4. Mr. Gumby Goes Fishing
For someone who lived many years in the northern reaches of Canada, I have to be the first to admit that the ‘city boy’ lurked just a few millimetres below the surface. While all my neighbours spent long summers’ evenings chasing mosquitoes on high powered four-wheelers, I sat in front of my computer or the TV longing for a quiet street side cafe and a double latte with extra chocolate sprinkles. And if moose roast with bannock and baked potatoes is just the ticket to snagging a northern mans heart, nirvana for me is a menu with two whole beef patties, special sauce, lettuce and cheese on a sesame seed bun on it.
Now my good friend Ray was exactly the opposite. Trapped by day in the control tower at the airport, he spent most of his spare time tying flies and dreaming of hooking that big lunker on the Tetsa River. Every day when I climbed the stairs to the tower for the shift-change briefing I could see the twinkle in his eye as he showed me a freshly tied Mayfly or demonstrated the proper dry fly technique with a snow ruler. Mostly I humoured him, in that way that city folk often do when confronted with country cousins at a family gathering.
It was in this state of semi-bored head nodding that one day, obviously by mistake, I agreed to join him on a grayling expedition up the mighty Tetsa. No sooner had the offending nod been shaken from my woolly noggin than I realized to my horror that this was the one person who would keep me to my promise. Other lesser men might be put off by a ‘I had to pull a double shift’ or ‘the kids are sick’ excuse, but not Ray. For him the chance to share his passion for slimy fish and glacial streams was a mission from God. And Ray took God seriously.
When I arrived home that evening my wife, the closet wilderness-o-phile, was smiling from ear to ear. I brushed off her glee with a grumpy wave and locked myself in the computer room for the evening. In the basement I could hear her rooting about looking through her vast assortment of creels, cruisers vests, rods and bear bangers. Obviously Ray had recruited an accomplice.
The day of my initiation into the Fraternal Order of Grayling Hunters dawned clear and cold, it being April and all. Al-osaurus had been up half the night packing rucksacks and filling Thermoses. I didn’t have the heart to tell her this was just a day trip; besides it kept her out of my hair for the evening. With any luck she would sleep in and we would be halfway up the Alaska Highway before she opened her first eye. No such luck. As I climbed sleepily up off the throne, not daring to look in the mirror, I caught a flash of red as she zoomed down the hall in her cruiser vest, Tilley hat perched on top of her head.
Ugh… double ugh…
Rounding the end of the kitchen counter I spied a fresh cup of steaming coffee sitting on the stove. A dim light of hope glimmered. At least she had made me a cup of coffee (Al limited me to one cup of coffee a day…). Hands trembling more than slightly I grabbed the cup and took a mighty gulp… BLECK!
The coffee was black… YUCKKKK!!..
“That’s Rays’ coffee!” Al hissed at me as she zoomed past in search of the 6 foot dip net.
“Huh?..” I replied as she shot toward the basement stairs, hooking her thumb over her shoulder toward the living room.
Cup in hand, I peered around the dining room divider. There sitting on the couch wearing the smile usually reserved for Jimmy Swaggart lookalikes and bill collectors were Ray and his wife, Iris.
“Morning Mark!” they both chimed cheerily at me.
“You goin’ fishin’ like that?” Ray asked with a thinly veiled snicker in his voice.
I looked down, realizing I was still wearing little more than my ratty Taz boxers…
“Ummm, noooo… ” I replied guiltily, feeling Iris’ laser eyes taking aim about 4 inches below my belly button. “Back in a minute!”
I literally shot down the hall and dived into my clothes, which mysteriously had appeared, laid out on the end of the bed. Two layers of long johns, double cotton socks (I am allergic to wool), heavy pants, waterproof pants, 3 tee shirts, turtleneck, sweater, kangaroo sweatshirt and heavy windbreaker later I waddled back down the hall; wondering what the heck I would do if nature called in this getup.
Ray and Iris still sat side by side on the couch, sipping coffee in unison and looking a lot like the Katzenjammer Kids. Al had joined them and was daintily slurping on a mug of tea. I could see through the kitchen door that my brackish cup of black coffee was still sitting on the stove.
“Well, let’s go!” Al said cheerily when she spied me.
Ray and Iris sprung up off the couch like they had been shot out of a gun, and I had just enough time to take a mighty swig from the cold black coffee before heading out the door behind them, my stomach feeling like a vinegar vat on a bad day.
The Tetsa River is about 90 miles from Fort Nelson, normally a 2 hour drive up the pothole festooned Alaska Highway. With Ray at the wheel I had just about enough time to fasten my seatbelt before he announced “We’re here!”. Darned if there weren’t heat blisters on the leading edges of the Jimmy when I got out.
Of course “We’re here!” does not mean we had arrived at the fishing hole. Nooo… far from it.
We left the still smoking Jimmy at the turn off and began the 2 mile walk to the river. Ray lead the way, his wife and Al chattering along behind, with myself flopping about like a fresh caught salmon a few yards behind. Every so often Ray would turn around and point my way, sending both women into gales of laughter. I am not sure what he was saying, perhaps it was something to do with my left snowshoes constant attempts to insert itself into my right ear.
Eventually we arrived at the river bank. My first indication that we were actually at the river was when the snow below me began to make ominous booming and creaking noises. Ahead Ray stopped and turned back toward me. “Watch your footing Mark! The Tetsa is pretty dangerous during breakup!”
B-B-B-Breakup? I stopped and looked down at my feet, then ahead of me, then left, then right. For the past few hundred feet I had noticed quite a few gopher holes in the snow and had made a mental note to ask Ray about them. In horror I realized they weren’t gopher holes but slump holes where the ice on the river had thinned in sections and finally given way, allowing the snow to slump down the holes. Yikes! Carefully I matched my snowshoes to Ray’s snowshoe prints as I made my way up to where they were sitting on a log, enjoying a cup of coffee from one of the Thermoses.
No sooner than I had arrived but Ray jumped up, “Well let’s go! The fish are waiting!”. Al handed me her half empty cup of tea, smiled sickly sweet and trudged off after Ray and Iris. I looked forlornly into the cup then took a long swig. Bleck! No sugar!…
Amazingly the spot on the river Ray had picked out for the days fishing was clear of ice. Peering down through the 3 feet of fast running glacier meltwater I could see the dark shapes of fish swimming like mad against the current. I could relate.
“The grayling will be extra hungry this time of year”, Ray said in his matter of fact way.
As if to prove his point he pulled in a 13 incher on his second cast. Then another. Then another. Meanwhile Al and Iris just stood back and watched. I was absorbed in trying to untangle my feet from the snowshoes.
By the time I extricated my feet from the snowshoes from hell, Al and Iris had joined Ray on the bank and a sizable pile of grayling lay nearby. Sitting on a clear log I began to haul my handy-dandy-backpackable-telescoping fishing rod and brand new reel out of my backpack, taking care not to squish my precious Twinkies in the process. Feeling ever so much the expert angler I began to untelescope the rod. The rest of the party were oblivious as they methodically cast their lines then reeled them in. A light Tom Mack spoon followed, tied tightly to the leader with my best blood knot. I sat and surveyed my handiwork with a satisfied smile, unaware that I had snagged my velcro’d watch band.
My first cast was somewhat of a failure. I put a mighty heave into the rod. Compliantly the watchband seperated and my Timex Ironman Indiglo shot several hundred feet straight up, returning like a missile to land in the middle of the pile of fish. Ray looked over his shoulder at the watch sitting in the pile of fish, shot one eyebrow up, tossed me back my watch and bit his lip.
My second cast sent my toque into the middle of the river, bobbing merrily along until it slid under a pan of ice. At this rate a half dozen casts would have me down to my underwear and boots. I pulled my kangaroo hood up and cinched down the cord to keep my bald head warm. Ray shot up the other eyebrow and Iris snickered.
My third cast went much better, the Tom Mack spoon sailing way out across the river. Somewhere in mid cast though, the bloodknot let go. My prized spoon buried itself in a snowbank on the far side. Alison laughed under her breath, Iris openly guffawed and Ray turned purple biting his tongue. I sadly reeled in my line and glared at the small hole in the snowbank across the river.
It got worse. My next two casts deposited a brand new Mayfly and another spoon into the same crack in a large granite boulder, where I imagine they remain to this day. Ray’s suggestion to ‘just give them a yank’ in both cases resulted in the whirring sound of fishing line wrapping itself around the end of my pole.
The sixth cast went amazingly well, the bright orange and red lure flying out to plop in the middle of the fishing hole. I reeled it in with a satisfied smile. Ray and Iris both smiled, Al grinned, and I snagged the hook in the end of my thumb.
Then came the seventh cast. Once more the lure sailed happily out over the river and plopped into a deep hole. I smiled and began to reel in… Err… I smiled and TRIED to reel in. The handle on my reel was frozen. I tried to reel again. Nothing. I tried to reel in a third time, using just a little more force. The handle snapped off in my hand.
Ray, who was in the middle of an animated conversation with Al over the relative merits of pickerel and grayling, turned quickly in my direction at the sound of my ‘international distress call’ (the distress call for those unfamiliar is comprised of the beginning phrase “What the” followed quickly by a common term for sexual congress). Quickly he reeled in his line and came over to help me out. Grabbing a length of stick he began to wind in my line. Of course no sooner had he begun than a large grayling took a mighty bite out of my lure. Thus it was that I ended up with a broken reel and Ray the largest grayling of the day.
My reel broken I had the perfect excuse to stop fishing. While the others chatted away on the bank and pulled an endless stream of hungry grayling and pickerel out of the river I fashioned myself a cozy little snow cave in the bank, pulled my windbreaker hood up over my kangaroo hood and took a long nap, dreaming a delicious dream of double chocolate lattes… with extra chocolate sprinkles of course.