|
||||||||||||
 
Story and Photography by Mike Sturk Rush-hour traffic and fishing are pretty much at opposite ends of the leisure spectrum but put the two of them together and the drive is hardly noticeable. I live in a place where favorite fishing spots are measured in time waiting at traffic lights rather than distance. Besides, driving hundreds of kilometers doesn’t always mean good fishing anyway.
Some of my most memorable fishing experiences have occurred on outings close to home during impromptu trips to the river. One of them occurred this past summer. I had a couple of hours before I had to pick up my daughter from a soccer trip just after 2 pm. Despite the bright, sunny conditions, I thought I’d have a look at the river although I would’ve bet my last San Juan worm against seeing much action. Traffic was light and 10 minutes later I pulled my rusty-but-trusty old Subaru into a parking lot near the river and walked over to a favorite spot. I didn’t rig up or put on my waders, opting instead to see if there was anything happening on the water. As it turned out, thanks to the presence of caddis flies and a hatch of Pale Morning Duns, the river was active that day. As I looked up along the grassy bank, a feeling of déjà vu came over me when I spotted a huge brown lying in shallow water. Every now and then I see a trout that is so large it startles me. It happened once on the Oldman River when I was reeling in a whitefish and about 10 feet away, something truly huge flashed behind it. It happened again on the lower Bow when I finally caught a glimpse of a big brown that I hooked on a stonefly nymph in March. I had the same feeling about this trout. In the midday sun and not more than a short roll cast away from a busy, paved pedestrian pathway, there were three or four trout rising. The dark shape at the top of the riffles caught my attention. It was lying in the shallows looking as out of place as a nuclear submarine in one of those lake community ponds. It was a large, dark trout, about two feet long and very fat. At first I thought it might be a bull trout, then realized it was a large brown. I was thinking how flimsy my #16 dry fly and 5X tippet seemed right about then. Even if I could hook it, landing it would be another story. Looking up stream, a drift boat was floating down the middle of the river towards me. I hustled back to the car, stirring up dozens of caddis flies with every step. I quickly rigged up and walked back to the river, fully expecting to have my little secret discovered by the drift boat fishermen. But when I returned, much to my glee, they had already passed. Tying on a home-made #16 dark caddis, which wouldn’t have won any fly-tying contests, but had been working well on previous outings, I decided to fish for the smaller trout at the bottom of the run first. It looked about 16 or 17 inches - a mere appetizer on the river’s morning’s menu. The fly didn’t travel far before the trout turned towards me, opening its white mouth to take the fly. When this happens, much patience on the angler’s part is required and I likely set the hook too quickly because the trout was gone after a couple of frantic seconds. I blamed the degree of caffeine in my morning coffee. So it was on to the second trout. This time I had a better cast and a smooth float over the brown and it casually sipped the fly. Trout fooled by a small dry fly seem almost indignant in the way they conduct themselves after being hooked. This one went on a reel-screaming run into deeper and faster water. After what seemed like 10 minutes, I unclipped my net then continued to reel in what looked like a 20-22-inch brown. Just as I was about to net the fish, my hook pulled out and the brown was gone. Zero for two and I blamed my hook sharpener this time. I rationalized that at least my hands didn’t smell like fish.
I could hear the wheels of a passing in-line skater on the paved pathway behind me as I contemplated strategy for the large trout in front of me. On the river’s list of entrees, this fish was the main course. Older, wiser and larger fish seem to know how to situate themselves in spots to which casts are exceedingly difficult for even the best fly casters. This trout lay in calmer water, just above the head of the run, and I worried about line drag from the faster water below. Unlike the other fish, I hadn’t seen this behemoth rise. I watched for awhile and the brown stayed in the same foot of water, occasionally moving out into the current to take a nymph but not rising to the surface for adults. Finally, I decided to cast the caddis anyway. Looking more like Red Green than Red Fisher on my first two casts, I tried a third cast, which was a little to the brown’s right. To my surprise the fish turned sideways and sipped the fly. I set the hook ever so gently with my 4-weight rod, reminding myself I was using 5X tippet. The dark fish decided to sulk for a minute or two before moving slowly upstream as if I wasn’t really part of its plan. Gradually the fish tired and I began to recover the line I had lost. The big trout turned as it went by me and I scooped it. Bow River fishermen use large nets for a reason but I had never had a fish fill mine like this one. Had the heavy brown turned downstream, using the current to its advantage at the beginning, I doubt I would have been so fortunate. “Hog” came to mind as I quickly photographed the trout, which was half an inch short of two feet and looked like it had swallowed a football. It was easily the largest brown I had ever caught on a dry fly. After a quick photo I released the trout. What could be better, the fishing had been great, and I still had an hour left. There are times though, and this was one of them, when the fishing couldn’t possibly get any better. My batting average was now over .300 and my one and only hit was a home run so I packed up and left. Most of the time I fish alone. I suppose this is because it’s easier to concentrate on the challenge or maybe I just like the solitude, but I have a few fishing partners who’s company I enjoy and Mike, a fellow photographer/fly fisherman, is one of them.
A couple of years ago, he called me from riverside. I’d often call him when the fishing was good and vice versa. I’m sure my wife would wonder about these mysterious calls during which words like “nymphs,” “stimulators,” and “woolly buggers” were used, followed by my hasty departure. On a warm March day, he was having good luck nymph fishing a stretch of the river in the city about 10 minutes from my house. When Mike says it’s good, it’s good. So fifteen minutes later I was standing upstream, listening to heavy traffic on Deerfoot Trail when my strike indicator darted north. I set the hook and it quickly became apparent that this was no tiddler. After reeling in what seemed to be a tired, belly-up rainbow within about 15 feet several times, it would right itself and take off across the river time after time until Mike finally slipped the net under it. The fish measured 25 inches and over the traffic noise, we talked about how lucky we were to have a river like the Bow flowing through our city. Fishing in the city has few downsides other than traffic noise on certain stretches but there can be other distractions. One evening while I waited for trout to start eating caddis flies, a young couple dipped down over the hillside from the bike path and began rolling around in the grass in a passionate embrace. They groped, I flailed, and the trout went into hiding. Unlike the couple on the hillside, I wasn’t getting any action so I went home. Now I know the true meaning of a multi-use area. Another time, while nymph fishing a favorite piece of water, neighborhood kids decided to do what kids do for no apparent reason. They began throwing large rocks into the river just upstream, but rather than get upset about it - after all, it’s their river too - I simply moved further downstream. I hate it when fly fishers get uppity as if what they’re doing is the only truly noble pursuit on the river.
On some stretches of the river close to the highway, there’s a ever-present traffic noise---the high-pitched whine of rubber meeting road, rumbling engines, air brakes and horns accompanied by emergency vehicle sirens. But when I’m on the river in the middle of the fourth largest city in Canada, the running water drowns out the noise and I’m immersed deep into my own world, thinking ‘Hare’s Ear or Pheasant Tail?’ Most freelance photographers — and I’m one of them - agree the invention of the cell phone has been a big help to our profession. Being accessible for work is the nature of the freelance business and it’s a necessary evil for me carry my cell phone on the river. I always answer my phone because it could be work on the other end. The lower Bow, tucked down into a steep-sided valley throughout much of its length, is out of cell phone range much of the time. I don’t have that problem in the city, another reason I fish a lot within city limits. The running water sometimes drowns out the ring, but I solved that little problem with a vibrating battery. The first time it “rang” I thought I was having a heart attack. I’m seldom more than 20 minutes from home or work. On one occasion, a client asked: “Are those gulls I hear? Where are you anyway?” Overwhelmed with guilt, I sheepishly owned up to my fishing locale on the river. Recently, the editor of this fishing magazine called with an idea. “Are you fishing?” Jeff demanded to know. There I was, caught in the act once again. I’m not sure how he knew I was waist-deep in water and releasing a small Bow River brown. And speaking of cell phones, occasionally I’ve been known to torment a fishing partner, stuck at his desk in a downtown office tower. I’ll call, he’ll answer, then I’ll crank my reel, splash around a bit and sometimes a little chuckle escapes. “You bastard!” he says. Deep down, actually quite deep down, I think he enjoys my calls.
There are fly fishers - one of my best friends for example - who view carrying a cell phone while fishing as sacrilege. Fishing and cell phones, like fishing and traffic, are incongruous. But the alternative is not fishing as often, so I look at it as new technology working to make my life better. And as I mentioned earlier, the traffic, while heading to the river, never seems as stressful. That’s the beauty of living in Calgary, a city with one of the best trout streams in the world running through it. Calgary’s a big, busy city, getting bigger by the day. It has an underworld, an under water world, that is as fascinating as it is peaceful. So the next time you’re sitting in traffic and you see a guy sitting next to you with a smile on his face, it could be me and I’m not listening to the radio but to the river calling! |
||||||||||||
Often the fishing fails to match what’s in my own back yard - the Bow River, in Calgary, Alberta.
Others, old enough to know better, show a complete disregard to those practicing piscatorial pursuits. One day it could be a fly fisherman wading into the water 10 meters upstream, completely oblivious to the feeding trout I’m stalking. The next day, people are out walking dogs and throwing sticks into the river for Fido to fetch, ignoring me and the rising fish they nearly bonk on the head with their sticks. But in the fishing world as in the food business, these are “small potatoes.”
