You have to understand that this blog is a bit of a cheat. It is really the work of John and his wife known as Mighty Lois. John would not even have begun if Lois had not shown him how to start and then written down easy steps on how to find it again. So it goes when you are born incapacitated and make no effort to lift your rod. So if you are expecting me to slide off into digressions about how to tie non-slip-knots and piscatorial lore like that - Forget It. That's Lois's business and will always be so. E.G! She worked out how to put single hooks on the deadly Tasmanian Devil lures that wiggle more enticingly than a belly dancer and lure in mesmerized Pink Salmon. But that is another story which we will return to later.
You have to know a bit about Pink Salmon first and the Fraser River second. Pinks are different from other salmon. They don't hang around.Once they leave the eggs that the female salmon has laid in gravel redds (spawning beds) they don't linger. Smolts (young salmon) disapear and head for the vast Pacific. No one seems to know where they go and what they do out there. But it is definitely known that they come back to the Fraser every second year. Then a sort of hysteria grips the fishing community round the Fraser and Vancouver. The Pinks come in massive streams of silver and are easy to catch. Once in the Fraser they split up- searching for their natal waters to spawn. It is now that they return to rivers like the Vedder to complete their life cycle. The males undergo a grotesque metamorphosis. As the pilgrims meet the fresh water their bodies change. The females become gravid with eggs and the males start tp develop grotesque humps on their backs. Quasimodo's meet quivering queens. Milt unites with egg and the race is reborn. A sacred rititual which carelessness and greed must never desecrate.
!t was a let down coming back to Canada from Australia last month. All seemed doom and gloom. Newspapers were full of the failure of the Sockeye Salmon run. Was I about to witness the death of one of the world's most wonderful spectacles - salmon pouring up the Fraser River? What would happen to the arrival of the mysterious 'Pinks' - they only came back to the Fraser every second year and
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Coho fishing; Vancouver Island
The rain hit the Island in gloomy sheets. In the north they had to save people from watery graves. What would happen to their fishy cousins, the Coho? Could such a battering sweep them away from their spawning grounds, wipe out a generation? Fisher-people are subject to such miseries and mental agony: uneasy lies the head that wields the rod.
All the way from Nanaimo to Campbell River I craned from bridges and spied on rivers. The list mounted as quickly as Miss Jane Moneypennies' notes for a James Bond mission. Clues like too fast, too muddy, too many logs and snags coming down were all listed. Worries mounted like flotsam and jetsam. Would unruly precipitation make a guides enthusiasm soggy, dampen the chances of getting that first palpitating take.
All neurotic misery. There was still fish-able water near Campbell River that our charming guide would take us too, even though the chance of hooking one brought on a morbid tingle. In a nameless secret river the water was still torrential - no possibility of casting a fly. The name of the game would have to be spinning. Second choice. Metallic lures rather than handcrafted feathery works of art. Forget poetic lines about no birds singing on a dark day; here even the bloody coho refused to jump. Were even silver flashes ascending high to be denied us? Were the piscatorial gods to be deemed dissatisfied with all our sacrifices?
So few other rods about that we began to feel that maybe Moby Dick, recast as a killer whale, had ploughed up from the sea and spoiled the water. There were only a few ghost casters flinging flies from the banks. They seemed to flee from the driftboats' intrusion and resent the furrows left by hardworking oars. Two other sinister craft eventually came our way. My downcast mind had already become fixated on pirate galleys.Would Captain Morgan raise the Jolly Roger over out fishless hulk? By now you should have twigged that tear ducts had obscured my vision and and were creating specters.
I have avoided using the "Royal We" when describing this saga. In fact I have neglected to say that my faithful spouse was seated forward of me, holding firm against rapids, clutching rod and binocular and staying cheerful against all odds.Her clutch zinged first and a big bar of rocketing silver did battle agaist my low mood.
Immediately little Lois was beset by the usual barrage of male advice. Shouted: keep your f... rod tip up! Screamed: tighten your bloody clutch! Until her dulcet tones joined the chorus: Shut up, or I'll throw the rod overboard! Well, she didn't
and instead her rod bent double like the bough of an overloaded pear tree with spectators salivating all around.
That guide! He navigated a rapid that the Coho, who we named Lucy, insisted on speeding through and then fell in love with what looked like an an old beaver lodge. Hysteria faded and Lois was left to slog it out with a rambustious Coho. She! With damage done by various fishing falls, hospital trips and first name terms with nurses... She had never moaned and here she was beset by a silver crowbar. What would give way first, a fish fin or a human limb.
My heart soared like a hawk as Miss Lucy drew near. Guide tails her and holds her up. Fresh from the sea she drips sea-lice and estimates range as high as 16 or 17 pounds. She is cradled gently for photos; this babe not destined to be an Ernest Hemingway trophy. She will live for ever on a computer, digitized, her own source of immortality. The river does not allow big-noting slaughter,the water gives and insists on taking back. Released, a slick-chick flicks her tail insouciantly. Against such style the boat can only respond with slapping high fives, human palms are not full of grace. Suffer Lucy to come back home safe, her offspring have yet many mysteries to make.
All the way from Nanaimo to Campbell River I craned from bridges and spied on rivers. The list mounted as quickly as Miss Jane Moneypennies' notes for a James Bond mission. Clues like too fast, too muddy, too many logs and snags coming down were all listed. Worries mounted like flotsam and jetsam. Would unruly precipitation make a guides enthusiasm soggy, dampen the chances of getting that first palpitating take.
All neurotic misery. There was still fish-able water near Campbell River that our charming guide would take us too, even though the chance of hooking one brought on a morbid tingle. In a nameless secret river the water was still torrential - no possibility of casting a fly. The name of the game would have to be spinning. Second choice. Metallic lures rather than handcrafted feathery works of art. Forget poetic lines about no birds singing on a dark day; here even the bloody coho refused to jump. Were even silver flashes ascending high to be denied us? Were the piscatorial gods to be deemed dissatisfied with all our sacrifices?
So few other rods about that we began to feel that maybe Moby Dick, recast as a killer whale, had ploughed up from the sea and spoiled the water. There were only a few ghost casters flinging flies from the banks. They seemed to flee from the driftboats' intrusion and resent the furrows left by hardworking oars. Two other sinister craft eventually came our way. My downcast mind had already become fixated on pirate galleys.Would Captain Morgan raise the Jolly Roger over out fishless hulk? By now you should have twigged that tear ducts had obscured my vision and and were creating specters.
I have avoided using the "Royal We" when describing this saga. In fact I have neglected to say that my faithful spouse was seated forward of me, holding firm against rapids, clutching rod and binocular and staying cheerful against all odds.Her clutch zinged first and a big bar of rocketing silver did battle agaist my low mood.
Immediately little Lois was beset by the usual barrage of male advice. Shouted: keep your f... rod tip up! Screamed: tighten your bloody clutch! Until her dulcet tones joined the chorus: Shut up, or I'll throw the rod overboard! Well, she didn't
and instead her rod bent double like the bough of an overloaded pear tree with spectators salivating all around.
That guide! He navigated a rapid that the Coho, who we named Lucy, insisted on speeding through and then fell in love with what looked like an an old beaver lodge. Hysteria faded and Lois was left to slog it out with a rambustious Coho. She! With damage done by various fishing falls, hospital trips and first name terms with nurses... She had never moaned and here she was beset by a silver crowbar. What would give way first, a fish fin or a human limb.
My heart soared like a hawk as Miss Lucy drew near. Guide tails her and holds her up. Fresh from the sea she drips sea-lice and estimates range as high as 16 or 17 pounds. She is cradled gently for photos; this babe not destined to be an Ernest Hemingway trophy. She will live for ever on a computer, digitized, her own source of immortality. The river does not allow big-noting slaughter,the water gives and insists on taking back. Released, a slick-chick flicks her tail insouciantly. Against such style the boat can only respond with slapping high fives, human palms are not full of grace. Suffer Lucy to come back home safe, her offspring have yet many mysteries to make.
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