Muskoka Outdoors Network

It’s funny how you come across fishing tips. Quite often fishing tips can double as life lessons.

I was sitting with my friend, Darrell, in my dad’s living room when he shared this personal story of one of his fishing trips from years ago…

The story goes that, Darrell, and a friend had been fishing Tim Lake in Algonquin Park. They had been fishing hard without any success and were constantly weighing anchor, from spot to spot, around the lake. Finally, they decided to quit and return to the river mouth that would lead them to their vehicle.

As fate would have it, the winds picked up and they began to struggle against the wind and waves. They quickly became frustrated from the amount of work they were doing while fighting the wind. An hour and half into their epic and blustery battle, Darrell, noticed that they had canoed past the river mouth they were attempting to find.

He told the man in the bow who was paddling ferociously against the wind. Darrell did not get a reply.

Fatigue and desperation began to ‘set-in’ for the two paddlers. Despite the wind, they should have reached the river mouth sooner than they had.  At that moment, Darrell noticed something.  He debated whether or not to tell his friend in the bow. He yelled one more time over the wind,

“We forgot to bring the anchor up!”

“What?!”, his friend yelled.

“WE FORGOT TO BRING THE ANCHOR UP!”, Darrell repeated.

The story ends there. I guess the look that, Darrell, received from his friend was priceless.

The lesson is simple

When fishing in high winds, don’t forget to bring the anchor up.

On a practical note – Is life, away from the fishing boat, sometimes like that? We all paddle furiously, at times, to get ahead and reach our goals. It can be so frustrating when the ‘over-worked’ ground we make is so minuscule.

Check for anchors.

Perhaps there is something that is holding you back. An anchor long forgotten. Something like a broken relationship, or a mis-management of priorities, or a wrong you need to make right.  Your hardest and best work may all be for nothing if you have not dealt with a forgotten anchor. It can also keep you from seeing what is important – like the river mouth that leads you to your car.

End of sermon.

Within moments he had tied on a small brown nymph, waded effortlessly into knee deep water and hooked into an an acrobatic, speckled trout. After he released the ‘chromed-out’ trout, he looked my way upstream and pointed to the dark pool I should land my fly into. I took a hesitant step into the cold stream as he continued downstream like a modern day fishing Moses.

The fast moving water seemed to retreat around him with every step. It was at that moment I knew that I had entered the water with a real Streamwalker.

When the fly, I tried to cast into the chosen pool, got hung-up in the branches on shore behind me – I knew my journey to becoming a Streamwalker was just beginning.

While untangling my fly line from the offending bush,  my eyes tried to ‘take-in’ where I was. I had never fly fished in an area like this before. It was like the pages of my favorite  fishing magazine had come to life and I was wading in a western Canada whitewater river. I was only 40 minutes from home and wading in a virtual trout paradise – somewhere on the Big East River. It was the kind of place only a Streamwalker would know about.

When I was ready to try a second cast, I noticed that the Streamwalker was already releasing a second trout. Amazed, excited and almost discouraged the words of another master came to mind,

“Do or do not. There is no try…”

I started my backcast and methodically started working the deep pool with a small Adams. Slowly, I began to work my way towards the angling master. It took me awhile to notice at the beginning, but I am pretty sure he would watch and anticipate my route down the noisy river. He would leave some pools and underwater ledges untouched by his fly. He at least hoped that the trailing rookie moving, clumsily, toward him might be able to tempt a wary trout.

That was the only mistake I saw him make. I could not catch anything but suspended branches behind me and hidden rocks in the babbling stream.

Halfway through our journey down this section of the Big East River, we both stopped and rested on rocky boulders. He asked me what I was using and hesitantly I showed him the tattered fly barely clinging to the hook.

“That’s no good,” he said. “Use one of these.”

I think he slowed time as he reached for my fly rod with its shortened tippet. The route downstream had been hard on it.

Before I could protest with any kind of significant resistance, he placed the reel back into my hands with a new marbly, green-beaded nymph and fresh section of fly tippet. This time our adventure continued with the Streamwalker showing me how to read the water for ambush points, rocky ledges, and depth changes. He reminded me to start my casting close and finish towards a 12′oclock position when I approached a new section of stream.

“The least amount of times your fly hits the water before you let it drift increases your chance for a strike,”, he instructed while I struggled to get my nymph to reach a suspended tree trunk on the far side. My friend made his way upstream to me and kindly gave me a lesson in false casting. My casting distance improved slightly after that but it became quickly apparent to me that I may not ever become a Streamwalker.

With a looming sunset on the horizon, we decided to make our way back to our vehicle. The walk back upstream was silent and tiring. The problem with fishing in a spot chosen by a Streamwalker – is the walk back. I found myself wanting to make one last cast back into the pools we had fished hours earlier. It did not help that I had not hooked any trout. Despite this fact, the experience of fishing in such an incredible and seemingly remote area made this trip very memorable.

Later that evening, I tried to explain to my father where I had just been fishing. It seemed my description of area landmarks triggered some old and almost forgotten memories in his mind. He shared some stories of, some 50 years past, how he had spent time on that very section of the river with his father. He then proudly announced that his dad had once caught some nice speckled trout in the very pool my adventure today started in.

It would seem that my grandfather was once a Streamwalker…

So, there I was, loading my all my fishing gear into our aluminum boat, when grandpa walked onto the dock with a slight glimmer in his eye. He asked if he could go with me this time. Without hesitation, I said sure. He smiled as he said, “Let me get my gear.”

I was looking forward to using some of my new ‘birthday money funded’ tackle.

When he returned, I noticed he only carried an old, lime green, fibreglass, fishing rod and a matching metal tackle box. As he stepped into the boat, he placed his antique gear (at least it was to me) beside my huge 6 tiered tackle box. He whispered some kind of ‘smart’ comment about my gear under his breath and proceeded to laugh about it.  I didn’t bother to ask him what he said. It was nice to have him along.

After we pulled away from the dock I asked him where he wanted to go. As if anticipating my question, he suggested we look for a shoal that he had not trolled over for many years. He pointed to a general direction across the lake and I cranked the throttle on my 15 HP Evinrude.

“I don’t recall exactly where it is but I will tell you when to stop.” he said.

I remember thinking that this could get very interesting…

Sure enough, after a few minutes, he told me to slow down. His eyes were double checking some points on the the shore and correlating them with some points from an old memory.

The fact that we were in middle of lake did not seem to worry him.

“Let’s troll here.” he said as he reached for his tackle box. When the lid flipped over in his box. I laughed inside. All he had was a rusty Williams Wobbler that would would run shallow in the depths I thought we were in. He snapped it onto his aged leader and casted behind the boat to start his troll.

I reciprocated his tackle selection by opening up my tackle box and picking out a large-lipped, Sinking, chartreuse Rapala and casted behind the boat. I left the shallow running spoon section closed in my box. This lure was going to go deep because I ‘knew’, at these depths, a spoon would not cut it.

That’s when the lesson began.

Grandpa started moving his fishing rod back and forth at random intervals.

“The fish will strike the lure when my rod is moving toward the back of the boat”, he said.  Intrigued, I started doing the same thing.

Suddenly, it hit hard and fast. That old shoal grabbed a hold of my lure and did not let go, Within seconds my line had snapped and the smell of reel grease permeated the air. An expensive birthday lure was now lost to the lurking shallows of a hidden shoal.  Grandpa started laughing and started to bring in his line.

“I should check it for weeds”, he said

His spoon only had a small weed fragment on it. Like it had just grazed the tops of the weeds on his shoal. He looked at little disappointed.

“It seems to be shallower than I remember”, he exclaimed.

I swear he was trying to rub it in.

After he had casted his line out again, I opened my tackle box and meekly put on a Williams Wobbler. Grandpa continued to show me some trolling techniques over his shoal. We did not catch any fish but it was time well spent.  Several years later I returned to the general area with a fish finder.

I have yet to find Grandpa’s shoal.

Lake Vernon has recently been the site of a bizarre fish bite in a normally peaceful cottage setting. Muskoka's Cottage Country Now recently reported that on July 15, 2011 a swimming pre-schooler's foot was bitten by a fish while in the water with her parents. The youngster was taken to local Huntsville Hospital for treatment to multiple foot lacerations. The article suggests that the child's recent pedicure may have precipitated the rare attack:

"The mother suspects the toddler’s fancy pedicure may have had something to do with the attack; Anika’s toenails were brightly painted and decorated with butterfly stencils. Her wiggling, sparkly toes may have seemed like a delicious morsel to the hungry predator swimming by." Entire article and photos at Cottage Country Now

The young cottager is expected to completely recover.

Muskoka Outdoors theorizes that the offending fish was a Northern Pike (photo above) as it is the only fish species, in Lake Vernon, that is capable of these kind of injuries. Muskie are not currently present in the lake. We are fully capable to reduce and eliminate any hostile pike near your docks.

Finding smallmouth bass this summer may be easier than you think!

I was fortunate enough, last summer, to have been invited to a small lake north of Huntsville by, Kevin Swinscoe. The lake, which can only be accessed by surrounding land owners, shimmered enticingly as I approached Kevin’s dock and waiting motor boat.

Before we left in the boat, Kevin introduced me to the equipment we were going to use:

1. A six weight fly rod and reel rigged with a Messinger Frog (photo top)

2. A ‘standard issue’ spincasting rod with a Berkley Sabertail Grub (green)

I took a quick look up to the driveway where my car was parked. My own equipment was there occupying the entire back seat. If you listened carefully enough, you could have heard my favorite blue Rapala cringe, as Kevin said,

“You won’t need your equipment.”

When Kevin started the boat and we drove away from the dock, I hoped he was right about his assessment of my equipment.

Kevin’s plan was simple and effective. We would start at one end of the small lake and allow the wind to drift us down one side of the contoured shore. The motor was only used to make minor course corrections.

As we started our silent drifting, Kevin, reminded me to cast into the ‘pockets’ of weeds and shore structures that were prevalent along the lake’s banks. This proved key to our success as bass began to annihilate the top-water Messinger frog on Kevin’s fly rod. The smallmouth bass were also hungry for my sub-surface offering of the frog-like Berkley grub.

One of my favorite times to fish for smallmouth bass is during the golden moment after a supper BBQ and the sun begins to set. Usually retreating with the sun is the wind. A small wind factor can help the angler to make some pinpoint casts while casting for pocket smallmouth.

At this time of the evening (at least in my experience – and Kevin’s) bass move into shallow water and occupy weed, dock and structure pockets along the shore.

Pockets are formed when any portion of weed beds and shore structures collide and create open ambush points for bass to sit, and wait, for incoming prey. I realize that what I am saying should be obvious to most, but I have included some photos in this post to help illustrate what I mean. I have put red fish icons in some of the places I would call pockets for bass. The splash seen in the middle photo (photo right) is from one of the bass that hammered Kevin’s frog fly.

Pay attention special attention where rocks, boulders, and trees interface with the water from the shoreline. These create fantastic ambush points – especially when in close proximity to docks. You don’t need a boat to capitalize on bass pockets. Find the nearest dock that has weeds on either side of it. Fish the pocket where the weeds meet the dock in deeper water.

After the smell of the BBQ is whisked away by the light evening breeze into the setting sun, look for smallmouth pockets along the shore of your favorite lake. Turn off your fish finder and forget fancy presentations. As Kevin says,

“You won’t need it…”

Plan your next fishing trip to Muskoka, Haliburton or Parry-Sound with these 2011 fish stocking lists from the Ontario MNR. Download the PDF's to see if your favourite lake has recently been stocked.

Download the Bracebridge area fish stocking list here (includes Huntsville Lakes)

Download the Haliburton area fish stocking list here

Download the Parry-Sound area fish stocking list here

For more details on more Ontario lakes, you can also use the Ontario MNR's online fishing map tool. It is helpful in confirming what fish species are found (and stocked) in lakes you may have never fished before. Use the map system by following this link.

I say a moment.

It could be a period of time as well.

For me, it was about a fly cast 498. I was just about to shatter the glassy surface of the water by throwing my fly rod into it. Everything within a 25 foot radius of me could feel, and hear, the built up frustration within me. Intermixed (repeatedly) in my previous casts, were results that included hooking small overhead trees, my back side, blades of grass and a picnic bench. Somewhere, around cast 75, I heard the noise of a whip cracking and my fly line became a touch lighter. I had just launched my fly into sub-space on an ill-timed back cast.

I found out very quickly that watching someone on a fly fishing video or observing another fly fisherman can NOT be equated to being ‘well on your way’ in your fly fishing training. By cast 200 and something, I had put my back into spasm by twisting around to pull a tiny fly out of the ’seat’ of my pants. I took note of the obvious lesson here: go barb-less.

Casts 375 and 400 rolled around and I was getting that whip noise again and small knots on my tippet. I compensated and worked on the timing of my back cast and continued trying to launch my fly forward again.

That brings us back to cast 498 again. It represents those moments in our lives where we wanted to quit. All 497 ‘good enough’ setbacks seem to tip the scales to want to quit after that 498th botched attempt. It can be a critical time for anybody wanting to succeed. It’s critical because it does not take into consideration the potential reward of casts 499 and 500.

I overcame the urge to throw my fly rod into the water and worked my line up to prepare for cast 499. Unknowingly, everything became so routine now. I was thinking more of where I wanted the fly to go, then what I had to do to get it there. My line swished behind me – then back in front. My fly landed 10ft in front of me. No knots, no whipping, no boxer shorts attached. I repeated the process and, suddenly, I was at cast 500.

My fly went 20ft.

It was like something clicked and for the next hour I was able to place my fly in front of me at will.

What cast are you on in your difficult situation? If you quit now, you may be one cast away from success. Your current set of circumstances could be preparing you for what is to come. Take that hook out of your 'back-end' and work harder.

All the recent talk of possible military intervention and the establishment no fly zones over Libya, compelled me to share this story. It happened last spring while fishing downstream of my favorite fishing hole in the Muskoka River.

Several ‘regular’ (spinning reels) anglers watched me, with a curious interest, as I put my fly rod together and approached the riverbank. We were all here to hook into some trout that were moving up from Mary Lake to the Lock System. One could easily hook into a smorgasbord of Lake Trout, Rainbow Trout, and Speckled Trout.

Somebody was in my regular spot so I was forced to fish on a less than ideal section of the river. I did not have hipwaders, so this meant I had to fly fish from a portion of the bank surrounded with small trees. It was possible, but it would prove to be a difficult assignment for this rookie fly-thrower.

I started to get into my ‘groove’ of getting my fly out into the water when a slight tug behind me hooked my attention. My fly and attached fishing line could be seen (by myself and the surrounding anglers) dangling several feet in the air. I could hear quiet chuckling from the gathering spin casting crowd.

Embarrassed, I untangled my line and began my line ‘motions’ again. Things went very well for about 20 minutes. I became more confident in my casting and the line reciprocated by moving farther and farther out. The other spin casting anglers seemed to be very curious and interested in what I was doing. I reciprocated their stares with some 'cool-guy' nods and hand waves. My eyes stayed focus on the crowd in front and forgot the crowding trees on my six.

Shortly into my crowd pleasing spectacle, I did not see the small clump of birch leaves that fell and drifted downstream behind me. The leafy harbingers' warning went unnoticed and their silent passing ushered in a delayed, cold reality.

After 15 minutes  of my fish-less casting show, I thought I should change my fly. When I had all my line up to where I could reach for my tippet, I noticed that there was no fly attached.

I looked casually behind me and noticed it had, once again, lodged itself into the branch it had snared earlier.

Defeated, I pretended to take off my imaginary fly and quickly exited the river - stage right. For the sake of the brotherhood, I hoped that nobody noticed my dry fly indiscretion. I laughed the whole way back to my vehicle.

I have plans to return this coming spring, with my spin casting reel in hand, to remove a dry fly caught in an old birch tree and post a hand made sign that says,

No Fly Zone.

Just in case another rookie makes the same mistake I did.