A River Never Sleeps

Bet you can't wait for this trip report.

The two minister's sons, Dale and Glenn, met up at Quennel Lake, near Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, for a two day camp and fish.

Wish I could remember the plot to the movie and book, but I can tell you that neither of us slew the other or committed suicide, although, one of us might have been leaning in that direction.

Jonathon the kid looks like a "Pro"

Dale brought 7-year-old Jonathan, because he said he wanted to go fishing.

Dale, being a newbie, didn't know that a 7-year-old only wants to go fishing. . . . if he's catching fish.

Now Jonathan had tied his own fly (on a #2 heavy hook), with my help, a week earlier, and he needed to fish it, of course. But, after ten minutes, Jonathan was losing patience with the sport and wanted to go home, never mind, get off the lake and back to camp.

He continued to complain that evening. There was some temptation to apply a "priest", but finally the kid settled down for the night ( about 1:30 am I think ).

Next morning I suggested Dale show Jonathan how to cast a dry fly, since I'd caught three good fighting bass and numerous sunfish (first time I've ever been aware they existed in a British Columbia lake). The kid just had to catch a fish. And he just had to keep complaining.

A phone call to Jonathan's mother revealed that he probably wanted to go home so he could have a poop.

Dale dealt with that matter and I tied a new leader on the Daiwa fly rod that I inflict on people who might take up the sport.
The kid spent over an hour casting toward shore without complaint - and finally hooked a sunfish.

Dale brought Jonathon the kid that looks like a "Pro"

long discussion ensued on whether to keep the fish or not. It looked pretty much dead at this point, but I unhooked it and gentled it in the water, and it shot off. As much as Jonathan wanted to keep that fish to show his mother, there was an expression of delight on his face, to see that fish live.

Another dry-fly fisherman is born.

The Old Coot:

So, he does exist.

Bud Smithers, who is known on the fly fishing list as The Old Coot, was alive and very well, fishing Island Lake. I saw him with my own eyes.

I actually heard him first. He arrived like one of his posts to the list; a cacophony of sound and apparently taking the direct route. It sounded like somebody rolling their trailer, but it was just Bud, his Turbo-diesel pickup and Boler.

The steep,last half mile into the lake was littered with randomly distributed boulders, large enough to take out the gas tank on his pick-up. He managed to hit them all.

The Old Coot and our man Baglo!

The Boler had no clearance, and no choice in the matter.He picked a choice site, though, with left-over firewood, and I introduced myself. Like his posts, he is lean, with no fat, and a face traced with many years of experience. Not tall, not short. Pretty much what you would expect.

I handed him a Caesar, complete with celery and we inspected the interior of the trailer. Clamato juice, vodka and the rest of the contents were strewn about everywhere. Shaken, not stirred.

We didn't really get to fish together, but I did watch him roll-cast from the shore. It was art in action. And he caught a nice trout of about 22" in his first hour. I spent two days without a strike.
He joined me, and my fishing buddy, Les, at the campfire and had an informed opinion on everything, just like his posts, but truth be told, he's not "an old coot", he's a teddy bear.

We left him there, wondering if he might not be there for a long time to come. The prospect of getting his trailer out that boulder strewn road was not good.

Les took a picture of the two of us together. I look at it sometimes. After all, a picture's worth a thousand words.