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On the Fly
A lifelong angler shares the irresistible allure
of fishing on Canada's prairies
STORY AND PHOTOS BY DAVID SMALLWOOD
The early-morning air is scented with
pine, and the distant call of loons is
muted by mist suspended over the
water. I'm standing, fly rod in hand, on
the shore of a Saskatchewan lake — one
of the thousands of lakes and rivers that
dot the rugged Precambrian Shield of the
northern prairies — and my view is framed
by a horizon of black spruce and Jack pine
against a gradually brightening sky. My
line cuts the air and skips over the surface
of the water, and I think again that
mornings such as these are pure magic.
My father introduced me to the art
and science of fly-fishing when I was 12
years old. As we stood at the water's edge
with our gear, he placed his hand on
top of mine, imposing a casting motion
as he explained the principles. "Stop
at 2 o'clock . . . stop at 10 o'clock," he
counselled, "and smoothly accelerate."
That first cast seems a lifetime ago, but it
served as my entry into a beloved and
storied pastime that draws devotees from
every walk of life. That lesson also developed
into a lifelong passion, one that I share
with growing numbers across the country.
First, the science. Your goal as a fly fisher
is to entice your quarry — the fish —
with a life-like "lure" that imitates its
real food in colour, shape and movement,
be it a nymph, fly or bug. You don't have to
be an entomologist to fly-fish, but at least
part of your success will depend on your
ability to match the fly to the current meal
of choice for the fish you want to catch. The
ephemeral mayfly, for instance, is a desired
dinner in all its life stages: nymph, dun and,
finally, spinner. The fly fisher must determine which life-cycle stage the mayfly is in, then
choose the fly that best imitates it. Solving
this angling puzzle is a fundamental step
to your success. How much or how little
science you bring to the ongoing challenge
is up to you.
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| Waterside on early mornings, I often consider
whether it's really the quarry I'm seeking.
It seems far more likely that I'm finding
yet another opportunity to explore my own
connection with the fluid world of nature. |
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Trout and salmon are coveted fly-fishing
species in Canada. The sport made a
quantum leap, however, when fly fishers
reasoned that larger species, such as the
carnivorous pike and walleye, could be
caught with the right kind of lure. The
change was a boon for the prairies where
waters are legendary for northern pike that
exceed 120 centimetres in length and
swallow meals longer than 30 centimetres.
Made from modern synthetics and hollow
hair, flies called streamers were designed
to simulate the small fish these game fish
crave. A surface strike by a pike — no
matter what the size — is a display of
sheer savagery that lends credence to
its nickname: water wolf.
Second, the art, for casting a fly is
nothing less than a graceful ballet of line
and lure. As fly-fishing expert Jeannot Ruel
writes: "All the life and natural behaviour
that the fish perceives have been breathed
into [the fly] by the artist who holds the
rod." In other words, while you can buy
a fly for every occasion and a rod, reel
and line to suit your needs, the elegance
and accuracy with which you use them
are critical.
Today, newcomers to the sport who
lack mentors to pass on revered traditions
and tips will find an abundance of
information about fly-fishing in books,
on the internet and in schools. There are
fly-casting and fly-tying workshops and
classes designed specifically for men or
women as well as some exclusively for
children. For all, the basic equipment is
the same: a fly rod, specially designed
flyline, monofilament leader material and
flies (imitations of various aquatic insects,
minnows and other food items). Additional
accessories abound, but as I was taught in
my neophyte years, a good fly fisher with
poor equipment will always outfish a poor
fly fisher with excellent equipment.
Practice makes perfect in all things, and
fly-rod casting is no exception.
Over the years,
I've happily
indulged my fly-fishing habit
whenever I can, through guided
and unguided trips, as part of a group
on lodged-based outings and on my own.
It's impossible to say which is more pleasurable
— each has served its purpose
admirably. Waterside on early mornings,
though, I often consider whether it's really
the quarry I'm seeking. It seems far more
likely that I'm finding yet another opportunity
to journey to the fish's surroundings
to explore my own connection with the
fluid world of nature.
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