Labor Day

  Last Sunday night I'd gotten a call and a request from the Russian. He wanted to go out fishing...anywhere but the Scugog River! Like myself, he tends to get easily bored when constantly returning week after week to the same area. So the challenge for this holiday Monday was to find something different and close to home...I still had a shift to work at midnight.

   Last year at this time the Russian and Tackle Shop had traveled 50 miles east to the town of Port Hope where the Ganaraska River flows into Lake Ontario. The "Ganny" is one of those tributaries where it's not uncommon for a mid August cloudburst to bring a heavy run of chrome salmon into the river and this is what I was counting on when I suggested a return trip.

   The Labor Day long weekend started out as a fitting end to summer vacation with temperatures hovering around the 90 degree mark and bright sunshine interspersed with the occasional thunderstorm. Monday morning was it's polar opposite, a harbinger of the coming autumn season and most fitting for river salmon fishing, overcast, windy and a high of only 60 degrees.

   Everything was going exactly according to plan as we approached the dam on the river at first light and saw several hundred fish milling about the pool. Nothing chases away an early morning chill better than a school of large fish in knee deep water. This was our starting point, just to make sure there were fish in the river. We had to travel several hundred yards down stream to be able to fish legally. My one concern was that in the low light conditions the fish looked rather dark, as if they'd been in the river for some time and my suspicions were reinforced when we saw a fresh chinook carcass attracting flies on a gravel bed.

  We continued down stream, checking out all the runs and pools for any signs of movement without any luck. A half mile south of the dam the river changed from a sand and gravel bottom to slice through layers of limestone bedrock, forming whole series of deep pools in quick succession. I'd never fished a river like this before and could only imagine hooking into a salmon and having to follow it right out to the mouth of the river, a mile and a half away!

   Our salmon hunt was proving to be fruitless as we continued down stream. Several of the runs were now occupied by fly fishers who weren't terribly forthcoming as to their quarry, but it was obvious that there were no large fish inhabiting the "legal" stretches of the river. I'm guessing that trout had followed the salmon upstream to gorge on the free floating roe from the early spawn, but we'd come for a big jerk on one end of the line, felt by a big jerk on the other end. We were left with three options: the first and most obvious was to stay put and try for whatever the river offered. 2, go to the mouth and join the circus of bait fisherman lounging in lawn furniture, or 3,pack up and try some nearby lake fishing.

   At this point I'm sure all of you reading this are scratching your heads and saying "what the hell!" In retrospect, the only sane thing to do would have been staying put, but often we make rash decisions and this was one we'd both regret later in the day. We climbed into the car, drove 10 miles north to Rice Lake and drove another 7 miles of beach road before deciding to stop at the town dock in Harwood. The dock and a series of tiny, narrow, connected islands is all that remains of the original rail line that crossed the shallow lake a century ago on it's way north to Peterborough.

   The first thing that struck us was the crowd of people already there. You know the types: one was using his spinning reel upside down rather than switch the handle over, another was drop shotting a 4" silver spoon tied onto the line sideways, and the rest were concentrating on their red and white plastic bobbers. Fair weather fishermen for sure only it wasn't fair weather. The second thing that struck us was the 30mph wind blowing across the lake, directly into our face, and made us both wish we hadn't dressed for summer.

   In an attempt to escape the crowd we walked and waded farther out onto the string of islands, casting both sides to cover the water. We were fighting a losing battle against the wind, unable to get our lures out any distance, and after half an hour returned to the dock in time to witness someone land a 17lb carp. The lone, successful angler was an ex Brit named Mark who now called these waters home. Earlier in the morning he'd caught a slightly smaller mirror carp.

   While Mark and I traded "war" stories the Russian continued to work the water, loath to return home empty handed again. After another 10 minutes a triumphant cry rang out loud and clear for all to hear.

"CRAPPIE!"

 
   And wouldn't you know it was caught on a GPW by the guy who gave that productive little piece of plastic it's derogatory name! The fish immediately went on a stringer with the hopes of repeating the process and culling some more members of the school, but alas, the high winds made it near impossible controlling an un weighted worm and it turned out to be the only fish of the day, hence he went back to school as is fitting on the last day of summer vacation.

My Backyard & Beyond

   Friday morning Tackle Shop and I  returned to the Scugog River area with little to show for the effort but a couple bass, some interesting video, and a broken rod.

    It was a long, unproductive day where nothing seemed to work...even the GPW.

  I returned home around sundown and within the hour was in bed. After a well deserved rest I was up and about before the sun, wondering what to do for the rest of the day, when it hit me that I should further explore my own backyard rather than fishing out of town. I killed a pot of coffee while studying Google Earth's images of the general area and eventually came up with a game plan.

   Unlike the previous visit to the West Rouge River where I literally had to rappel in and out of the valley, this time with a little more research, I'd be able to "comfortably" ride right up to the water's edge. Within 10 minutes of riding, the "sterile" new subdivisions suddenly ended and I found myself riding a country road surrounded by  hazy multicoloured fields of goldenrod, clover, and asters, the constant hum of traffic suddenly replaced with the insistent chirping of crickets in their prime, cicadas, and the angry squawks of jays defending their territories from intruders.

   The road took a sudden left turn and started to descend into the valley in a series of switch backs where, near the bottom, to my surprise, I was confronted with a red stop light.

upstream

downstream

   As it turned out the stop light was meant to control traffic across a one lane steel bridge over the river. On the other side, towards the left the road wound it's way out of the valley and on the right there was a parking lot with a sign welcoming visitors to Rouge River Park. At the back end of the lot were several partially groomed nature trails leading off in different directions into the forest. I dismounted my bike and chose the trail closest to the river, taking my time so as not to miss any of the wonders of this new playground.

   I broke through the thick underbrush at the edge of the forest and faced a series of gentle riffles and runs of crystal clear water, this being a bit of a shock considering the frequency of severe thunderstorms and torrential rains over the past week. I'd hoped that the increased flow had sparked an early  migratory run of salmon, but  obviously miscalculated the impact those rains had upon the river. No problem, this was an exploratory outing and as far as I was concerned I'd already hit one out of the park!


   The river was running low and clear, hiding nothing in it's knee deep depths, and seemed devoid of life in quiet preparation of the frantic activity to come in the following months.On the other hand the river bank was alive with activity on this steamy September morning.

Viceroy Butterfly

Raccoon, dog, killdeer, blue heron

   Over the next few hours I found signs of life everywhere I searched  with two notable exceptions; fish and people. The groomed trail wound it's way through the valley occasionally allowing glimpses of the river, but any of the off shooting trails leading directly to the water were obviously seldom used and overgrown. The only sign of humanity at all was the occasional chatter of a vehicle crossing the distant steel bridge and the subsequent gunning of the engine to climb out of the valley. It never ceases to amaze me how these serene areas, so close to a sprawling metropolis, are so underutilized for their restorative properties. So much the better for those of us in the know, but I'm not so naive as to not believe that activity in the river will be directly proportional to activity on the river bank!


   I decided to leave this oasis of serenity just after noon. The temperature had climbed to 90 degrees with near total humidity and the long uphill pedal out of the valley left me winded and longing for central air and a cold brew. Before that was to happen I had one more stop on the agenda, check out a few more of the man made ponds along the Morningside Creek watershed. As opposed to the river, these ponds showed a presence of anglers with their discarded styrofoam worm containers littering the water's edge.












 

   All in all a successful outing. Not once did I feel the need to assemble any of the rods I'd brought with me even when confronted with a large school of "muddling" carp at the ponds. In the coming weeks I expect these quiet areas along the river to become a circus of greed with the uneducated vying for a trophy at any cost. I can't help that...but I've now successfully scouted out my own private slice of heaven, pretty much guaranteed to insulate me from the hordes and the subsequent slaughter.