Autumn Lines

Stopped on the high overhead bridge we peered down into the near-tropical blue channel where the creek was deepest, areas with lesser depth ran gin clear. For both of us, it was our first time at this quaint stretch of water, the idea was to familiarize ourselves with the stream. Shortly after stopping at the bridge, perhaps 500 a meter drive, is where we parked. Seeing that it was a weekday, the campground was empty and we shared the stream only with the resident eagles. Excellent. 

Prior to slipping into our wading outfits we took a moment to gather all we could about the stream and our surroundings. The water level here fluctuates vastly with the seasons, cobble and rock banks clear of living vegetation spanned for tens of meters on either side of the now yielding flow. Small pools and rivulets isolated from the mainstream held many kokanee, they appeared dazed as they swam from one side to the other with nowhere else to go. (Kokanee are miniature versions of their ocean-going variant, sockeye salmon (both are Onchorynchus nerka.) Unlike the ocean-going sockeye, kokanee spend their entire lives in freshwater, but still adhere to the spawn-and-die lifestyle.) The kokanee moved like underwater cardinals bright red and beautiful, albeit lacking the tune of the eastern bird. I find the color of the kokanee quite special, just before death they display their brightest red, return to the current of a stream in search of a mate, and for the first and last time they will reproduce. 

The variety of kokanee. The middle fish is barely hanging on and showing signs of rot, which is actually a fungal infection of the category Saprolignia.

The stream wove through the now-dry rock bed, bending, cascading, gurgling along towards the mighty Columbia. The lodgepole pine and black spruce sat away from the stream and composed the majority of the forest save for the odd poplar that brandished golden leaves, soon to drop with the nearing snowline. The day, in terms of weather, was perfect. Blue skies stretched up and down the Columbia Valley and crisp October air, when inhaled deeply, reminded you that you were alive, that the warmth you are now feeling would not last much longer, that this day should be enjoyed with a sense of gratitude before the cold, long winter arrives. 

A beautiful and much appreciated October day.

Fishing holes were strewn about the stream, there was no shortage, riffles would fall into deep swirling pools where the water slowed and the fish could rest with little effort. “I’ll head down to this hole” I said pointing downstream with my rod “you take this one” then pointing perpendicular to the stream “After we give these some casts we can head up stream and leap-frog.” “Okay, sounds good.” Solange replied. 

As I approached the tail water of the riffle the hundreds of kokanee became more clear, there was no way I wasn’t going to catch a fish. Perfect. I hoped Solange was having a similar experience up at her spot. As I had wished, I was unable to not catch a kokanee, on 15 casts I caught 13 kokanee. Their zombie-like state did not induce a fun fishing experience after the first few, so the ten others that followed were more of a nuisance than fun. I even tried to let them off the hook by giving them slack and ending the fight, but to no avail, they couldn’t shake the hook. It was even barbless. 

One of the first kokanee, as I’m still fresh on catching them.

I crossed back over the stream and walked towards Solange, knowing that trying to talk from a distance was utterly hopeless around moving water. “Any luck?” I asked, “No, nothing at all.” she said. Her spot lacked any sign of the small kokanee, which wasn’t all that bad, considering it was more of a cheap thrill than a memorable engagement. We hadn’t come to catch kokanee anyways, we were after bull trout, which, funny enough, aren’t actually trout. They’re char. Bull trout are notorious for being the biggest baddest fish in the stream, weighing up to 14kg (32lbs) and as long as 103cm (40in) (Fishbase.de). Catching a bull trout would be a highlight to either of our fly fishing careers, especially Solange’s, as she is rather new to the addiction….er...sport. 

A sign posted on a nearby stump to remind fisherpeople of their limits.

The riffle dropped more than the others we had seen and tailed out in a short, but deep pool and also featured a sizable eddy where many kokanee were holding. “Can you watch me cast? I’m not doing very well today.” Solange said “Yes, of course, we’ll getcha goin’” I replied. She pulls out ten meters of line and begins to cast. The cast is as she said, not the best, but a quick fix. “Your arm is rotating too much, remember the 10 to 2” I shouted from a distance, being sure to be clear of her back cast. She hears me and shortens the rotation on her cast. Bingo. Her line is now gently whipping to and fro with a soft whistle, perfect. She sends the fly to the far side of the riffle and swings down and into the pool below. “Nice cast!” I say, now closer to her. The line drifts through the pool with no connection. Damn. “Strip it in and give it another go” I say. She begins to strip in the line for another cast when her line stops “I think I’m on a rock” she says, to which I reply “Okay, I’ll get it”. 

As I’m going to unhook her line from the rock her rod starts to quiver and I see a flash in the bottom of the pool. To our surprise, she connected with a fish, and a big one at that...at least bigger than the kokanee I’d been catching downstream. Her rod bends down and down, she’s now using both hands to keep her rod tip up, her reel giving off short quick whines as the fish on the other end refuses the otherworldly pull. Unfortunately, we had managed to lose our net just a couple of weeks prior, so as Solange is contending with this massive fish I am more or less of no use on the shore. I stood back, letting her dance the dance between fisherperson and aqueous partner, providing words of encouragement such as “Keep the rod tip up” “Don’t lose it” “Let the reel do the work”...Perhaps I sounded more like a coach. Oops. The one beneficial choice of words I sprayed out was “We don’t have a net, you’re going to have to walk it to shore.”. She began backing up over the uneven rocks, keeping the rod tip held high as the fish on the other end conceded to shallower waters. Spectacular. When the fatigued competitor was swimming in just a few inches of water, I made my move. Circling around into the deeper water I approached the fish from where it wanted to be and flicked it up onto the rocks. Solange had successfully landed a bull trout and her biggest fish. 

Bystanders had come up during Solanges’ engagement to get a better view, once she had landed the fish they awed in its beauty and size and offered to take a picture. We gladly accepted, kneeling down and holding up the silvery and dotted predator. He snapped our picture. “Thank you!” we said excitedly and simultaneously, then trading a quick glance before we maneuvered to release the catch. The barbless hook slid from its mouth like an earring in a pierced ear, Solange then gently submerged the fish, moving it forward and back in the stream before it wriggled free and swam back with great composure. 

Solange showing off her fresh catch.

Loz and the Rats Tale

The coast is clear…Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

The rat paused. Looking back and contemplating the decision to abandon his partner. The home had been safe for many generations after all, how were they supposed to know of the newly set trap? Soon a key would turn in the door alerting the naked-tailed thief of danger. A sign to leave. This time, member 3364 would be left behind, not that he would know it. He was dead. His back snapped in two like a hard taco shell which are occasionally stored in the great food supply. Their raid had proven successful up until the point 3364 brushed off the peanut butter warnings and, well, had his last taste. The sound of the key sliding into the lock shooed 1784. The two-leggeds had returned and as silently as the duo had entered, a lone rat slipped back into the hole under the sink.

Member 1784 did not dread a return to the colony alone, rat 3364, also known as Stub, was his fourth partner in pinching or, as commonly referred to, PIP. Loz had a display of feats swirling about his body, well earned too mind you. An ear cleft to commemorate the near escape from Regis the cat, a scar running the left side of his body where the missed hack of a machete nearly ended his career or the soft, circular, and quite disturbing protrusions of a BB that had passed through his belly leaving twin scars on either side. Loz was the head acquisition master, an underachieved title by most standards, but seeing as there was no higher status of acquisition, that is the title he held. 

“Ayyy Smokes! There’s Loz, let’um in” Fuz squeaked from the fountain lookout. Smokes, the rat known to vanish, pawed open the mason jar entry way for Loz. “Loz, good to see ya back. Where’s Stub?” asked Smokes innocently. “Stub won’t be returning to the nest any longer” Loz said as he entered the gateway. Smokes looked back towards the house knowing that soon the two-leggeds would be hunting their rat mischief, that life as he had known it would soon be moving on. 

“Loz, welcome back” rat 1139 said as she approached, knowing that the lack of doormen celebrating means nothing of good nature. “Thanks Cyta. The peanut butter got’em, after all the tales as a child, he still tempted the peanut butter…” Loz trailed off, clearly deep in thought, reflecting on the situation. “Were you two together at the time?” Cyta asked curiously, knowing that Loz would have prevented such a disaster. “No, I had gone to the Great Food Supply to gather a potato while Stub rummaged in the garbage. That’s when I heard the snap and gasping croak of...of..Stub..” Cyta embraced Loz, knowing that losing one of your grand-children carries a great pain, but is not uncommon in the life of a rat. Loz was of first generation at this nest, as was Cyta, hence the one in their numbering. Stub had been generation three as the first three in 3364 signifies. 

“Cyta, we need to call a meeting. It won’t be long before the two-leggeds begin to hunt us tirelessly.” Cyta, knowing that Loz was right, hung her head “I know, we must.” She said with a sigh. “I’ll ring the bell in ten minutes. You sit tight for a bit and clear your mind.” Cyta crawled off towards the high chambers. Loz, leaning against the wall, took a deep breath and sighed. He knew that he would have to state his case to the council in the high chamber. The council was made up of generation Zeros, the founders of this nest, the ones who migrated from the nest prior. All the gen Zeros are calloused and scarred from their travels here. They had completed the longest migration in rat history, losing two-thirds of their mischief along the way...and here Loz was, about to state his case for the nest to move, for everyone to leave their home.

The high council sat around the bowl, sipping the remnants of the fizzy liquid they had found in a bottle when Loz entered. “Loz” called the high master “We understand that Stub is no longer with us and that he was abandoned in the nest of the two-leggeds”. 

“Yes, that is the case, High Master.”

“And you have a proposition for us I presume?”

“Yes, I do, High Master.”

“Go on then, explain yourself” 

“I had no time to extract Stub from the trap, the trap was too big for me to pry open alone... He had to be left behind”

“I know you are aware that abandoning a fellow acquisitionist in the nest of the two-leggeds is against the highest code of rats. How do you explain yourself?”

“We were caught off-guard. The two-leggeds had a clue that we had been there, or else there would’ve been no trap placed.” The Council members nodded in agreement. Loz continued “Now that the two-leggeds are aware of our presence they will be setting more traps, they will be actively pursuing our mischief. We are in danger.”

The room stayed quiet. 

The council exchanged looks and whispers amongst themselves. Loz sat quietly hiding the nervous mind between his ears. He glanced at Cyta who was absorbed in listening and staring at the ground. 

Once again the High Master spoke.

“We, the High Council, are the founders of this nest. We suffered many losses and sacrifices to establish ourselves here. Do you remember the journey here Loz?” Loz, caught off-guard with the question, stuttered “No, I don’t High Master. I couldn’t, I was born here.”. “Loz, we as the High Council must unveil our secret to you now. The time has come where the nest needs a new home. A new leader.” Loz, absolutely perplexed, stared at the high master blankly. “What do you mean High Master?” quipped Cyta from the edge of the room. She instantly sunk back into herself as she knew interjecting to the High Council was highly frowned upon. The High Master shot a glance her way and Cyta sank further into herself. The High Master continued “Loz, you came here on the back of your mother as a little hairless baby, while your eyes were still shut.” Loz’s expression had not changed, he remained helplessly flummoxed. “Your mother sacrificed herself for you. We were not far into our journey. We were new to the world. Naive. The journey lasted several days as you know, and on the third day we suffered many losses, including your mother.” Loz, now flabbergasted and in disbelief, soaked up the tale as if he were young again.

“We were crossing a small stream, which usually would pose no issue, but we had decided to cross at dawn. Small blazes of light punctured the horizon and our veil of shadows was drawn away. A shadow passed us over, our gaze turned to the sky as a hawk could be seen making a sharp turn towards our mischief. We were caught severely off-guard, half of us were in the water and the other half shouting to hurry as we darted to cover. Your mother was swimming, she had nearly made it to shore before she threw you to the bank and turned back…” The High Master’s gaze trailed off, as the memory replayed in his mind. “She swam to the middle of the stream and began to splash and shout, snatching the hawk's attention. The sound of the diving hawk’s feathers grew louder as it locked its gaze upon your mother. She turned to me, knowing that it would be her last breath, and said “Keep him safe.”. There was a splash...and she was gone. The hawk flew off, your mother in it’s clutch. Because of your mother’s sacrifice, the rest of us were able to safely cross and continue the journey here.” The High Master finished his story, Loz sat stunned as he tried to process all the emotion welling within him. 

“I...I..I don’t understand” Loz stammered “Why would you hide the truth from me? Why didn’t you tell me about my mother?” His voice grew as an anger welled within him. “I thought she died at birth, I thought I killed her…” His voice trailed off, a medley of sadness, confusion and betrayal arose in his heart. 

To Be Wild

A slate-gray sky filtered out the autumn sun, the frigid breeze off the lake wisped around our skin, telling of the coming winter. We stood among the boulders and stones submerged in the wild river, observing. 

The river forged its path through the forest, along the steep banks and rock outcrops that resisted a millennia of urging. It had created a masterpiece, chiseling out a place that had held on to its wild character. 

A couple of canoes pass us as they head downstream.

Steep northern banks grew crowded shrubbery which foretell of the cold creeping along, infringing on the area. Yellows, oranges and reds weave within the base of the aspen stand, scarred white boles stand tall and straight, wearing the rustling leaves as golden canopies. 

Changing foliage is only half of the story, for a river always has two banks. Contradictory to the north bank, is the coniferous and needled south shore. Cedar, spruce and douglas-fir have grown into a dense shady grove lacking the light received on the opposite bank. Smells of tannins, rotting logs, damp moss waft in the chilled wind, creating a scent which leaves one feeling alive, wild and free. 

Catching fish between the showy banks.

To look down stream is to see the ideal picturesque river cutting through two types of vegetated banks, tall conifers occasionally bowing over the water, and white riffles converge into fishing holes one can only dream of. 

Shadows crossed the river bottom, oscillating in the current. Their source is as red as any color in the natural world, the soon-to-spawn sockeye salmon. Heads and tails a rich olive green, united by a body that is as red as the blood within your veins. Soon these well-travelled salmon, after swimming several hundred miles to this body of water, will spawn, die, and leave only a genetic map for their young to follow. 

We trod along the faintly beaten path, crossing patches of sand and mud. The stories told from footprints tell of a busy shore, not of fishermen, but of varying creatures. Bear prints are familiar tracks I recognize, but several other toed creatures have scampered along this communal trail as well. 

Solange gives a quieted shout to grab my attention over the slight rapids “Tyler, Look! There’s a beaver!”. My gaze wanders around the waters between her and I, but I see no beaver, only partially submerged rocks. I soon realized that a rock had eyes looking right at me. I glanced over the beaver initially because I thought it would be shy, rather than three meters away and still swimming towards me! As quietly as it appeared, Canada’s largest rodent submerged and swam a rods length away from me under the glassy water. 

Dusk was approaching, highlighting the golden aspen tops on the adjacent bank. It was time to go. Returning to the communal trail we trudged up stream, over fallen trees and danced across narrow ledges above the water. 

Now sporting our sweats and sweaters we drove to a nearby lake in search of a campsite. The forestry road carried on and on, through private holdings in the provincial park and fire scars that crested the horizon. Our transportation had all of the sudden metamorphosed into a North American safari. A black bear stood up from the roadside shrubs leaving five meters between our wheeled encapsulated box and itself. Turning a corner we spooked a lynx from the gravel and into the bush, when we inched toward where we had seen the large cat, it remained just off the road, crouched down and stalking some unfortunate critter. We sat for a few minutes watching the rarely seen creature as it would alternate between a stalked crouch or a sit on its haunches. One look back at us and it methodically sauntered into the thicket of devil's club. 

The Lynx Idles. Photo taken from the road, hence the lovely pink ribbon and stake.

Waves lapped the lake shore being pushed by an evening breeze. The moon was full, occasionally shrouded with clouds and slowly rising above the mountain silhouettes. We were warm in our sleeping bags and homemade fleece liners, discussing the day's events and the events that would follow tomorrow. We had decided to call it a night, roll over and get some sleep. As if the scent of our comforts had drifted away and into the meddling minds of canines, a wolf howled into the lonesome night. “Did you hear that?!” I whispered. “Yeah” Solange replied. Our silence was punctuated by another howl, whether a response to the first or repetition of the first, I am unsure, but at that moment we felt as if we were in a truly wild place. 

Full moon rising on Borel Lake, BC.