Читать книгу Memories of Magical Waters - Gord Deval - Страница 10
ОглавлениеFounded by Dutch settlers in the late 1800s, Uxbridge is a delightful little town resting in a cleft between the hills and forests on the north side of the Oak Ridges Moraine, an esker running some eighty to a hundred kilometers from west to east, about half an hour’s drive north of Toronto. The moraine is home to a myriad of cold-water springs that become the headwaters of most of the brooks, creeks, streams and rivers, flowing southwards towards Lake Ontario while a number of others originating on the other side of the moraine flow in a northerly direction.
Many of these waters emerge from their underground reservoirs in minuscule fashion, bubbling out amongst the roots of the trees that form the nucleus of the swamps and forests in the area. Hiking through these areas, one can hear the springs gurgling as they escape their secret hiding places and emerge into the open then bubble along a few feet, only to retreat beneath the roots and mantle of sphagnum moss carpeting the forest floor. With the decayed leaves from the few hardwoods that manage to exist in the saturated swamps and bush in the area adding to the moss and accumulated humus on the ground, one gets the sensation of walking on six inches of the plushest broadloom imaginable. The only thing missing from this unique ambience is the presence of tiny dryads perched provocatively on their fungal saddles.
Pick your way a little further along through the sudden silence, broken only by whispers of the breezes in the treetops, and suddenly the lilting music of the bubbling springs, materializing as a tiny sparkling brook, once again dominates the character of the bush. This then is the environment that I recall most fondly from my earliest exposures to the pleasures of these magical waters that are the origin of all our lakes and streams.
Before I had reached the ripe old age of ten, I had become fairly proficient at collecting dew worms. When I was a kid they were called “night-crawlers,” as they emerge after dark. Bob Wilcox, my uncle, often conscripted me into collecting a supply of dew worms for him and Curly, his fishing buddy. When he wasn’t fishing, Curly raced motorbikes on dirt tracks.
My reward was a promise to take me with them to sample the fishing delights in the brooks below the Town of Uxbridge, if my parents would give their permission. My mother wasn’t entirely pleased with her brother-in-law’s somewhat devious scheme to avoid the backbreaking chore of having to pick his own dews. Of course, my pleading with her to be allowed to stay up late enough to gather the bait so I could accompany them on the fishing excursions usually prevailed.
These outings were never in the spring, however, as least as far as my participation was concerned. I suppose, unable to avail themselves of my services during that time, they bought their bait. It wasn’t until the summer months with school out that I would find myself crawling around the neighbourhood lawns an hour or so after sunset with my moss-filled pail, flashlight beam zigzagging back and forth, while my eyes strained for the momentary glimpses of the shiny dews before they instantly drew themselves back into their burrows.
I soon discovered that if the flashlight beam was not shone directly on the worms, or the batteries weakened, the elusive critters were far less likely to be spooked into retreating, and I was able to collect enough to satisfy Curly and Uncle Bob. I seldom fished with the worms myself, preferring to manoeuvre artificial trout flies into the holes between the roots and overhanging grass alongside the tiny brooks.
On the odd occasion though, I would dangle a dew worm behind a fluttering lure, a Colorado spinner, 1 and work it along the edges of the watercress beds that bordered all the brooks in the area. I had read in one of the fishing magazines Mom had bought for me that brook trout preferred to dwell in the shady shelter of the watercress, (a delectable green growing in spring-fed brooks) emerging only to pluck appetizingly appearing morsels from the flow for their snacks. Actually, Uncle Bob had taught me to just use the fat end of the dew worm and completely thread the hook through it, leaving only the barb exposed.
I can close my eyes while I write this now and effortlessly visualize that first wonderfully magical moment when a magnificently bejewelled seven-inch speckled trout darted from nowhere and seized my Parmachene Belle trout fly.2 Although I had accompanied the men on a couple of earlier trips to the Uxbridge brooks, this was the first “speck” (another of the many monikers applied to speckled trout) that I was able to seduce into having a go at my fly. Unceremoniously, the tiny trout was jerked out of the water into the branches of a tree behind me. Tossing aside my steel rod, I pounced on the catch before it could escape.
The young Gordon Deval at the Uxbridge Pond, 1947.
Nevertheless, I remember admiring the vividly coloured trout for only a moment before carefully detaching the hook as my uncle had shown me when he put undersized trout back into the swim. It, too, was gingerly placed back into the beckoning brook.
This is definitively my earliest memory of what today is still a magical place for me—Uxbridge Brook.
Although the Uxbridge area produced my earliest memory of the countless waters I have fished, it also produced several others worthy of mention. The springs and brooks escaping from the underground aquifers in the ridge to the south of the town are not the only Uxbridge waters to have tested my angling abilities. The brooks feed a large pond, intersected by a road and bridge with a few lovely homes along its shores. With its feeder springs and brooks, the pond forms the headwaters of the main Uxbridge Brook which flows northwards towards Lake Simcoe after it pours over the small dam in the heart of town. The stream, still fairly small at this stage of its development, produced a couple of other exceptional memories easily recalled in full detail as follows.
The affable citizens of this lovely town whose backyards front on the meandering brook have never become terribly upset at my fishing my way downstream while working the many enticing pools with their log-laced cover. That is, other than the occasional emergence of someone either reminding me to, “Please be careful going around my flower beds, son,” or simply questioning our luck with, “Catching anything,” or that most oft-asked question of fishermen, “How are they biting?” Almost sixty years of fishing this particular section of waters has never resulted in my being asked or told by one of the owners to get off his land.
There are small, gorgeously coloured speckled trout in the brook. Unfortunately they have to share their territory with an occasional tire or old stove tossed in by some thoughtless person, most likely a non-resident. No longer pristine as they were many moons ago, these icy cold waters still provide an interesting, if not necessarily aesthetic, fishery for the “brookies,”3 some of which had actually departed their cover in the beds of watercress to take up residence in, or beneath, the debris.
A short distance beyond the towns main street where the stream emerges from its subterranean course below several buildings, it travels beneath another bridge before flowing alongside a row of ancient willow trees with many of their gnarled and enormous branches suspended low over the water. The roots of these massive trees, many of which extend into the stream, provide excellent cover for its fishy inhabitants. However, on one occasion when travelling through the village and taking a minute to see what I could raise from the undercut bank and willow roots, I experienced another magical moment.
I studied the stream looking for the most promising target for the first cast. It appeared probable that the place with the most potential to provide a brookie, worthy of being kept for the pan, would also be the most awkward spot in the area to fish. A huge branch, jutting out from the main trunk of the biggest willow tree on the bank, guarded the likely holding spot for a decent-sized trout—an entanglement of the willow’s tentacle-like, underwater roots. It would require a perfect and flat cast in order to propel the spinner far enough beneath the branch that a trout, holding court in the cover, would catch a glimpse of its flashing blades, exit the hole and strike.
The branch, more like a twin to the tree’s main trunk, was probably a foot or so in diameter and suspended only another foot or so above the water. It was a challenge I could not refuse, although the likelihood of donating my spinner to one part of the willow or another was considerable. Flexing the rod tip with wrist movement a couple of times, while keeping it close to the surface of the stream and holding my breath for a brief moment, I fired a sharp cast towards the selected target. As luck would have it the lure shot over the branch, not under as intended.
“Damn!”
Then came the memorable moment! After crossing above the big branch, the silver spinner did not have enough momentum remaining in the cast to even reach the water on its far side. It hung there enticingly, its blade flashing six or eight inches above the surface of the stream and a few inches beneath the branch, while I contemplated the best way to extricate it—but only for a split-second.
Before I could repeat the cuss word, a seventeen-inch brook trout shot out from the hole’s nether regions and acrobatically managed to latch on to the still fluttering spinner. This was easily the largest and most beautiful brookie I had ever seen in any stream, anywhere, and I somehow knew that I had to have it—but how?
Fortunately, reflex action had immediately taken over on my part. I had already loosened the clutch to the point where the weight and struggling of the trout was sufficient to pull the line smoothly down off the branch without its hanging up. With the fish now in the water, at least now its weight alone would not suffice to free it from the lures treble hook. Without pausing and wearing only my regular clothes and street shoes, I leapt into the pool, splashed my way furiously towards the branch and awkwardly passed the rod over the top to a spot where I could reach beneath and grab it before it dropped into the stream, all the while attempting to maintain sufficient tension on the line so that the hook wouldn’t simply fall out of the trout’s mouth.
Soaking wet from stem to stern, only a few minutes more remained before the battle was over, including one heart-stopping session where I had to extricate the brookie that had retreated into its underwater tangle of roots under the bank. My luck held and, stumbling backwards towards the bank, I carefully worked my prize into the shallows then pounced on it on all fours. I thought for just a brief moment about placing it back in the swim, but the fish appeared to be as exhausted as I, so it was kept for showing off to my fishing buddies at home and for the frying pan the next day.
My plans for that day were of course completely derailed by the experience as I sloshed my way back to the car and headed home, grinning all the way back to Toronto. Even the scolding I endured from my wife for ruining my clothes and shoes didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. Easily, this is one of my incredible memories ever and it occurred in what has always been for me—the magic of the waters of Uxbridge!
The waters in and around Uxbridge didn’t become the fodder for the opening of this book merely by chance, or just because of the earliest magical memory factor, but because there is a wealth of these wonderful recollections pertinent to the area in my mind’s hard drive. There is probably enough material stored there to actually write an entire book on the memories created over all those years by its springs, brooks, the pond and the river.
A couple of other reminiscences occurring at the pond deserve reporting here. Although the principals in the first anecdote do not include me, the Uxbridge Pond and I were sufficiently involved to create this next recollection. The Scarborough Fly and Bait Casting Association, launched by me and a few cronies in 1984, has from its outset been a club comprised of fishermen, skilled anglers and expert fly and bait casters along, of course, with others wishing, practising and learning to become skilled in the art of angling themselves. A few years ago we were approached on the last evening of the summer season at our outdoor practice venue, the reflecting pool behind the Scarborough Civic Centre and City Hall, by a couple of curious and interested spectators while we practised our presentation and accuracy on the floating targets.
Instead of the usual and dumb, “How’re they biting?” remarks, they inquired about the club’s activities and what were the requirements to join. Although their names have escaped me, I do remember that they were recently retired senior citizens who had moved to Ontario from Newfoundland a few years before our meeting them. They mentioned several times though that it was unlikely that they would become long-term club members, as their plans were to return to the island province within a year or so. But initially their stated objective was to become as proficient with their fly rods and casting prowess as were the club’s expert anglers. Both became eager students when we moved our operations indoors for the fall and winter season, working diligently on their fly tying and casting fundamentals. Their thoughts on the island and its excellent trout and salmon fishing were never far from their minds though. We were frequently entertained throughout that winter in the gym with tales of the wonderful trout fishing to be had in their home province.
I distinctly remember one of the chaps addressing us around the fly-tying table one evening, “You know, boys,” he stated unequivocally, “it’s got the finest trout fishin’ in the world, the island has, you know”
He continued, “We’ve caught speckled trout there as long as your arm and as thick as your leg. At least eighteen inches and a couple of pounds on the scales.”
We all glanced at our arms then our legs then each other. His buddy, not quite as loquacious as he, then inquired, “You got any trout like them in these parts, boys?”
Not wishing to be impolite, we merely nodded back and forth, before someone spoke up, “Well, yes, occasionally we hear tell of trout that big caught not too far from here.”
Another added, “Usually a brown, but the odd big brook trout does show up, too.”
By the May 1 opening of the trout season and our exiting the gym for the outdoor practice pool, both of the club’s Newfoundlanders had become quite competent with their fly rods and eager to test their new skills on the real thing. I was asked, “We’ve got a twelve-foot canoe we would like to use for fishing if you know someplace not too far away where we can catch trout? Neither of us have got good enough legs to do a lot of walking up and down streams.”
Uxbridge Pond immediately came to mind. “There’s a spot,” I said, “actually a fair-sized pond, not much more than a half an hour’s drive from here that has an assortment of fish in it that you can catch on a fly; specks [speckled trout], perch and ‘bows [rainbow trout]. The trout are smallish, maybe nine or ten inches tops, but they do smack flies there pretty good and you should have a bit of fun. You can test your new fly-casting skills by trying to lay your presentations right on top of the rises. Get on top of them quickly enough, and they’ll strike every time.”
They left indicating they’d give it a try on the weekend.
Saturday afternoon, the opening day of the trout season, the phone rang as I was cleaning my own morning’s catch of a half-dozen stream brook trout. The call was from one of the gentlemen who had taken our advice to test the Uxbridge Pond waters.
Occasionally when Newfoundlanders talk quickly, because of their dialect it can be difficult to interpret what they are saying. What at first sounded like exuberant gibberish was quickly determined to simply be the excited voice of one of the islanders. Finally calming down, he explained that they had enjoyed their outing, canoeing and fly fishing on the pond, caught a dozen or so small trout, but just before leaving had the thrill of their lives when a trout, much bigger than any of the others sucked in one of their dry flies.
“Bloody thing towed our little canoe around that pond for fifteen minutes, eh, before we even saw him,” he swore. “Never saw anything like it,” he continued, “except one time thirty miles from shore back home when I hooked and landed a fifty-five pound halibut after it towed me out in the Atlantic, half-way to England.”
Dying to know about the Uxbridge adventure, I interjected, “Did you land it, or what? What was it? How big?”
“Yeah we got it all right…it’s a 23-inch brown trout, almost four pounds and it’s going to the taxidermist this afternoon,” he replied. “I’m taking this baby home with me when we go back!”
After he finished profusely thanking me for the assistance and instruction he had received in the club, along with the suggestion to fish the pond at Uxbridge, he asked if I would like to have a look at his trophy before he took it to be mounted, which I was delighted to do and at the same time snap a picture for the club album.
A few weeks later I learned that the Department of Lands and Forests had previously placed a couple of their retired brood stock of hatchery browns in the town pond in the hopes that one of the local kids in the town’s annual “Fishing Derby for Kids Day”4 would experience the excitement and adventure that my two friends from Newfoundland had enjoyed.
Another recollection also concerning the Uxbridge area, is a story I have told many times when reminiscing about my earlier days working over the brooks south of the town. I had just recovered from a terribly debilitating bout of poison ivy that covered me from head to foot. The noxious stuff was contacted on a previous trip to another stream a little west of Uxbridge after taking my girlfriend, Mona, with me to introduce her to my second favourite love, trout fishing. We had paused for a bite of lunch later in the morning and as it often does when it’s springtime and you’re eighteen years old, one thing led to another. I was too engrossed in the moment to notice that we were stretched out on a large bed of poison ivy until it was too late.
It took several weeks for the rash and pustules to fade and, having been on my back completely coated with lotion to soothe the itch for that long, it was a relief to get out of the house to wet a line once again. This time—on my own! Nevertheless, I still chose to head to my favourite brooks below Uxbridge for the hour or so that I had at my disposal, but kept well away from the poison ivy patch.
Most memories do fade somewhat after more than fifty years, but we are dealing here with magical memories, those that never wane or diminish. As it developed that day though, I was not the only one who had awakened in the morning with an urge to do a spot of fishing for a few brookies to bring home for supper. For some reason or another, the old Ford parked on the side of the gravel road had failed to catch my attention. Slipping on my hip boots a little way down the road from where I had parked my own car, I decided to avoid the more heavily fished area where the creek crossed beneath the road and access it instead a hundred yards downstream. In most of these places the trails disappear rather quickly when one works a little further on from the easiest access, normally where the brook crosses the road.
Hiking a few yards into the bush I could hear the brook gurgling seductively inviting me forward through a dense growth of six-feet-tall ostrich ferns. Suddenly I almost fell over a fisherman sitting by the edge of the creek—my mother! Comfortably ensconced in a bend of a huge, curling, tree root, she held a pocketbook in one hand with her fishing rod in the other, while her line disappeared through the grassy blanket topping the little brook. Mum was so engrossed in her book, probably a Harlequin romance novel, that she was completely unaware of both her son’s presence and the gentle twitching of her rod tip.
Gord’s mother, Helen, at The Beach in Toronto near the Fallingbrook neighbourhood; photo taken in the mid-1940s.
Trying not to unduly alarm her, I gently said, “Mother, I think you’ve got one on…using worms, eh?”
Without batting an eye she replied, “Of course I’m using worms. How else can you fish here? Oh! It’s you, Gordon! How did you know I was here?”
I explained while she reeled in another plump eight-incher, efficiently dispatching it before threading a fresh dew worm onto her hook, that I hadn’t known that she was fishing there—or even realized that she knew about the waters of the Uxbridge area. Undeniably, a very special memory indeed!
