not even trying to hide his disdain at my question.
I was starting to dislike him. I disliked him because he felt he was competent and we were not. But no one I’ve ever respected takes pride in lessening another man or woman because of their own capability, and I was awash in sympathy for my young friend from Calgary.
I crossed the river and made my way along the tangled sloping bank on the far side. Old growth woods loomed off to my left, and as I walked the bank became steeper and steeper, so that I ended up wading along the river to the stretch I had seen.
There was another canoe below me about four hundred yards, with two sports fishing from it, and my own guide sat in the stern of the canoe, waving at flies. I looked back, and my young acquaintance from Calgary had come out of the water and was offering him a beer. So with beers in hand they both stood by the canoe, drinking.
I went to the top of the water. It wasn’t half as good as the stretch I had left. The water was slow and dark. About twenty yards out from me there was a rock with another smaller rock just up to its right, and I felt that just between those rocks, on the far side, was the prime place for a fish to lay. I began working my way along to it, using a Green Butt Butterfly, because it seemed to me like butterfly country. On about the fifth or sixth cast, just before I reached the rocks, I had agrilse on. At that position my back was slightly turned to my guide.
There was absolutely no place to beach the fish, unless I wanted to haul it right up the sheer bank on my left. The guide had the net. I waved at him, but he wasn’t looking my way. And so I played the fish. The grilse gave a run, and jumped twice, and looked like it had been in the river for a while. I turned and called out to the guide. No response. And then knowing the grilse was spent, I looked about for a place to beach it.
Up the sheer bank on my left was where I could go. I yelled to my guide again. No response again. But by this time, the canoe on the stretch below me was lifting anchor to come to my aid with a net.
At about this time my guide looked up, saw the bow in my line, and the grilse make another small leap, and frantically became interested in my position. He pushed the canoe out and began to pole downriver towards me, yelling, “Wait on it—wait on it.”
But I decided then and there I was going to gain or lose this fish without his support. So turning the grilse towards shore, and measuring how far up the bank I would be able to scamper without falling over backwards, up I went. The grilse came behind me. And I was able to drop my rod and pick it up, kill it. I was scraping the scales from it when my guide arrived.
The next morning I got a grilse early, on another stretch of water above the camp, but that was all that was taken when I was there. Our guide had changed radically. He kept asking if we needed anything, and it was never a bother to fish with people who knew what they were doing. I thought of the little grilse I had taken and wondered if they knew anything of what their lives played in what just went on.
Eight
ONE SUMMER, BACK IN the early eighties, I fished mostly with Alvin Simms. He could no longer drive for his eyes were bad, and so I took him out.
We would go out early—sometimes getting on the river by five o’clock, me driving my old Suzuki Jeep. As June gave way to July we switched rivers, as July gave way to August we switched again, and each switch fulfilled a certain destiny for a certain number of fish.
Mr. Simms was a great caster, and always took more fish than I. He was as unconsciously a part of the river as any manI have ever fished with. The best of it was, like all men I have fished with who are comfortable with themselves, he expected nothing from you.
Going down the Norwest in a canoe with him, he would pole to a dead still at the upper edge of a rapid, which would afford me time, at leisure to fish over a promising stretch
I was starting to dislike him. I disliked him because he felt he was competent and we were not. But no one I’ve ever respected takes pride in lessening another man or woman because of their own capability, and I was awash in sympathy for my young friend from Calgary.
I crossed the river and made my way along the tangled sloping bank on the far side. Old growth woods loomed off to my left, and as I walked the bank became steeper and steeper, so that I ended up wading along the river to the stretch I had seen.
There was another canoe below me about four hundred yards, with two sports fishing from it, and my own guide sat in the stern of the canoe, waving at flies. I looked back, and my young acquaintance from Calgary had come out of the water and was offering him a beer. So with beers in hand they both stood by the canoe, drinking.
I went to the top of the water. It wasn’t half as good as the stretch I had left. The water was slow and dark. About twenty yards out from me there was a rock with another smaller rock just up to its right, and I felt that just between those rocks, on the far side, was the prime place for a fish to lay. I began working my way along to it, using a Green Butt Butterfly, because it seemed to me like butterfly country. On about the fifth or sixth cast, just before I reached the rocks, I had agrilse on. At that position my back was slightly turned to my guide.
There was absolutely no place to beach the fish, unless I wanted to haul it right up the sheer bank on my left. The guide had the net. I waved at him, but he wasn’t looking my way. And so I played the fish. The grilse gave a run, and jumped twice, and looked like it had been in the river for a while. I turned and called out to the guide. No response. And then knowing the grilse was spent, I looked about for a place to beach it.
Up the sheer bank on my left was where I could go. I yelled to my guide again. No response again. But by this time, the canoe on the stretch below me was lifting anchor to come to my aid with a net.
At about this time my guide looked up, saw the bow in my line, and the grilse make another small leap, and frantically became interested in my position. He pushed the canoe out and began to pole downriver towards me, yelling, “Wait on it—wait on it.”
But I decided then and there I was going to gain or lose this fish without his support. So turning the grilse towards shore, and measuring how far up the bank I would be able to scamper without falling over backwards, up I went. The grilse came behind me. And I was able to drop my rod and pick it up, kill it. I was scraping the scales from it when my guide arrived.
The next morning I got a grilse early, on another stretch of water above the camp, but that was all that was taken when I was there. Our guide had changed radically. He kept asking if we needed anything, and it was never a bother to fish with people who knew what they were doing. I thought of the little grilse I had taken and wondered if they knew anything of what their lives played in what just went on.
Eight
ONE SUMMER, BACK IN the early eighties, I fished mostly with Alvin Simms. He could no longer drive for his eyes were bad, and so I took him out.
We would go out early—sometimes getting on the river by five o’clock, me driving my old Suzuki Jeep. As June gave way to July we switched rivers, as July gave way to August we switched again, and each switch fulfilled a certain destiny for a certain number of fish.
Mr. Simms was a great caster, and always took more fish than I. He was as unconsciously a part of the river as any manI have ever fished with. The best of it was, like all men I have fished with who are comfortable with themselves, he expected nothing from you.
Going down the Norwest in a canoe with him, he would pole to a dead still at the upper edge of a rapid, which would afford me time, at leisure to fish over a promising stretch
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