Peter Charles
October 10th, 2003, 12:36 AM
The fish won . . .
Given the weather, John wasn't sure if we'd drift the Notty or the
Saugeen -- we'd might even walk & wade the Bighead if things were
really off. As it turned out, it let up enough for the 'geen to relax
and clear a bit. John had two already booked so we're in Rob's boat.
We don't know the other two but we run into them at the local Timmies
before John and Rob arrive and we make the introductions with Ian and
Tate.
John is on time but our ride is nowhere to be seen. John let's us in
on Rob's troubles as apparently his Dodge has taken an electrical hit
thanks to a short in the trailer. After about ten minutes, the phone
whines, informing John that Rob is underway. A few minutes later, an
ancient, huge Ford edges it's way around the corner, towing a drift
boat. Doing my best imitation of a Chief, I bellow across the parking
lot, "Where did you get that ****ing, old pig?" Rob, in his
disgruntled state, can only manage a "Hardy, har, har" as the old pig
wheezes to a stop. The Dodge apparently has a terminal case of the
shorts so the borrowed Ford is our ride.
The meeting that followed decided on the 'geen despite the water
conditions so it's off to the put-in. Of course, John has to detour
for a pack of weeds, while we carry on in the pig. We're the first
boat in and I leave the Pirate to his suiting up while I chase shadows
in the murk. A holler let's me know that party's about to start and I
look up to see bodies sprawled on the frost coated dock. Somebody had
gone down trying to get in and pulled one or more with him -- what a
hoot. No damage done and we're off.
Can't see a ****ing thing. Rob swears that there's fish against the
bank but the Pirate and I go bug-eyed trying to see them without luck.
We makes some drifts and I feel a tug. I'm beginning to think Rob is
seeing things but a tail breaks the surface -- they're there alright.
Nothing. We're off, playing tag with John's boat, trading curses and
insults, trying to find fish. Drift, drift, cast, cast, dick-all. At
the island, we break for lunch and I bust out the spey rod for a few
drifts. Rob tries his hand at a few snake rolls while I try to figure
out where my spey stroke has gone. A morning with the single hander
has me all ****ed up.
Luck has us cruising up first to a long riffle where clearly visible
pods of fish are jockeying for position and taking bites out of one
another's asses. Rob is clearly concerned over our lack of production
so he has the Pirate drifting an egg fly. Louie looks askance -- not
fond of the apparition on the end of his line, but he follows the
guide's advice. I have a new pattern to try as the old **** hasn't
had a sniff. Rob leaves me to my own devices. Snag a rock, lift it
off, snag a salmon, roll it off, snag a rock, lift it off, snag a
salmon, roll it. . . a big head erupts out of the water and tosses
the hook in a gaping shake. "****, that one was fair!" Time to get
my head out of my arse. Still it happens again and again. I've lost
four fair, including one where I clearly saw the fish lunge and hit.
The Pirate has some hookups but his LLRs are running at 100% too.
We move on to the next long riffle. Up against the bank, a pod is
working and I get out of the boat to fish to a big buck. Within a few
casts, he grabs the fly and starts a slow waltz back 'n forth across
the current. I stay behind him, pointing him upstream. Rob has a go
with the net, but in the commotion, he gets downstream of me. The
river is about 200' across at this point and moving fast. I could
wade it but . . . Rob yells at me to get in the boat but I fight the
bugger downstream.
Like two old lumberjacks pulling on an equally old saw, we
rhythmically ebb and flow as he rips off some line then I slowly work
it back. I try to get downstream off him but he senses my shift and
runs again and again. Across the swollen river we go with Rob still
telling me to get into the boat. I give in and step in only to see
the fish make a dash under the still tight anchor rope. A quick pull
sideways, disabuses him of that notion, but being still ****ed and
full of fight, he slides between Rob and the side of the boat, under
the oar, and out toward the bow. I damn near jam the rod tip into
bottom as weave it around the oar, away from Rob, by the side, and
draw the fish clear of the bow. Rob yells out that he can't believe I
managed that without losing the fish or breaking the rod.
Meanwhile, the Pirate is bashing away at another pod but the egg fly
doesn't have any magic. Ian and Tate are flogging their bit but the
attention begins to shift toward the battle that shows no early sign
of letting up. Out of the confining boat I go, having dealt with
another pass under the boat, and managing rod transfers with Rob as we
maintain a firm line as I stumble out. Back downstream toward a quiet
spot. Rob makes repeated stabs but the fish bolts each time. About
60' across current and still he's pulling; we decide that Rob won't
try for him, instead I'll bring the fish to him. With very steady
sideways tension, I work him back across current until he's level with
Rob. Then I ease up and he slides back in the current to the waiting
net. As Rob begins the lift, he senses the trap and makes a desperate
lunge but he's timed it too late and he's ours. Damn, but what a
tough fish. The high fives go around, the Pirate takes a couple of
shots, and we put the warrior back in. Rob expects to have to revive
him but the fish isn't taking any of that **** and he's gone like a
rocket. I don't know who was more tired, me or the fish. Me, I
think. I wasn't going anywhere like a rocket. I needed to sit down.
Ya, me fer sure.
That was the trip. One fish. Louie had a few goes but the fishing
gods weren't with him. My new, little fly was totally destroyed by
the buck but it's a keeper.
A good trip -- thanks for coming up Dave -- see ya in May for round
four.
Peter
turn mailhot into hotmail to reply
Eastern Spey Clave, October 4th and 5th, 2003
http://www.easternclave.ca
Visit The Streamer Page at http://www.mountaincable.net/~pcharles/streamers/index.html
Given the weather, John wasn't sure if we'd drift the Notty or the
Saugeen -- we'd might even walk & wade the Bighead if things were
really off. As it turned out, it let up enough for the 'geen to relax
and clear a bit. John had two already booked so we're in Rob's boat.
We don't know the other two but we run into them at the local Timmies
before John and Rob arrive and we make the introductions with Ian and
Tate.
John is on time but our ride is nowhere to be seen. John let's us in
on Rob's troubles as apparently his Dodge has taken an electrical hit
thanks to a short in the trailer. After about ten minutes, the phone
whines, informing John that Rob is underway. A few minutes later, an
ancient, huge Ford edges it's way around the corner, towing a drift
boat. Doing my best imitation of a Chief, I bellow across the parking
lot, "Where did you get that ****ing, old pig?" Rob, in his
disgruntled state, can only manage a "Hardy, har, har" as the old pig
wheezes to a stop. The Dodge apparently has a terminal case of the
shorts so the borrowed Ford is our ride.
The meeting that followed decided on the 'geen despite the water
conditions so it's off to the put-in. Of course, John has to detour
for a pack of weeds, while we carry on in the pig. We're the first
boat in and I leave the Pirate to his suiting up while I chase shadows
in the murk. A holler let's me know that party's about to start and I
look up to see bodies sprawled on the frost coated dock. Somebody had
gone down trying to get in and pulled one or more with him -- what a
hoot. No damage done and we're off.
Can't see a ****ing thing. Rob swears that there's fish against the
bank but the Pirate and I go bug-eyed trying to see them without luck.
We makes some drifts and I feel a tug. I'm beginning to think Rob is
seeing things but a tail breaks the surface -- they're there alright.
Nothing. We're off, playing tag with John's boat, trading curses and
insults, trying to find fish. Drift, drift, cast, cast, dick-all. At
the island, we break for lunch and I bust out the spey rod for a few
drifts. Rob tries his hand at a few snake rolls while I try to figure
out where my spey stroke has gone. A morning with the single hander
has me all ****ed up.
Luck has us cruising up first to a long riffle where clearly visible
pods of fish are jockeying for position and taking bites out of one
another's asses. Rob is clearly concerned over our lack of production
so he has the Pirate drifting an egg fly. Louie looks askance -- not
fond of the apparition on the end of his line, but he follows the
guide's advice. I have a new pattern to try as the old **** hasn't
had a sniff. Rob leaves me to my own devices. Snag a rock, lift it
off, snag a salmon, roll it off, snag a rock, lift it off, snag a
salmon, roll it. . . a big head erupts out of the water and tosses
the hook in a gaping shake. "****, that one was fair!" Time to get
my head out of my arse. Still it happens again and again. I've lost
four fair, including one where I clearly saw the fish lunge and hit.
The Pirate has some hookups but his LLRs are running at 100% too.
We move on to the next long riffle. Up against the bank, a pod is
working and I get out of the boat to fish to a big buck. Within a few
casts, he grabs the fly and starts a slow waltz back 'n forth across
the current. I stay behind him, pointing him upstream. Rob has a go
with the net, but in the commotion, he gets downstream of me. The
river is about 200' across at this point and moving fast. I could
wade it but . . . Rob yells at me to get in the boat but I fight the
bugger downstream.
Like two old lumberjacks pulling on an equally old saw, we
rhythmically ebb and flow as he rips off some line then I slowly work
it back. I try to get downstream off him but he senses my shift and
runs again and again. Across the swollen river we go with Rob still
telling me to get into the boat. I give in and step in only to see
the fish make a dash under the still tight anchor rope. A quick pull
sideways, disabuses him of that notion, but being still ****ed and
full of fight, he slides between Rob and the side of the boat, under
the oar, and out toward the bow. I damn near jam the rod tip into
bottom as weave it around the oar, away from Rob, by the side, and
draw the fish clear of the bow. Rob yells out that he can't believe I
managed that without losing the fish or breaking the rod.
Meanwhile, the Pirate is bashing away at another pod but the egg fly
doesn't have any magic. Ian and Tate are flogging their bit but the
attention begins to shift toward the battle that shows no early sign
of letting up. Out of the confining boat I go, having dealt with
another pass under the boat, and managing rod transfers with Rob as we
maintain a firm line as I stumble out. Back downstream toward a quiet
spot. Rob makes repeated stabs but the fish bolts each time. About
60' across current and still he's pulling; we decide that Rob won't
try for him, instead I'll bring the fish to him. With very steady
sideways tension, I work him back across current until he's level with
Rob. Then I ease up and he slides back in the current to the waiting
net. As Rob begins the lift, he senses the trap and makes a desperate
lunge but he's timed it too late and he's ours. Damn, but what a
tough fish. The high fives go around, the Pirate takes a couple of
shots, and we put the warrior back in. Rob expects to have to revive
him but the fish isn't taking any of that **** and he's gone like a
rocket. I don't know who was more tired, me or the fish. Me, I
think. I wasn't going anywhere like a rocket. I needed to sit down.
Ya, me fer sure.
That was the trip. One fish. Louie had a few goes but the fishing
gods weren't with him. My new, little fly was totally destroyed by
the buck but it's a keeper.
A good trip -- thanks for coming up Dave -- see ya in May for round
four.
Peter
turn mailhot into hotmail to reply
Eastern Spey Clave, October 4th and 5th, 2003
http://www.easternclave.ca
Visit The Streamer Page at http://www.mountaincable.net/~pcharles/streamers/index.html