The Written Word
for September 20, 2000

From time to time it’s worth reminding myself that I make my living by bitching and bellyaching. I start each day reading the National Post which, of course, reports all the bad things that have happened overnight. When I reach the studio about 6:30AM I read more bad news off the wire and in the two Vancouver dailies.What grief I don’t hear about and read is brought to my attention by my producers. It can be a bit depressing. But no one wants to hear about all the planes that landed safely or the taxi drivers who weren’t mugged so it’s a dour business.

Then you have, occasionally, a day that puts it all in perspective. Today was just such a day.

As I drove across the Lions Gate Bridge to meet my pal Don for an afternoon of fishing I felt rain on my face. Damn! I hope it doesn’t rain too hard because I have the top down. And I was running late because of that bloody bridge. But there my friend was at the parking lot of St David’s church – the minister kindly gave me permission to park there some years ago and I always hope that the permission is still there. As was our habit we loaded my waders and assorted equipment in Don’s van and headed for Horseshoe Bay and the ferry to Langdale.

"Dammit, Don, look up in the sky. Enough blue sky to make a pair of Dutchman’s britches! We could have a decent day!"

The ferry was on time and by the time we got to the other side we were bathed in sunshine and it was off to our little special place we can fish unmolested because we have the necessary access to an otherwise inaccessible beach.

I fish with a dry fly 95% of the time and Don uses a sinker about the same percentage. !5 minutes in and I hear a shout from Don that he’s into a fish.

"Super" I shout while under my breath I say "Damn … is it going to be sinkers for today?" Remembering that I didn’t bring a sinking line … I seldom do because I don’t like fishing that way unless I have to.

"Too bad", I shout as he obviously loses the fish. " Knowing you it was probably bottom or a six inch flounder!"

To be honest, I’m not all that sorry he lost the fish. Few fishermen are all that shook up when someone else loses a fish.

No sooner had I got all those unworthy thoughts out of the way than I was into a fish … a beautiful cutthroat about 15 inches. The Don was into one about the same size and we were off. Four fish each for the hour and a half we could fish, plus perhaps a dozen others between us risen but not hooked.

The day became warm with the sunny skies punctuated with the faint signs of the first snowfalls on the faraway mountains. Just enough breeze to keep that nice ripple on the water we flyfishermen depend upon to help disguise our wares. A huge sea lion pops up remarkably close – with the following wind I could have cast to him … a rarish golden eagle, with that funny squeaking voice soars by … and the yappy little king fisher. They all let us know that despite man’s predations there are still fish about.

It’s four o’clock and the ferry comes around the point meaning we must scurry back.

It was a day full of all the things I must bitch and belly ache about as I earn my keep.

It was also a day that made me count God’s blessings not the least of which is that I can, with a short ferry ride, be with a friend and rise a few cutthroat as if nothing else in the world was happening.