This has sat on my desktop of my MacBook for much too long... Staring at me, begging to be re-read, edited, or what have you... So like most of my articles I post, it gets published on a cold winter night. When I can truly allow my soul to fiend the freshness of the boreal forest, and gin clear waters that run freely without human disturbance. Fully knowing it soon will come, and along all those potential memories for next winter.
*For clarification the Flowers River is not named after the plant group, but rather a popular surname of settlers near the mouth of the river.
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Swinging a fly for anadromous fish is a complex, frustrating and mind numbing activity that many fly anglers are intimidated by. The seemly never-ending search for that tight line after reading the water and repetitively presenting a fly to river looks no different than the rest, but you can feel the difference. Hours of casting with faith that the next cast will bring you the rush of dopamine that drives the addiction. We find ourselves chasing that fleeting connection between us and the fish of a lifetime, one that never dies. Spend countless hours preparing gear and tying flies. Lining boxes with tried and true patterns and others waiting for their moment in the spotlight. All for that overwhelming zero to sixty rush that can turn a day of fishing, into a day of catching. When perfect casts don’t always produce, the uncertainly of fly choice limits confidence in hooking a fish. Confidence; A feeling many anglers have when fishing in front of a seasoned guide; whether that be in themselves or their attendant. One must never lose it, for the beat and fly will be fished improperly. Ending fish-less sessions will put the weak off their game, but the dedicated rest and return with a positive outlook.
A new day rises, confidence and expectations are on par, as is the weather. The canoe glides upriver as the hanging mist over the water is cut by the bow. Cruising over shoals and deep slots, around winding turns you reach your morning beat. Slowly drifting ashore, waterworn pebbles scrape the fibreglass as the boat slides to a halt. The failures of yesterday are now behind you, and the fruits of your efforts are ripe for picking. Approaching the head of the pool, a fly of confidence is selected. Fly speed ranks highest in importance of persuading a fish to take. Being careful to not wade deep, a short cast is made to mark the beginning of your rotation. The slow steady flows that are characteristic of the Flowers River pools are dotted with rocks, sods and clay banks that a keen guide will identify as prime lies. It is imperative to fish the entire stretch, as fresh fish often prefer non-traditional, unnoticeable lies. Unbeknownst to you, the fly tracks through the water on a bowed line; speeding closer and closer to your dream fish. A violent swirl disturbs the flat calm water of Jones Pool… but no tug. Was it the fly? presentation? Or both? Another cast is made, mimicking the initial offering. Again the same result, a refusal. “Try the hitch on he”, your guide says in his unique bay dialect. Taking the fly in, you keep your eye on the lie. Knowing full well that even if your offering isn’t exact, the Portland Creek Hitch will conjure the reaction you’re looking for. A half hitch placed over the head is all you need to make your fly create that irresistible “V” wake.
Doing this has allowed the fish to rest. With another bowed cast, the fly skates over the lie and up rises the fish. Breaking the surface this time, it sucks the fly under in a toilet bowl flush. Your quarry turns and heads down river, bending the rod deep as the reel sings that familiar shrill tune. Flooding your soul with the sensation all salmon anglers pine for. The line sings through the flat water of Jones Pool, the fish breaks the surface in an forceful leap of silver and shimmering water. The twists and turns force you to bow to the tsar of salmonids and the hope that your line stays tight after one of presumably many jumps.
One often takes mental notes of every detail that could somehow explain why that fish decided to take…. It seems no matter the amount of evidence, one may never know.
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I probably could have continued on with this, but open ended stories allow the mind to be guided by their own desires. An ending that can only be controlled by the reader's Labrador memories, and subsequent fantasies. I hope you enjoyed.
C.S.
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