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.

A Summer’s Tomato

It is not early when I awake. The sun shines through the slits in the blinds, a lawn mower works busily in the distance. It is summer and everything is busy. From sunup to sundown small motors whine as they carry out their tasks. Trucks passing by with cords of wood preparing for winter and young families stroll the sidewalk-less streets admiring homes. There is one resident at this time of year who hides away under green leaves.

A grape tomato beginning to show it’s true colors.

Seen in nearly every garden around North America, is the Tomato. Whether they’re grape, slicers, cherry or heirloom they are surely there. Growing sloppily and overburdened by their fruit, the tomato plant reaches out, looking for support. In our garden rather than finding support, the tomatoes have become supports for our volunteer beans that magically arose in abundance from last year's wayside crop. There are three varieties of tomato in our garden, each ripening at it’s own pace.

Unripe tomatoes promising a worthy harvest.

The cherry tomato ripens first, marble ball sized fruits ablaze with reds and oranges. A slow second to ripen is the grape tomatoes. Oblong fruits not much larger than the tip of a thumb emerge among the foliage, mostly unnoticed. Yet to show a trace of red are the slicer tomatoes. The bulbous fruits weigh so heavily on the plant that they are practically growing among the shaded cucumbers as they rest ever so slightly above the soil. Surely they will be rich with flavor.

A bounty of slicer tomatoes yet to ripen.

There is a pronounced punctuation to summer. An ode to the sun, the transformation of soil, and gratitude for abundant watering that occurs daily. The Harvest.

I pour my morning cup of coffee as I have so many times before, the bands of steam swirl, promises of an awakening. I shuffle about the house collecting odds of clothing to wear for my first outing of the day. Composed of my fading T-shirt, sweats and garden shoes (AKA knock-off crocs) I collect my coffee from the counter and head towards the garden for it’s daily inventory. 

Reaching over the wooden gate, I flip the lock up, entering the backyard. Here is where all the magic happens, three garden beds expanding with life grab your attention. What do I notice that’s different today? I think to myself as I near the garden. 

1 barbeque, 2 canoes, 3 garden beds.

The peas are tall

The flowers in the far corner have bloomed, a delicate display of white flowers. 

Oooo, Look at this! Beans! 

And, peering into the depths of greenery, red tomatoes! 

Peering into the garden depths, tomatoes are ripening.

I reach into the crisscrossed stems, waiting for contact with the round body of the tomato.

Hmmm, nope, that's a leaf….Ah! Oh, wait, that’s the stem...annnddddd…voilà!

I grasp the red tomato and pinch it off of the plant. It’s fruit is a gift to me. I take a moment to appreciate the small fruit in my hand. It feels a tad dusty, but ultimately smooth. I twist off the remaining stem and toss it back into the garden. Nutrients for next year. The deep red color is fiery in my hand, veins of orange hint at it’s latest outburst of growth. I gently wipe the tomato on my shirt, removing the dust from the glabrous skin. Raising the delightful little fruit to my mouth, I take a second to savor the smell of the summer tomato. 

There is no other smell like that of a summer’s tomato. It is the trademark of a successful summer garden, perhaps the climax of a gardener’s summer. The smell can be described as grassy, a bit earthy, and occasionally sweet. Whatever it may be, it is fantastic. There is no other time of year when that precious smell occurs, unless you change hemispheres of course. It is a moment I look forward to annually. A celebration of summer that has been warm and bountiful, a reminder that fall is soon to come and the smell of summer will end. 

Before I bite into the special fruit, I enjoy the smell one last time. Popping the tomato into my mouth, I crunch down. There is no replacement for such a bold tomato flavor, just off the vine, the quality exists in no store. 

Fortunately for me, I have plenty more tomatoes to pick and summer carries on just a little longer. 

A day’s harvest.

Dunbar Summer Series Canadian National Championships

It’s not every day that a national event takes place in the town called “home”. On a more special note, it is also a sport that is new into my life, Mountain Biking. 

Photo by Tom Conway on Unsplash.

Mountain biking has always appeared to be a daunting hobby. You hop on a bike and ride a single track trail scattered with obstacles and wicked terrain, combine that with speed, and you’re asking to break something. 

That was until I first tried it after some smooth coaxing and my goodness, could you believe it, the brakes are magnificent! Successive rides allowed me to feel more comfortable on the bike and what I dare call, competent. 

I was eager to get my two wheels spinning fast, rounding berms, hitting jumps and pounding down rooty drops. Quicker than I arrived at the top, I found myself down at the bottom dripping in sweat, breathing hard and chock full of adrenaline. Okay, mountain biking is pretty sweet and it’s definitely not as harrowing as it appears from an outside perspective. 

An impressive amount of belly sweat from an afternoon ride.

My ability allows me to go down a hill without getting hurt, although particularly slow, I am wholly intact. The competitors at the Dunbar Series Downhill Mountain Bike Race are on an entirely different echelon, the summit. 

I’m not entirely sure what this stunt is called, but I’m impressed, as was the crowd.

Being able to watch the competitors race was entirely awesome. We sat in the grass next to the track and watched some crazy talented rider rip by every 30 or so seconds (on average) and would be shrouded in their clouds of dust. Spectators hollered and cheered as racers jumped the road gap nearing the finish line. A couple of folks even brought chainsaws to the event and would rev them up high and loud as the competitors raced by. 

Reviewing the finishing times astounded me. The winner of the event finished in less than FOUR minutes, four. To add some perspective to this figure, when I leave the top I don’t get back to the bottom in the same hour. Between breaks, figuring out where to go and the general speediness of my ride it typically takes me between 75 and 90 minutes to reach the gondola again. 

I appreciate being able to watch such talented riders compete at my local mountain. With the town full of competitors from around Canada, there was a buzz in the atmosphere that has long been missed. It was my initial experience of Downhill Mountain Bike culture, and I’m fully sold. The smiles were big, the stoke was high and the community was friendly. What more could a first year mountain biker ask for in a community, sport, and hobby? 

Two racers neck to neck as they enter the final two turns of the race.