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My earliest memory of holding a fly rod was on the Cowichan River, at the age of seven, in April, with a lively 2-pound trout dancing at the other end. My father had been invited to drift the river with a friend, and had decided that I was going to be his fishing partner that weekend.
To say it was a life changing event would be an understatement. It was the beginning of a journey that has taken me to beautiful places, grown a love of nature, helped me develop as an angling historian, and has been instrumental in forming lasting friendships with wonderful people. When I reflect on my years of being an angler, I find that, like a river, it has followed a meandering course that has touched on many different aspects of my life. |
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You can never be 100% prepared when exploring a stretch of water with a fly rod. In many ways, that has always been one of the reasons I have been drawn to the sport. There was the time when casting a fly over a small school of Coho near Miracle Beach, 20 feet in front of me, a large spring (Chinook) salmon surfaced in slow motion before sinking below the surface. I made a quick cast a few feet ahead of the fish. Stripping the line in quickly I felt it tighten, then slowly but deliberately roll off the spool of the reel picking up speed as the Chinook swam towards Lund. With no control over the fish, the line went slack, as the barbless fly had simply popped loose when the salmon shook its powerful head. Relief followed disappointment, as the thought of losing a fly line over a fish seemed to outweigh the remote possibility of landing the Chinook without harming it. I resumed casting for my intended quarry with a chuckle. |
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