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Bright lights, big fishy (Page 2)
Like most of the guides who fish the Bow, Lawrence plans his
float trips to accommodate the schedule of his guests. The Bow
has about 60 kilometres of good fishable water, he says, and he
can design anything from a half-day float to a dawn-to-dusk trip.
As the morning progresses, we float downstream through
rolling hills of sage and willow. The cottonwood trees along the
riverbank are decked out in autumn gold and each side channel
is populated with mallards, geese and wading herons. On
the top of the bluffs, an endless parade of half-million-dollar tract
homes provides a reminder that we’re actually in a city. The
fishing is good today, and after three or four hours, we begin
losing track of how many trout we’ve caught and released.
More than a dozen, certainly, although just as many have bested
us in one way or another.
Fly fishing for trout requires intense concentration. You
stare at a tiny bug floating on the water several boat lengths away
and constantly fuss with the line so that the fly drifts naturally.
You don’t think about everyday preoccupations because you’re
like a kid trying to learn to keep the crayon inside the lines. If
you lift your eyes for a second, that’s when a trout will grab your
fly and spit it out, and you’ll be mumbling an apology to your
guide. Lawrence is both a perfectionist and philosopher; he’s one
of the best guides on the river but doesn’t act like losing a nice
fish will ruin his day. Periodically, without explanation, he pulls
into a slack spot and we relax for a while, enjoying the sun, having
a snack and watching the scenery. Squadrons of ducks
zoom by and joggers trot along the trail. The river sliding by gives
a sense of alpha-wave motion even when you’re sitting still, and
it’s hard to think of a better place to spend an autumn day.
“The best thing about fly fishing,” Lawrence remarks, “is the
places it takes you, both inside and outside your head.”
THE FINE POINT OF THE DAY occurs mid-afternoon, when
we’re floating down a long riffle underneath a Deerfoot Trail overpass.
Trout like to hold behind an obstruction, or in a pocket of
slower water, studying the passing river to see what it will bring.
The seam between the two zones is often marked by a line of tiny
bubbles, and it is upon this line that you must cast your fly.
Halfway down the riffle, a set of jaws emerges from the water and
snaps at my grasshopper, missing it. It’s like a replay of this morning
and even Lawrence whoops in excitement.
“Wow, that’s a big fish,” he says. “Did it touch the fly?”
“I don’t think so.”
Lawrence only takes a second pass at a fish if it missed the
fly; otherwise, it’ll have the taste of metal and won’t bite. Rowing
hard, he maneuvers us back upriver. This time the trout smacks
the grasshopper and the fight is on. The fish tries everything,
even tangling the line around an underwater boulder, but luck
is on our side and a few minutes later we manage to untangle
the line and net the fish. It’s the largest brown trout I’ve caught
in a decade of fly fishing, and after Lawrence removes the hook,
we decide that a photo is mandatory. Jumping overboard into
the thigh-deep water, I hold the fish gently for the photographic
documentation. Now maybe they’ll believe me.
Before Lawrence can shoot the photo, however, the fish
leaps out of my hands and lands upside down in the water.
Momentarily disoriented, it swims towards Lawrence, then me,
then takes refuge behind my leg. Hanging in the lee of the
current, it rests for a while with its nose against my knee then
darts off into deep water, leaving me with the amused feeling
that we’ve had, if just for a few moments, a relationship.
Winnipeg-based writer Jake MacDonald’s most recent book is Grizzlyville:
Adventures in Bear Country. Photographer Todd Korol lives in Calgary.
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