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Being of and with family, Old Bag and Baguette, I did my fishing around high noon, while the kid splashed in the lake and the dog yapped on shore. Caught my first bass on a fly. It was but 3 inches - next one 4 inches - next one 13 inches and five inches deep. A nice little fighter on 6 X, expecially after he ran the leader around a weed. I let the weed play him while I figured out what to do. When he tired, I was simply able to lift him out. I've seen a lot of fishing shows, but never thought I'd get a charge out of "lipping" a bass. Lipped teachers and bosses, but never a bass. To celebrate, I bought an O*V*S shirt, on sale at the local flyshop. It's bright pink - perfect camouflage for fishing the nuclear holocaust. It even has a loopy thingy on the front and a secret zipper pocket. I plan to introduce it to the secret pocket on my Tilly pants and breed them. After ditching the Old Bag and Baguette at the ferry to Vancouver, I went in search of a campsite. Found one and was packed in like a tin of Norwegian sardines. Met up the next day with my father, brother and brother's elder son and brother's new yellow Clipper canoe, new Spring Creek pontoons, new FeatherCraft life-jackets, new MotorGuide 36 Variable-Speed electric motor, new Spring Creek motor mount, new deep-cycle battery, new compact, portable fish-finder and new copy of "Fishing for Dummies".' Checked out the equipment on Lake Cowichan amid tubers and water-skiers. Reminded me of the mosquitos in Alaska.
Once again, fished at high noon. Fishing was a considerable problem. I had my dad, Ferdy, in the the bow with a spinning-rod and half a junk yard attached and me in the back with a dry fly. Brother, Dale, toured the lake with his eyes glued to the "fish-finder" and its instruction booklet, marvelling at all the fish down there. I raised a few, caught none. Dale and son, Justin, did no better. Close to suffering sun-stroke we retired to the road to camp only to come upon an accident between a logging truck and a travel trailer. Total damage was about $6, but the trucker wouldn't move, or allow the camper to move until his supervisor arrived - an hour later. Best part was, my brother used no gas for a whole hour. Total catch for the reunion was one 7-inch rainbow, and I might be lying. Lesson learned from the whole experience - there's nothing like peeing in your own toilet. "There are no steelhead".
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Next tried Kissinger Lake, near Nixon Creek (and you can take that as gospel) - an hour's drive beyond the sign that says "next gas - 50 miles" (and I believe that's a lie). Looked in the rear-view mirror for signs of distress from my brother, following, but saw none, until we reached the lake and he announced that he was almost out of gas.
