A River Never Sleeps

We wait, and a moment later it comes again. But it is not a fish. It's a river otter, charging upstream in smooth, porpoise-like jumps as it chases salmon fry. When it sees us on the beach it dives, leaves a stream of bubbles in a slick back eddy, and somehow vanishes

The otter confirmed there were still enough fry in the river to hold a predator's interest, but it didn't help us find the sea-run cutthroat and Dolly Varden we were seeking.

Next day the weather gave us a break. The sky was Baltic blue. A few wisps of clouds trailed from the snowy peaks of the coast mountains. The kayaks danced down the quick runs and nudged us into quiet pools. Deer sprang up, bouncing noiselessly away on the thick moss along the banks.

When a slight breeze stirred, it wafted down the sweet smell of black cottonwoods bursting into bud. Big Mayflies began to hatch - and then we saw the trout.

First there was one, rising steadily at the tail of a pool. Then below, in a deep, fast run of dark water, a dozen trout begin to work themselves into frenzy, breaking the surface as they attacked schools of salmon fry.

They are hungry. They are feeding - but they are not ready to take just anything. Drift after drift is ignored, then a local angler gives the visitor from Vancouver a lesson. You sink a salmon pattern deep, then lift slowly as it swings below.

"Like this," he says, tightening on a two pound trout. Then again.

It is not so easy, but finally a big, block solid Dolly Varden obliges, putting up a rugged battle. And when she comes to net we find this: the tooth marks left by a river otter.

Still, the fish seems strong and darts off.

That evening a former guide, Al Elsey, shows us what it used to be like on British Columbia's stunningly beautiful Bella Coola River. From an old log cabin on his property he has unearthed film he shot 30 years ago, when the river was full of salmon and steelhead.

He transferred the old footage to video format and added a rich, relaxed monologue that portrays his obvious love for the river - and the people that fished it.

We see anglers casting out spoons, flies and roe, to catch steelhead and coho of breathtaking proportions.

Elsey, who is 74 now, never thought he'd ever live to see the day that steelhead fishing would be banned on the Bella Coola because stocks were so low. And the trout fishing today, he notes, is a pale reflection of what it once was, when you could see them jumping not by the dozens, but the hundreds.

"It's sad," he says. "There has to be no fishing, by anybody, on the Bella Coola River for a full cycle. I spent 46 years on this river. I really believe I know something. We have to get some fish up this river."

While we talk, I can't tear my eyes from the screen. A big steelhead is jumping on the end of a line. The angler is overjoyed. He came a long way - and found a river full of sporting fish. That's the way it was.

Elsey - the first guide to work on the Dean River, and probably one of the first people to ever sports fish on the now world famous river - has made four films from his old footage. One deals with steelhead and cutthroat fishing on the Bella Coola and Dean Rivers; one is about caribou hunting, the Anahim Lake stampede and ranching; a third is about beaver trapping, and hunting in the Rainbow Mountains. The fourth is a gem about the Nuxalk oolichan harvest, which tragically has not taken place for the past two years. Along with many other things, the oolichan run has vanished from the Bella Coola.

In all of this there is a bright spot. The Bella Coola's once great sea-run cutthroat fishery is on the rebound, thanks to management measures brought in by provincial government biologists. Some are saying the sea-run cutthroat fishing this spring was as good, in certain runs of the river, as anything they've ever seen.

Now, if only we could do the same for the steelhead, we might all one day enjoy the type of fishing that is now fading with the memories of old timers like Al Elsey.

For the time being, however, we'll have to settle for the video images.

Al Elsey is selling video copies for $25 (Canadian) a piece - and they are worth the price. They are not slick, but anything they lack in production value is more than made up for by the knowledge of the film maker. Al knew what he was looking at through the viewfinder, and had the sense to hold a good shot when he got one. They are a piece of history. And for those of us who are down to scrapping with otters for a few lousy trout, his fishing films are a jarring reminder of how rich the world once was.