Gord with his fiddleheads, wild leeks and brown trout, his harvest from the Ganny, Spring 2002.
Within rather short order, both Paul and I had caught and released several big ’bows and a few small browns. A couple of the larger browns taken from one of the deepest pools on the Hepburn stretch were kept for the pan. Those deep pools can be an enigma. Most often, even when fished correctly, they produce only minimal results, six to ten-inch trout, while on occasion absolutely nothing gives our flies or lures a look-see. We have always believed that when a likely looking pool or bit of cover generates zilch then it probably contains a boss fish, one suffering from lockjaw.
These big fellows do most of their feeding at night. The Ganny is a small river with an average depth seldom exceeding three or four feet in the waters that we fish, however, holes where the current has gouged out depths of a metre or so do occur. Larger trout seek out cover adjoining these pools where they can take up residence.
It is our custom to alternate when fishing these streams in pairs, with one working the pool while the other observes. There is just as much pleasure in watching someone else expertly read and work the water as there is in attempting to do so oneself. It was Paul’s turn to fish the next hole, the big pool around the bend in the river. Trees and heavy bush bordered the side of the stream that we were on, with some of them actually extending over the water and the three-foot high bank.
Carefully going ahead and working through the heavy cover towards a vantage point where he could assess the pool and properly cast and fish it, Paul paused while I attempted to follow in his footsteps and catch up to him. My back was turned towards the water as I edged backwards along the embankment, spinning rod in my left hand while clutching a branch with the other hand for stability. The branch, older than I had thought, snapped and I plunged backwards into the water, shoulders striking first, and totally sinking to the bottom. Fortunately, the shock and bitter temperature took my breath away, preventing my swallowing any water as I popped up a few feet away, carried there by the current. I will never forget the sensation of momentarily lying in freezing water on the bottom of the Ganaraska River on that April day, and through its surface being able to see the warped image of my buddy, Paul Kennedy, helplessly staring down at the scary scene below him.
The entire sequence was over in a matter of seconds. Paul was somehow able to haul my soggy carcass back up the bank at the foot of the pool where I had been deposited by the current. My heavy cold-weather fishing clothes were, of course, completely drenched and my hip boots full to their tops. It was far too cold to even contemplate pulling the boots off to drain them. They would have been almost impossible to don again and we were still miles away from the Jeep. Instead while I lay on one of the few patches of ground available for the purpose, Paul simply hoisted and held my legs up for a minute or two until most of the water escaped the boots. What we didn’t realize was that although much of the water had been temporarily removed and squeezed out, with so much moisture in the rest of my duff, it would continue to drip and drain down, and refill the boots. The struggle through the bush back to the Jeep was tremendously difficult. Within minutes, the sopping wet clothes were sheathed in ice while the boots were once again full of water.
Fishing the Hepburn stretch in 2005.
Although initially not feeling the cold, dragging my sorry, iced-up carcass with what seemed like five hundred pounds of water in my clothes and boots was an experience I would never wish on my worst enemy. Somewhat hypothermic, I soon began shaking. Even though my body temperature had been increased by the excessive exertion, it was contained by the iced-up clothing. Nevertheless, with Paul’s hovering over me all the way back and assisting me over obstacles, we eventually reached the Jeep. With the heater going full blast, I stripped and warmed up while he drove home.
That will certainly always be one of my most indelible memories, one that could have been a “tragical” memory if it had not occurred in one of the deepest pools on the Ganny. In shallower water I could have suffered a fractured skull, a dislocated shoulder, or possibly even worse, broken my neck and been paralysed. As it developed, nothing was broken, not even my fishing rod—I just had to nurse a rather sore shoulder for several months.
Although the two episodes described here might give one the idea that I am the sole klutz to have succumbed to the Hepburn stretch’s difficulties, I would like to state emphatically here that I am not the only victim to have fallen prey to the entrapments of this section of the Ganny. It seems a little bizarre, but even with my doing the backflip into the river on opening day of the trout fishing season that April day, we did manage to fish it with several different fellows over the summer. There was very little difficulty until closing day when fishing there with another buddy, Jim Lloyd.
Jim Lloyd of the mighty leap, still living dangerously.
Not far from where I performed my graceless backflip into the icy spring flow in April, Jim was attempting to negotiate a similar high bank around an awkwardly placed tree stump on its edge. He, too, while leaning over the river, used another large log for his support and balance. Fortunately, although that is seldom the case in these situations, his feet were firmly planted. The log broke the instant he leaned on it and he was faced with an instantaneous decision. He could either fall straight down into the river as he protected his face with one hand and his nether region with the other, or he could attempt to leap across to the other side of the stream over whatever perils lay below. There, he knew, the water was shallow and the landing if he was successful, would be comparatively gentle—on a muddy bank.
Standing a few feet away from him, surrounded by six feet of grassy cover, I witnessed a feat of athletic endeavour that I doubt had ever before been achieved. When the log gave way, Jim, without a pause didn’t simply jump, he launched himself powerfully across the water and landed on all fours on the opposite stream bank with nothing bruised but his ego. Still clenching his rod like a baton throughout the episode, he looked like he had been shot from one of those ridiculous circus cannons. I swear that as he passed over the middle of the stream, the apogee of his flight was at a higher plane than when he pushed off. With that kind of athletic and acrobatic ability, I suggested afterwards that he hire himself and his act out to the Cirque de Soleil. This Hepburn stretch of the Ganny has produced countless and unforgettable memories for us over many years.
Another favourite section of the Ganny for my fishing buddies and me is the “Picnic Grounds” stretch, a three- or four-mile section of magical waters that has also produced innumerable memories. But the first thing to come to mind would be why—and when—this section was first labelled the Picnic Grounds. Perhaps the easiest stretch of the Ganaraska River to fish and negotiate, this is where I have taken dozens of neophyte fishermen on their initial wand-waving pursuits to help them learn the intricacies of the beautiful sport of fly fishing. It is also the place where I introduced my two sons to trout fishing.
My sons, Randy and Ronnie, were eleven and twelve years old respectively when I first surrendered to their pleas to take them stream fishing. Although they had already fished with their old man for several years and become proficient casters with their spinning tackle in the process, they had not experienced the trials and tribulations—and yes—the pleasures, of stream fishing for trout. The lads’ previous angling experiences had been restricted to fishing on lakes,