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carpe diem

 

carp on the fly

Every so often I am reminded that even fish are subject to cultural relativism and historical prejudice. Allow me to explain the thought. It is somewhat odd and unreasonable that certain species of fish are viewed by fisherman as trash fish in certain parts of the world while in others reign as the supreme sportfish. There are several examples of this. Perhaps the most notable is the common carp, a fish introduced in the 1872 from Germany by J.A. Poppe from Sonoma, California who imported a mere five specimens to rear in his pond as a cheap and fast-growing food source that, like most invasive species, got out of control and eventually managed to  establish itself in virtually every water system in Continental North America. It has always been perceived a  trash fish, a bottom feeder unfit for both human consumption or sport, its primary use by importers intended as animal food and fertilizer. While there has been some changes in the mindset of anglers in last decade or so (perhaps as a result of globalization and the internet) , and the acceptance by a few «early adopters» that the carp is indeed a worthy sportfish, there are still very few North American anglers that target carp, which is really quite a shame since most of our waters hold healthy populations of carp that can weigh upwards of forty pounds and that can pull like a Kenworth semi truck, testing both anglers skill and equipment. Truth be told they can really put a bass to shame in terms of fight and stamina their only apparent shortcoming is that they do not leap out of the water when hooked, preferring to vaporize the drags pads of your reel with each blistering, bonefish-like run that seems to never end. Yet mention in conversation that you are a carp fisherman and you immediately raise eyebrows and are perceived as somewhat eccentric and odd. Until recently there were very few carp clubs dedicated to this fishery although there are now several hundred across the country. Read More »

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The Rod

The man largely responsible for my introduction to the world of fly fishing was none other than Paul Bean, a fly tier of great international renown whose exquisitely crafted flies  – sporting names like the Princess Diana, Lady Rosalyn, or Redford - graced the walls of such sporting luminaries as Prince Philip, former first lady Rosalyn Carter, as well as actor Robert Redford. As one would expect, these are not your normal, everyday store bought flies that one could order online, say at a Cabela’s or Orvis, or find in any fly shop. These were commissioned flies by wealthy patrons directly through Paul and sometimes waiting periods could be up to a year. What made Paul and his flies unique was that they were perfect artistic recreations of old British Atlantic Salmon patterns dating back centuries, researched himself through archival information found within the dusty shelves of old and forgotten librairies in English Counties, and that he was probably the only human being alive that possessed this wealth of self-taught knowledge.  The flies are fully functional and you can fish with them but most of them lie protected as both works of art and as investments behind ornate glass frames that hang on study or office walls, often accompagnied, like Paul was during most of his life, with one of his wife Maureen’s beautiful watercolors depicting scenes of the salmon fisherman’s life. These creations were labors of love and often required hundreds of hours spent hunched over a table in his workshop, seeking for universal truth in the perfection of a salmon fly. He only cranked out a handful of these precious creations each year and despite prices in the thousands of dollars they were always quickly scooped up by discerning collectors across the globe. Read More »

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the river’s edge

Hank Wilson spun the wheels of the old black Buick and left a dust storm in his wake as he veered right at the stop sign near St-Anthony’s cemetery and parked his car on the side of First Concession road near the old covered bridge at Hinchenbrooke. It was one of the last covered bridges in the County and there had been some talk about closing it down to traffic or perhaps making it a historical site as it was the second oldest covered bridge in Canada, built a year or so after the Victoria bridge in nearby Montreal. It had once joined the municipalities of Hinchenbrooke and Elgin allowing for the movement by horse drawn carriage between these two small communities over the river but these days, other than the dozen or so cars that still used the back roads to cross the river, it was mostly a hangout for local teens to smoke dope and drink beer and its wooden walls were painted with colourful tags and graffitti. According to the local historians, Percy Bridge had been erected in 1861 and was the only known surviving sample in the world of the McCallum inflexible arched truss, invented and patented by Daniel McCallum, a renowned New York bridge builder. Read More »

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a day in the life

It was the first day of the season and while I didn’t catch anything I wasn’t too concerned as it was still early in the season and had come equipped with modest expectations of not catching anything at all. It was more of a reconnaissance trip, first to check on the water levels to determine if they were low enough to crossover to the island in the middle, and to see if the fish had begun their annual spawning run. It was a beautiful day and it felt good to be outdoors after a long winter, to feel the warmth of the sun upon your face, and to watch the migratory birds flying in tight formations in the cerulean sky as they have done since the beginning of time. It had been two weeks since Milad died and I desperately needed an affirmation that life was for the living and that it stopped for nobody, despite the heartbreak and grieving. Read More »

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Journey to Quetico – part 3

 

The storm began around midnight and by three a.m. the torrential rains had discovered the subtle design and construction flaws inherent in the floor seams and other closures of the tent, and made itself manifest by the puddle of water that had gradually formed on the floor of my tent.  At first it felt as though I was in a dreamlike state where my body was being transported across a great body of water and when I drifted back into consciousness realized my whereabouts in the tent and that my sleeping bag was completely drenched. My clothing and shoes, which had been dumped at the foot of my sleeping bag near the entrance, were also soaked. I had never been so wet, cold, and tired in my life. It even felt damp under my skin and my bones and muscles ached as I began to shiver in the cold darkness. The wind howled in angry gusts and the tent walls flapped audibly in the wind, like a flag during gale force winds. My immediate concern, before mild hypothermia began to set in, was to get some dry clothing on quickly, throw a tarp over the tent, and sponge out the water on the floor. Read More »

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Journey to Quetico – Part 2

The first cast of the day was made at sunrise  standing naked on the rocks and taking a leak while casting a popper against the shoreline and produced a fine fish which we filleted and ate for breakfast along with several pieces of burnt toast and blueberry jam and cups of steaming coffee. The campsite was quickly broken down and stowed away into the canoe and we dumped the canoe back into the tannic water and started paddling once again. There was a beach on the other side of the lake as well and from a distance we discerned the rectangular shape of a Yurt set up on shore. In the middle of the lake we encountered an elderly woman who was paddling a sea kayak and pulled up next to her for a friendly chat. Extremely fit and energetic, with a  matronly disposition, Sheila must have been as old as my grandmother and she and her husband had been visiting the park for over twenty years and had rented a yurt for the entire summer. It was her second week in the Park and she said that the weather, usually unpredictable, had been spectacular. Before we departed company she confirmed the direction of Pickerel River and, as she pushed off, warned us of the dangers of prevailing west winds that sometimes blew through Pickerel Lake without notice and caused dangerous whitecaps. Read More »

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Journey to Quetico – Part 1

FORTIFIED BY A MIXTURE STRONG BLACK COFFEE AND ADRENALINE we drove for two straight days along the old Voyager Trail up the Ottawa River to North Lake and then northwards around and over two of the Great lakes before the first signs for Quetico and the many outfitters that serviced the National Park began to appear on the side of the highway. While we were headed for Atikokan some of the outfitters were located near the entrance of the historic Dawson trail that had first opened up the travel route a hundred years ago from the U.S to Northern Canada and which had once been the only transportation route through to the Western Prairie provinces. Read More »

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The last musky

 

It was the middle of December and while the possibility of the lake being frozen over occupied our thoughts, the subject was not openly discussed during the long drive , fearful lest its spoken acknowledgment became a prophesized reality. It was late in the season, winter had already laid a firm grip on the landscape and the days were getting shorter and colder and we both instinctively knew that it would be the last day of the year to catch a musky. As the truck neared the boat ramp it became evident that that we were already a day or so too late, as a thin layer of ice had already formed and stretched out for miles in all directions.  Read More »

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Nunavik

There was once a world before this and in it lived people who were not of our tribe. But the pillars of the earth collapsed, and all were destroyed. And the world was emptiness. Then two men grew up from a hummock of earth. They were born and fully grown all at once. And they wished to have children. A magic song changed one of them into a woman, and they had children. These were our earliest forefathers, and from them all the lands were peopled.
— Tuglik, Igloolik area, 1922

IT WAS HENRY DAVID THOREAU that remarked that most men fish all their lives without realizing that it was not always fish they were trying to catch. From my own vantage point the act of fishing has always been a combination of several constituent parts, least of all sometimes the fish. The fish are always a big part of it but it has always been more about the journey than the destination, the means and not the end, the places and people, not only the number or size of fish. There are some places and people that we meet along our journey that leave such a deep impression on our souls that they become part of who we are and never far away from our thoughts, despite the great distances of both time and space that often separate us. One such place that has forever imprinted its mark on me is a place called Nunavik – the Inuktituk word for a place to live. Read More »

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WHEN HARRY MET SAL

This was certainly one of the craziest fishing stories of all time and Sal was dead serious about the entire matter. His steel blue eyes, as deep and as impenetrable as the cold waters of Lake Baikal in his native homeland of Russia, had the faraway look of someone who had stared into the abyss of insanity and returned to tell the tale. Their cold matter-of-factness seemed to confirm the veracity behind the strange and incredible tale he had just related about how, both literally and figuratively, he had fed his best friend Harry to a giant yellow fin tuna. Read More »

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