I traveled to British Columbia the last week of August to visit family up in Mackenzie. My new Scottish brother-in-law (affectionately known as Phlem) is a real die-hard fly fisherman. Me - a die hard bass fisherman (picture a bass boat, 150hp, 10 rods, 400 crankbaits, 500 jigs, 4000 pieces of rubber, and 5 more tackle boxes; all hurtling insanely down the lake at 60+ mph).

Anyway, he convinced me that I should try my hand at fly fishing for the first time. So I borrowed my brother's neoprenes, vest, and his fly rod; and Phlem procured me a belly-boat powered by one flipper and set out to this little lake that is supposed to contain some nice 5 lb brookies. He promised that he was going to tutor me on the finer aspects of sport angling . "Fly fishing, the way its supposed to be done, the purist's way," he said. Okay, I "bit" and went and purchased a twenty-six dollar non-resident license.

So we loaded everything up in the back of his rickety old pick-up truck and ventured 40 miles down a logging road more suitable for assault vehicle travel. After an hour and a half of bone shaking, spine crushing, tooth loosening comfort we arrived at the lake trail.

Upon debarkation from the steam spewing, carbon monoxide choked limo I found that I had to carry all this crap through a jungle of BC fir growing about one foot apart for approximately 700 miles; all this in the neoprene sweat suit with no boots.

When I emerged scratched, stabbed, and skewered on the other side of this short pilgrimage I shook the black flies from my ears, plucked the spruce needles from my eyes, and found myself posed precariously on the brink of a precipice composed of broken rock and sand that descended at about 60 degrees for 100 yards to the lake. Upon launching myself in a cloud of dust, cobble, tackle and paraphernalia down the slope, I alit at the water's edge.

Shaken, but not stirred, I shook as much dust and pebbles as possible from my ears and donned the rubberized tutu. I then proceeded to back up into the lake as instructed by my knowledgeable guide. After falling flat on my back (3.2 for degree of difficulty), I bobbed upright and shook the backswimmers from my ears, the algae from my eyes, and proceeded to kick that one flipper like a son-of -gun (my left leg is still charlie-horsed).

Phlem, noticing my predicament, abandoned me instantly and fled to the far reaches of the lake, gracefully roll-casting all the way, and here I was shipwrecked like a one-legged duck going in circles and circles. Funny, I thought I could detect the faint sound of a cement mixer amongst the pebbles and sand in my ears. Whatever!

I was there to test my hands at the gentleman's (sorry, ladies) sport of fly fishing, so a little dunking wasn't going to faze me.

Now that the fun was over, it was time to get to the serious part. I've watched a few fishing shows about fly fishing, so I knew it would be a simple matter of performing the 2 o'clock - 10 o'clock routine with the rod and I would be a regular Izaak Walton. I stripped out some line, found that my brother had neglected to tell me about the bird's nest in the reel, and now I had to completely despool sink line, backing and all. Quite a simple process that only took about 40 minutes (all the while bobbing around in the poor man's bass boat shivering like an idiot 'cause my brother also neglected to tell me about the leaky crotch in the waders).

Finally, I was ready to fish. This was going to be easy. Strip - strip - strip. "Okay! Here goes" I thought. "2 o'clock - 10 o' %#@*!." I grimaced. Picture a shivering mummy in the middle of the lake. Picture grizzly bears, moose, woodpeckers and grouse all laughing their heads off on shore (and Izaak in heaven). Picture this moron with close to 20 yards of line wrapped around himself in an insane assortment of granny knots and half hitches, all terminating in a green wooly bugger firmly planted in his mustache. "Yes sir, Izaak Walton, move over, there's a new kid on the block," I scowled.

I drew upon all the skills I was taught in Boy Scouts, undid the knots, and in slightly less time that it takes to read the Iliad I was ready to fish again. Only this time its 'a la Hank Parker'. "Yup, no more 2 o'clock - 10 o'clock for this cowboy" I mused. So I stripped off about 25 feet of line and went straight to 6 o'clock. "Vertical jiggin's the ticket," I said, surmising that there had to be some fish laughing at yours truly down in the murky depths below.

As sure as a spring rain I felt a thump, set the hook with the 9 foot wet noodle of a rod and almost completed a perfect backwards barrel roll. After shaking the laughing backswimmers out of my ears and licking the algae from my lips, I started to reel up the slack line as fast as I could with a 1 to 1 ratio reel. No high speed winches in this sport - no siree, gotta make it as pure and as difficult as humanly possible.

Meanwhile the line is now straight down between my legs and out the back. I could hear the fish jumping behind me, but I dared not attempt a one-legged duck maneuver for fear of getting the line tangled around one of my lower appendages. No problem, the fish did it for me.

While holding the Orvis fly rod (yes, an $800 Orvis, and yes my brother is crazy or loves me or both) in one hand, I attempted to reach over the side of the inflated corset while lifting the harnessed leg. This induced me to complete the most difficult of all water sport maneuvers, the half barrel roll with a full twist. The half twist is a crucial component of the maneuver as it frees the line from any and all appendages that may be trapped, except for that it entangles the wrist of the free hand. As I freed my now purple hand from the sink-tip tourniquet, the fresh water shrimp abandoned my hair for a more favourable vantage point, that being the algae ticket booth and cement bleachers so conveniently constructed by the backswimmers in my mustache. Funny, I thought I could detect the faint odor of hot dogs and beer. Whatever, now I was really primed.

After what seamed like an eternity of give and take with equipment more suited to controlling a horse and buggy (read buggy whip), I managed to coerce a fine specimen to the floating life-saver/death trap. "What a beautiful fish", I proclaimed in awe, and promptly broke its twenty-six dollar British Columbian neck!

Well, it wasn't long before Phlem came sailing gracefully around the corner of the point. "Fishin's pretty tuff," he said," haven't even got a sniff," all the while eyeing my mustache rather inquisitively. "Yeah, only got one bite myself," I replied, and showed him the 26 inch rainbow. His jaw dropped as he told me there was not supposed to be any rainbows in this lake. "Heck, I'm not supposed to be in here either!" I retorted as another hard-hatted backswimmer popped out of my ear and scurried down my cheek to join his buddies in the concrete executive suite located in my left nostril.

As we returned home bouncing down the logging road amongst the tools and chainsaws he suggested we should do it again some time. "No, No," I replied," Allow me, it'll be my treat back home in Ontario. I'll take you out for some really fine bass fishin."

Now let me see, when is it really miserable on Lake Nipissing? - November, yeah, that's good. A balmy -5C would be comfortable in my one survival suit. A little sleet wouldn't hurt, I'd just have to remember to bring only one full-faced helmet. Hmmm, .......with a back brace on, a four foot chop could be appropriately and comfortably negotiated at a vertebrae compressing 40 mph, maybe 50....

0h! By the way, does anyone have a Q-Tip?

Contact us for fun on Lake Nipissing, and as always, Happy Fishing!

Check out Marc's Site, It's Nice!!! Click Here

Sign up for iFishOnline.COM Group group
Click Here

Join the iFishOnline.COM Club
Click Here

iFishOnline.COM Bulletin Board
Click Here

iFishOnline.COM Picture Page
Click Here

FREE PAGE
If You Would Like to have a page on this site and you fit in one of the categories on the left, submit a monthly fishing related article below.