a large one, but in the summer boasts a bountiful number of oysters that can be plucked from the beach at low tides. The water was full of large jellyfish, similar to the smaller Moon Jellies, all pulsating calming in the slack water. Passing through the mouth of the estuary, with sedge grass and the skeletons of huge trees that had been washed downstream in heavier rains over the years, I was totally expecting to see bears as this is generally prime for them. But with no salmon carcasses seen around, and plenty of berries still available, we didn’t see a single one. In fact, all of the bear sign that we had run into so far showed that they were still heavily feeding on vegetation and berries rather than salmon, leading me to believe that the majority of the fish had not yet spawned in the area. This fact was supported somewhat by the number of salmon we observed splashing around in the inlet, indicating that there were still lots of fish that had not yet entered the river system.
Paul and I made it up the river to where Bruce and Steve where, and upon beaching the canoe learned that both boys had caught fish! Bruce had reeled in a couple of feisty Chum, whereas Steve had landed a really nice bright Coho. Finally! It had taken a great deal of effort and persistence but I was pleased for both of them that they had been successful and had received a sense of vindication. As for me, I was content just to watch and hang out, as I much prefer fishing for trout and steelhead over catching salmon in the river. Catching a salmon on a fly rod IS fun, don’t get me wrong, but somehow when I sit and think about all the roadblocks and hazards that they face getting through in the wild, both natural and man made, I often feel a sense of guilt disturbing them any further on their journey home. It’s a bit hypocritical for me to say this, seeing as that is exactly what a wild steelhead does and the numbers of fish are significantly lower, but for some reason I can justify it to myself. I think perhaps its because its much more challenging to find them, let alone catch one, whereas sometimes with the salmon it seem a little too easy.
With the day coming to a close and tired fisherman ready for food, a hearty meal of spaghetti and meatballs with fresh garlic bread was served up to a hungry crew who devoured it in record time. With a clear sky overhead, the temperatures dipped cooler than the previous few nights and we all bundled up warm for a few beers before bedtime. With a great day behind us, everyone slept soundly with a symphony of snores roaring throughout the camp.
As morning broke, the rain had returned to the area and we had a grey wet day ahead of us. With the results from yesterday fresh in their minds, Bruce and Steve once again returned to their spot on the lower section of the river, with Paul and I tagging along this time too. Unfortunately I did not experience the same degree of success as Milne boys had, and after a few hours I decided to head back to camp and putter around in my pontoon boat on the ocean instead, as I had seen quite a few cutthroat slashing around in the shallower water the day before. After putting the boat together and dragging it down the water, I set off with my 6wt rod in search of fish. I’m not sure what the difference was on this particular day compared to yesterday, but after hunting around for some time I could not find any sign of fish to save my life. Perhaps it was the difference in atmospheric pressure with the rainy front moving in, or just a different set of tides happening, but what ever the reason it was a fruitless task. After an hour of hunting around, I decided to go and pull the crab trap to see if we would be eating crab for dinner.
When I reached the float, and gave it a tug, I could feel that there was some weight in there! Now I’ve been fooled before, and pulled up heavy traps with visions of crab dinners dancing in my head, only to discover a huge starfish in there with a bunch of empty shells. But this time, there three BIG male Dungeness Crab inside just waiting for me to scoop them up! After wrestling with them while balancing a big crab trap on my pontoon boat, I stuffed them into my bag and brought them to shore for cleaning. Once done, I popped them in a pot with some salt water and awaited the rest of the tribe to return.
That night, we had the most amazing, sweet, delicious crab for dinner, complimenting the tacos (ok not the best pairing but it was what was on the menu!) that were already being prepared. More garlic bread, more beer, and more full campers heading for their tents for the evening. Another good day on the river, on the ocean, and at camp.
The following day it was time for Bruce and Steve to head back, as Steve needed to hit the ferry back to Vancouver and Bruce was needed back home to prepare Thanksgiving supper. I had planned to stay another few days at camp, but with the weather deteriorating quickly and having been sick with a bad head cold from the day I arrived, I decided that the best plan was to pack it in early and just go home. If the fishing had been better, I would have stayed longer for sure, but there’s nothing fun about staying by yourself, in the rain, sick, for another few days. We packed all of our gear, disposed of the garbage and left the site cleaner than when we had arrived, and by 10:30am we were all on the road home back home to loved ones.
As trips go, this one had been a bust for fishing. But on the positive side I did explore a new area with good friends, had some great meals and good laughs, and would rather be in the rainy woods any day than in my office. I’ll be back to the Artlish River I think, in the summer this time, to see what it looks and fishes like then. I saw lots of good steelhead water on this river, so I am interested in seeing if I can run into some when the salmon are not around. As I headed out on the logging roads, I thought about how both awesome and how sad it was that there are so many easily accessed logging roads on Vancouver Island. It’s great that we have so many opportunities to explore the interior and coast of the island, areas that without logging would be virtually inaccessible. But sad too, to see the areas cut down, old growth forests vanishing, and the mess that people who don’t care make of these untouched areas. I’m not against logging, in fact I am an advocate of ethical logging practices. If we take care of our forests, they will serve us for our lifetimes, and the lifetimes of our kids, and their kids. But the destruction of old growth forests cannot be replaced, even with replanting, so we must be careful to protect what we can, while still enabling commercial harvesting and economic prosperity for our communities that rely on this long thriving industry. Our lives depend on it.
Until the next adventure beckons…..
Ok so many of you out there will be lamenting the last few remaining warm weekends of summer, now that September is upon us and the kids are back in school. You’ll be kicking back in your lawn chairs after work, trying desperately to preserve those warm evenings of beer on the patio and glasses of red wine keeping the blood warm. But not me.
Now I would be remiss to say that I don’t enjoy the summer time. Of course, who doesn’t enjoy the sunshine, swimming, cold beer with warm sun, and camping without the use of a complicated overhead canopy of tarps and ropes. But as the days begin to shorten and the morning dew gets a little heavier each day, I get just a little more excited about my absolute favourite time of year..Fall.
Growing up in the Maritimes, the arrival of Fall meant the coming of vibrant colours as the maples, aspens, and other deciduous trees put on their display of stunning reds, golds and oranges. The smell of the quietly rotting leaves in the woods, and the sounds of them fluttering down with the fall breeze brings so many rich memories back to me of family and fall trips with friends. And who hasn’t had the childish pleasure of heaping them up in a pile just to jump in them! But that’s not the only reason Fall is my favourite.
Fall brings fish into the rivers. Lots, and lots of fish. And with those fish come bears, eagles, otters, and all other kinds of wildlife (including the often seen but not appreciated “googan” fisherman, happily snagging fish with their illegal gear while claiming what great sports they are). When the salmon are in and spawning complete, they are followed by the king of fish, the Steelhead. It it is that which I am most excited about, and why Fall to me is the very best time of the year.
Many have said, myself included, that Steelheaders are a bit nutty. We like cold, dark mornings when it’s raining and crappy. We enjoy getting up early on our days off. And if we should happen to fall into the river during an epic fish battle (or just crossing the river) we wear it like a badge of honour. We enjoy the hardships because we know that the rewards are sweet, and no matter what happens there is nothing more exciting than the notion that today one might be granted an encounter with a Steelhead. So yes summer is
fading into the distance now and the morning commutes to work are now clogged with school traffic and cooler temperatures, but I for one welcome the crisp air, the cooler rainy days, and the promise of fish in the river. And with winter comes nights at the fly tying bench too, to replenish stock and try new creations, which is always fun.
For the past month I’ve been looking at the calendar, counting down the days until my next fishing trip. Now I won’t give away the location yet, as I will be writing the story when I get back, but I will say that it’s on the North West coast of Vancouver Island, on a river I have never fished, and it’s coming up real soon. So stay tuned, there’s an adventure in the works!!
As for Rocket the Wonder Dog, he continues to grow and make us laugh, he’s almost 5 months old now and getting to be a real sweetheart. He’s checked off a few things on the list of accomplishments such as his first boat ride, first swim, and puppy obedience classes, and had lost just about all of his needle like baby teeth. Thank god for that!