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 "This is a family vacation. You're not going to disappear every day, to fish, and show up barely in time for supper," said the Old Bag. Dutifully, I packed my fly rods and boxes, but left the float tube at home. The canoe would have to do, and would be my concession to togetherness.
I did ask the Old Bag if she would fish with me - she had taken lessons - but she'd mostly learned that fishing is a solitary sport and declined. Maybe my "Shut Up and Fish" hat distracted her. With civility, I waited for the second day of our vacation, leaving our waterfront cabin on Okanagan Lake (large enough to support Ogopogo - B.C.'s Loch Ness monster) to fish a couple small ponds about an hour away, and only eight kilometers from a government liquor outlet. Re-supplied with beer, I launched the canoe in familiar surroundings and paddled against the wind to the outlet of the lake. As I reached the end, fish were rising about me. This would be dry fly fishing. Changing my reel over to a floating line, I cast to shore and nothing happened. I cast again, and again. And, nothing happened. In fact, there hadn't been a rise since I tied on my Adams. Frustrated by a gusting wind that moved the canoe through 180-degree arcs against the single anchor, I decided to switch to my sinking line and float back down the lake. The change accomplished, the fish began to rise again, as if to say "(&%%$$*#). With family fun firmly implanted in my mind, the rest of my excursions were limited to the cabin and environs. A couple of whitefish hit my fly with a vengeance and then lay in the water like an overworked whore (not that I'd know) waiting to be brought to the surface. It wasn't fishing. You'd think, from what you've read so far that there would be no success, but you'd be wrong. Returning from the outhouse, I was forced to admit to the Old Bag that while lifting the seat, my sunglasses had slipped off and fluttered lightly through the gap of the partially opened lid. Being a pessimist, I didn't even look, but sat down to do what I had come to do. The Old Bag, claiming to be an optimist (how come her glass is still half full?) asked if I had made an attempt to retrieve the glasses. The Old Bag, armed with a flashlight, and I, with two spin casting rods, sans reels, found ourselves peering into the hole. Sort of like ice-fishing, but without the cold. Togetherness at last.
Wielding the rods like chopsticks, I deftly hooked my prey and raised the glasses to the surface. A light rinse in the lake and a few "oh gross" comments from our 15-year-old Baguette and I was back in business. Don't know how I could catch anything without my polarized glasses. "There are no steelhead".
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