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One North Coast spring Saturday I was on my favourite stream, the Lakelse River, with Dick, my fishing partner that day. We had just finished fishing down the section I call the “rock garden” and had entered “the slot.” With a notable exception or two, the rock garden has not been kind to me over the years. This time was spot-on normal -- not a bump.
I glanced upstream to see if any other anglers were preparing to come downstream from Herman’s Hole. There were none. What I did see, about a hundred metres upstream, was an Osprey emerging from the water clutching a thirty-five centimetre trout. I pointed out this interesting situation to Dick.
Earlier I had spotted a Bald eagle sitting in a tree-top next to the river a little ways downstream from Dick. As I was telling Dick about the Osprey the eagle came flying upstream. I called out, “look at what the Osprey got and who’s coming to dinner!”
Most people will admit that a lot of eagle flying is pretty lackadaisical; oh sure, they can soar beautifully and their mating flights are a joy to behold, but an eagle simply going from one place to another in no hurry is usually laid back – flap, pause. . . flap, pause.
Not this character though, here was a bird on a mission! As it swung past me, low over the water, I could hear the swish of its wing strokes. I could see the eagle’s head was jammed purposely into its shoulders on its way to brunch – being too late for breaky.
For its part, the Osprey was obviously aware of the danger and was trying frantically trying to gain altitude. At this point, the Osprey was about twenty metres above the river when the eagle came swooping up underneath it. The Osprey panicked and dropped the trout, which was now heading for its chosen medium.
The eagle had other ideas as it pulled in its wings and dropped like a stone through the air. That bird caught up with the trout before it hit the water and flew off downstream to its tree, the fish gripped tightly in its talons would become the eagle’s stolen meal. The Osprey flew off in disappointment.
To this day I don’t know where that trout was hiding when us two experienced flymen came by and didn’t entice it with their expertly placed lures.
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Fly Tying Meeting – Tuesday, September 10
Regular All Members Meeting – Tuesday, September 17
At the Florence Filberg Centre, Courtenay B.C.
7:30 pm.
Visitors and prospective new members welcomed to attend both the Regular Meetings and Fly Tying Meetings.
Remember to bring three flies to contribute to the fly raffle.
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Bull the Boor
(Every now and then one happens along.)
All good fishing guides develop a finely tuned sixth sense in scoping out the true character of a client. It’s a survival instinct as old as the profession itself, maybe even older when you consider that the original trade goods weren’t fish. When a guide fixes his piercing, steely-eyed stare upon a person, say, from as far away as across the parking lot, he can judge whether or not said individual is going to be trouble in the boat. Like the day I watched intently while this fellow dismounted from his highly sprung rig, booted the door shut, then strutted his way into the charter office. Someone in there redirected him toward the picnic table in the covered breezeway where I was sitting. He strode my way jangling his key ring, then motioning with his thumb toward the office introduced himself, “They told me you’re the guide. I’m Jim Bullard, but you can just call me ‘Bull’. OK?”
As we exchanged wrist twists, my steely-eyed stare relayed the correct data once more -- I was going to have my hands full with this alpha-male wannabe.
As Bull assembled his tackle in preparation for the day’s fishing, he launched into an almost non-stop verbal barrage, scarcely slowing to take a breath. “I just came in from Florencia Bay, caught a 12-pound silver salmon there on the first cast. Hope ya got big fish like that here. I built this rod myself, all titanium hardware on it ya know, cost me 700 bucks but it’s worth it. I can cast a mile with it. Caught a 12-pound silver with it yesterday, got it on my own fly too, see, like this one here. That’s genuine Rocky Mountain goat hair ya know, shot that sonofabitch last year up in Canada, dyed the hair that blue color with lichens and copper sulfate. Drives them salmon crazy. Got a 12–pounder yesterday with it on the first cast. Shot a grizzly bear on that trip too -- big sonofabitch. The hair was no good so I made the hat and moccasins I’m wearin’ out of the hide. Them’s the claws strung on this necklace I’m wearin’. It’s my good luck charm, it must be, I caught a 12-pound silver while I had it on yesterday, first cast. Okay, I’m rigged up. Lets get goin’.”
The pressure was on. This guy expected the world’s best fly fishing trip, at least better than the one he was stuck on repeatedly crowing about. With fishing and fish being the capricious pursuit and pursued that they are, I was a bit concerned this day wouldn’t live up to his inflated expectations. In the guiding business that can be bad news, because if the client has a good trip they will tell two people about it. You might even get some more business out of the deal. If they have a bid trip, they’ll tell 10. Then your rep’ will mean jack shit. We were no sooner underway to the fishing grounds when he let loose with another of his characteristic non-stop diatribes.
“Got any big rock piles where we’re goin’? I got a 12–pound silver off a rock pile yesterday, first cast. I just got back from Alaska ya know, fished for king salmon up there. Big goddamn fish those kings, take all yer line out and then some. Had to follow ‘im half a mile with the jet boat, then I didn’t even get to kill the sonofabitch. Hated to let that big red bastard go, it woulda smoked up real good too. The guide said I had ta let it go ‘cuz it was foul hooked in the back, the 12-pound silver I got yesterday was hooked in the mouth. Hey, ya ever hear the one about the two blondes walkin’ along the canal? One on one side, one on the other. The one blonde shouts to the other, ‘How can ya get to the other side?’ The other blonde shouts back, ‘I don’t know, I’m already on the other side….’”
His deliberate pause was obviously calculated to elicit a response from me on that one. So, having fair-haired genetics myself, I played along to humour him. “Maybe the fishing was better on that side,” I chuckled.
It was against my better judgment to have said anything in reply to his crude attempt at telling a joke, but I was glad he was on to other things and hadn’t mentioned that damnable 12-pound coho again. That fish was already starting to haunt me, and he hadn’t even wet a line yet. There was no telling what the outcome of this trip might be if fishing was slow.
We were still about 10 minutes away from my intended fishing hole, when he let loose with another slurry of verbal diarrhea. “I just started fly fishing two years ago ya know, I read all the books and know pretty much all about fly fishin’, even took some lessons from that hot-shot instructor in California, you know, what’s his name? I tried fishin’ for them itty-bitty trout but that didn’t turn my crank if ya know what I mean. Them kings in Alaska were big bad mothers, you get any kings around here? When I’m done here I’m goin’ up to Nootka to try for some kings, the guide I talked to from there said they got lots of them up near Cougar Creek. Ya ever been up there? He said they got silvers, too. Hey, why did the blonde cross the road?…” Again, the pregnant pause.
“Because the fishing was better on the other side,” I stated flatly.
I was just pulling up to the first good area to try for a salmon, and had slowed the boat to quietly get into closer casting range. Bull moved to the stern and said, “Hold ‘er steady, I gotta take a wizz.” Even while dribbling over the side he rattled on. “I bet you get some guys out here with ya who think they know everything don’t ya? Probably some real assholes that try and tell ya how to fish, too. Don’t know how you guides handle it, I couldn’t take it that’s for sure, I’d just haul off and punch ‘em out probably.” Zzzzip!
Before he could start up again I parried with, “No, Bull, I’ve never had a real asshole in my boat before. At least not after I told them straight up, that if they didn’t like being here they could put on their Jesus boots and get out and walk. And you know, for some reason, nobody ever took me up on that offer either. And they always shut up real quick after that, too.”
Now that I had him hushed, I took the opportunity to get in some words of instruction. “OK now, we’re coming up on a good little hole here. What I want you to do is, as we glide into range of that mound of rock over there, the one surrounded by the kelp bed, lay your fly right up in the foam. Let it sink, then strip it back. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be lucky and pick up a big old lingcod out of the hole.”
I steered toward the rock as Bull readied himself on the casting platform in the bow. Surprisingly, he laid out a rather decent cast that touched down precisely where I told him to put it. I suppose, there is some redeeming feature to every blowhard, and that cast just may have been his. The fly sank as it should, then Bull started the retrieve, and WHAM! a good solid strike.
Like I said, “There’ll probably be a dirty old lingcod down there.”
“Yaahooo! Look at that sonofabitch run!” hollered Bull as line peeled off into the depths at a good clip, his fly reel crying in anguish at the speed of the run. “That ain’t no gawdamn lingcod I got on,” he wheezed.
“No shit, Sherlock?” I taunted. “What was your first clue?”
The fish stayed down and slugged it out below the surface. It was evidently hooked well and wasn’t coming off prematurely. There weren’t any aerial acrobatics and without seeing the fish, I had no idea just what it was. Maybe a big ol’ lingcod, or maybe a chinook salmon. Only after it was played out and brought alongside the boat did we see it was a rather large coho. I netted the salmon, and as I stared at it laying there, becalmed for the moment, only one thing crossed my mind: this couldn’t have happened to a less fortunate fish, being caught by the world’s biggest a….
“How big is that sonofabitch?” Bull’s question startled me back to reality.
I paused, mulling it over, more for dramatic effect than anything. I knew that salmon weighed at least 15-pounds, but due to the special circumstances, I made certain allowances for Bull. “That coho will go 13-pounds right on the nose.” Then I added to the pile, “And you caught it on your first cast, too!” All I could think of after that was, pity the poor guide up in Nootka.
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Three on the Beach – a mixed bag of Pinks and Coho
Over the years, many of our members have found some great fly-fishing at this time of year in the Campbell River. Traditionally there have been Pink salmon, Chinook, Coho, and Chum salmon, Sea-run Cutt’s, resident Rainbow trout, and even the odd summer-run steelhead encountered. Do double-check the angling regulations and keep an eye out for Fisheries Public Notices posted around the access areas. Closures/openings can occur with little warning. Enjoy!
FLOWER EATERS OF THE CAÑO NEGRO
by, Rory E. Glennie
There were no scorpions found amongst the bed-clothes that night. I had been warned that there might be, so took the precaution of turning over the mattresses and fumigating the drafty wooden shack with a spray of powerful insecticide they had provided, before turning in for the night. Sleep came in spasms. A pale full moon hung high outside my window, its cold luminescence shone brightly through the open window casting eerie shadows across the bare, rough concrete floor. One eye instinctively opened as the other closed in a primordial survival reaction to the perceived danger lurking in the woodwork. Fatigue finally, mercifully, won out.
My rest was only fleeting though. Soon I was jolted awake by a frightful sound. I sat bolt upright in my bed, beads of sweat trickled from my brow into my straining eyes. Two o’clock in the morning was too damn early to be so rudely awakened. However, there was music to be heard in the glow of that night’s full moon. I listened intently while the sweet rhythmic sound resonated through the lagoon-side campground as tarpon rolled and splashed in their moonlit feeding spree. The tearing crescendo which had awakened me came as those fish erupted from the surface and crashed sideways back into the water. And, the orchestra played on. Soothed, I once again drifted off to sleep. I hoped and dreamed my chance at them would come mañana.
The Rio Frio, at this point in northern Costa Rica’s Caño Negro National Wildlife Refuge -- two hundred and forty miles up from the ocean, and only about ninety-eight feet above sea-level -- is wide and flat, with a deep heavy flow draining numerous shallow lagoons and swamps. This is crocodile country and tarpon water – big tarpon water. It takes stealth, bravado, and a good bit of luck for animals to survive for very long in this environment. The crocs get big by eating anything they can sink their jaws into, including tarpon. The tarpon get big by eating anything they can get their mouth around – and by avoiding crocs. Crocodiles here grow to about eighteen feet long, tarpon to over two hundred pounds. Now that’s big! It was the prospect of hooking into one of these giant tarpon on the fly, which lured me to this hostile tropical jungle.
In the morning we set out in two-person sized inflatable pontoon boats to drift the river, one of us at the oars, the other casting to likely looking fish holds under the overhanging stream side vegetation. The river level was high and appeared very muddy due to the recent series of storm fronts moving through. I was told the water temperature was unseasonably cold -- it registered a cool 76º F. on my stream thermometer This factor alone would make the fishing difficult. The tarpon are usually more active at higher temperatures and often show themselves by rolling near the surface when feeding. A form of sight casting then takes place, which is very challenging and exciting. The cool water coupled with their full moon feeding activity kept the tarpon laying low in the deeper holes digesting their midnight meal. A prophecy for us, as none were seen nor caught during the previous day or two either.
Since catching a fish was accepted as an improbability, it quickly turned the rest of the day into a sightseeing tour. I’ve always held that there is a lot more to fishing than just catching a fish, so I went forth with an open mind to investigate and learn more about this queer place.
During our quest for sighting Howler monkeys, crocodiles, and Iguanas I learned a neat little tidbit of piscatorial trivia from my Tico boat mate. I asked him about a curious habit I’d heard of – that some species of fish queue-up to ingest ripened fruit that drop from the overhanging branches into the river. He affirmed my curiosity then mentioned that dropping flower petals and blossoms are also sought out by a variety of fish, the resident mojarra and machaca in particular. The next thing he said was of even more interest to me -- that tarpon regularly search out these flora feeding fish as one of their food sources.
Now get this, these fruit and flower eaters aren’t just some little baitfish, they can grow to about six or seven pounds and are occasionally taken by tarpon even at that size. It has been known to happen that when an angler has hooked one of these feisty mojarra or machaca, a tarpon – probably sensing an easy meal – will sometimes zoom-in to engulf the struggling fish. It’s as if your fish has suddenly picked up a hitchhiker hanging on for a supercharged ride. The ensuing battle is sometimes short lived however; because the tarpon relinquishes its hold on the prize, or the hook tears loose from the smaller fish, which subsequently fails to find a purchase in the hard bony mouth of the tarpon. He assured me, however, that when you are hooked-up this way, the ride is often short, though it is always a wild one.
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