Aug 21, 2013 Yesterday was an “UP” day. As I like to call it. But what goes up must come down. And it does. Not into sadness or despair. Just back down to the regular rhythm of life. On the drive back up to the blocks, the Big Cedar road is busy with loaded log trucks. We call our position as we turn onto the forestry road and head up. I have forgotten to call our direction “up” or “down” and apologise and state that we are going up. After I do we are notified that there are two loaded trucks coming down and that they are at 48km. We pull over at 46km and wait. The first truck passes us and who would be directly behind but my dad. I wave as he passes and he waves back. It’s 7:00 o’clock in the morning, he’s doing what he loves, and the huge grin spread across his face is the proof. I can see it clearly even from my impeded position. We have a fantastic hike into the back of the block and spend all day around this wonderful little glacial stream, mapping out our proposed crossings for the block. The water from it is sweet and rejuvenating. It is warm out already, so we soak our shirts and dump water over our heads to bring the core temperatures down a bit. We fill up our water bottles and discuss what to do. This is where I feel people like Jordon and I are assets to the forest industry and the environment. We have three potential crossings, but manage to eliminate one after a few minutes of discussion. So of the last two, one is to forest code standards, and one is to our standards. The forestry crossing would go across at the most convenient location to continue the road into the block. The sides of the bank around this crossing are fairly close together, but very tall about 80 feet and about 90% slope! This means when they go to remove soil from the sides of the bank it will all be sloughing into the stream. This stream is not a fish bearing tributary, but it does feed into the Kiteen, which is. Also the approaches on both sides of the crossing are steep and will require a of end haul, which means that they will have to haul away a lot of the nutrient rich soil, to reshape the side of the slope where the approaches are coming down. OUR crossing will involve a bridge! Bridges are expensive though, they require engineers and all sorts of fun stuff. However, where we have our crossing the banks are about 15 feet and the creek banks are quite wide. We will not have to remove any material, but actually add, for the bridge. As, well our approaches are so flat we will not, have to end haul any material away. So basically, our argument is. Yes, the bridge will cost money, however, we will save more much more on the groundwork not having to haul away and reshape both sides of the creek banks. And only a very minimal amount of slough will end up in the creek! We wrap up our roads and head back to the truck. We are heading out for the night. As it is getting to be a bit far of a venture just to get back to where we are working. We grab fresh maps, and new projects from the office, and sleep in town for the night. Little do we know neither of us will get much sleep. Just at the turn-off for the highway. We notice something odd about the Big Cedar road sign. It’s decorated with the trade mark ribbon and banners of a Timber Cruiser. Flourescent pink flagging tape, with the initials C.T.R. in bold black lettering. Jordon and I look at each other with questioning facial expressions. “It looks like a note.” Says Jordon. We are too tired to stop and get out to see for who and what the message is for and continue on down the road, laughing for a few kilometers, and never really giving it a second thought. We arrive back at the office, unload and part our separate ways for the evening. But just before we do, Darren comes running into the room. “Did you guys get my note?” he asks. Jordon and I look at each other and then back to Darren and all three of us burst into tears with laughter. When I catch my breath again, I ask Darren when he left us the note and why. “Because I had the keys for the second trailer in camp, and it has all the dry food and the cooking stoves in it.” For whatever reason we all start laughing again at this. “ I remembered, just as we were passing the Big Cedar. It was raining so hard too, I was standing out there for a good fifteen minutes making that elaborate banner for you guys! I got friggin soaked!” he manages to say through the laughter and the tears and this starts us all back on the giggle train again. When we finally calm down, we thank him for his consideration, but inform him that we grabbed it out of our bosses Toyota just before we left town. I get home, I pack my bag into temporary lodgings and lay back on my bed. As soon as I do this my phone rings. I answer. “Hello?” I ask. “What are you doing muffin?” my cousin Ryan asks “Are we going fishing?” “Where are you?” I ask him. “I’m just on my way home, I just passed Walmart.” He replies “Well, it’s 5:30. You still have to eat supper. You probably won’t be ready until 6:30 and then it will be almost too late for fishing.” I am tired and trying to make up an excuse, but it has no effect on Ryan. And I am glad because deep down I want nothing more than to cast my spey. “It’s Never too late for fishing Jamie.” He says in this mischievous voice which I’ve succumbed to for years. I can almost see the crooked up-to-no-good grin on his face. And immediately it stokes my own passion for the fly. I’m suddenly infused with energy and tell him “I’m game.” We end up deciding on the Copper Flats bar, after a bit of a caucophony over supper. I tell him I will grab some burgers and meet him down there. Just as I pull onto the road for the copper river bar. I get a text saying that he will be unable to make it. I’m too excited to be going fishing to be disappointed. But text him back asking what the hell I’m supposed to do with 4 hamburgers two fries and two pop! He doesn’t reply. I reach the river and find two other fellows already enjoy the sweet riffle I am so familiar with. I say hello when I pull up, but they are from out of country and I have a hard time making out what they are trying to communicate back. It sounds like Spanish. I try to be polite and smile and wave and nod my head, hoping to satisfy whatever answer they were looking for. I gear up and head out into the water, and as if on cue. The sun breaks, just a little, through the socked in cloud cover and seems to shine just one me. It is what my mother and I have referred to for so long as, liquid sunshine. The sun catches all the droplets and makes the rain look like diamonds falling from the sky. This minor weather phenom probably is not unique only to Terrace, but whenever it happens I am more so inclined to think of this town more than any other I have lived. I start fishing above them, as local protocol states, and patiently wait my turn to rotate down into the prime water. I wait, and wait, and wait. They are fishing very heavy tips on their fly rods, and are snagging the bottom and losing a lot of flies. They seem to have an unlimited supply stashed away in their frumpy fishing vests, as this goes on for a half hour. Finally, they have to return to reload and I make my way down to the bottom. I close my eyes and feel the line slide through the eyes of the rod as I strip it in, I feel the loop of the skagit hit the tip and stop. Keeping my eyes closed I flick my rod in an anti-clockwise and shoot it straight down, bringing all my line to the surface. I quickly flick my rod and all my line back up stream, loop my back low and then up to the 10’ oclock position and then bring the tip back around my right side to make my “D” loop and load the rod. I shoot it forward, release my line, and open my eyes. The line flutters out in front of me about 40 feet, just slightly upstream. “The swing of the line is divine, but the tug is drug.” I close my eyes again and focus on the vibration of my line running through my finger tips. I can feel every boulder, every stone, I just wait patiently wait for that pull, that resistance that let’s me know Mr. Fishy’s come to play a game of river rodeo! I’m so lost in the moment I am a little slow to realize that I have been stealthily surrounded. My two Spanish fishing combatants have decided that we can all fish spey in this roomy twenty foot pocket of water on the Skeena. Cozy, I think to myself. Obviously they’re not familiar with the local protocol, so I do my best to speak broken hand Spanish to them to try to communicate that we can all fish this spot, we will just have to rotate and take turns. They pretend like, they can’t hear me, and the one fellow cast his line down stream and fishes the water directly in front of me. “What the hell!?” I boom. Fine we’ll play a game of dirty Spanish Fly, I laugh to myself. Just as I straighten out my line I see Ryan’s truck come bobbing over the rocks to the river bank, and I’m happy to see him. I continue straightening out my line until I have about 60 feet of loose line to cast. I do a huge rolling cast down stream to get my line on top, and let out a few extra feet so that my weighted fly lands about a foot and a half away from my downstream Spaniard, apparently he speaks fluent “hook”. I bring all my line upstream with a flick and drop the fly directly in front of his partner, with a soggy sploosh. Ryan doesn’t realise that I’m doing it on purpose, and tries to coach me through his truck window on how to “tighten up” my cast. I turn around and give him the eyeball, but notice my two year old nephew Ryder, on his lap. Who, he tells, me drove the truck all the way down to the river. “Not on the highway, just the dirt road.” Ryan assures me. I laugh and Ryder cries out from the truck. “HI UNCA!” “Hey, Buddy” I reply. Ryder gets distracted once again by the captains seat and I am forgotten. I laugh and bring in my line. I relinquish my spot to the two Spaniards and head upstream again. I would much rather have my own piece of riffle, relax, and not catch any fish, than catch a fish while dealing with the foreign ignorance. I catch snag up my line on the bottom with my first cast. It is stuck fast and I am forced to wade out closer. I end up slipping and filling the feet of my waders with water. It’s cold and I all of a sudden, feel less enthused about fishing. Ryan suggests we head over to the mouth of the Copper, and we do. We ride out the night there, catching a few fish and enjoy a misty and mysterious looking evening. There sun sets, but there is still a low light to outline and even slightly illuminate certain parts of the landscape. The fog rolls very slowly down the Copper, making it just barely possible to see the opposite bank and making the rolling fish look like tiny mysterious monsters lurking just out of our sight. I head home to change into something dry and warm up. I crawl under the covers, but end up awake most of the night between my restless brother and the teasing possibility of a new adventure.
Posted on: Sat, 24 Aug 2013 01:03:15 +0000
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