Village Squire, 1977-01, Page 22Well, what to do noyv. We hauled in the line till the beast
was snugly against the side of the ship. But now what. He was
at least twelve feet long and we couldn't pull him high enough
to hitch the winch cable around him. Maybe if we killed him
first, we could slip a cable over his tail. Someone got one of
the rifles we carried on board at that time and started
pumping bullets into the ugly head with the mean eyes. I can
still see those malevolent eyes. But he wouldn't give us the
satisfaction of seeing him die. With one last mightyeffort he
straightened a hook made of three -eighth inch iron and
disappeared. Strangely enough, we never again tried to catch
a shark.
You see from all this that 1 was still an unwilling
conservationist.
When 1 came to this great country. called Canada. some
twenty-five years ago, I figured that in this land of fish and
water, it would be the easiest thing in the world to catch a
fish. but my destiny as a conservationist could not be denied.
Once, after trudging through swamps, swollen from blackfly
bites and pooped from climbing over and under windfalls, I
caught one speckled trout. The brute was about three inches
long, so 1 gave him back to his family. At the same time my
companions had all caught their limit.
This summer, my wife Toni and I decided to go to Alberta
to visit our daughter in Two Hills, not too far from Edmonton.
This, we thought, was as good an opportunity as any to get
some angling in. Once we got there and our intention was
made known to our kin, we were directed to Jack Lake, about
ten miles away. The name sounded promising enough, as
pike are known in Alberta as jacks. So Toni and I set out early
in the morning with a brand new fishing licence, lures and
spoons, to catch jacks and perch. There were jacks all right.
We saw other people catch them left and right. They jumped
out of the water in front of us, and Toni maintains that they
stuck their tongues out at me. I didn't see that though. I oily
saw them splash and even, when my spoon fell right across
from their jumping spot, they would have nothing to do with
me. They rather went to our neighbouring fishermen to be
caught. Little kids were hauling in three footers and four
footers and 1 was skunked.
We fished in other Alberta Lakes, but the result was always
the same. At that time I got the faint suspicion that maybe I
was not born to catch fish. But heck, no, that couldn't be
possible. So when we left our off -spring, we headed for
Saskatchewan. Another fishing licence. A new supply of lures
and spoons, for several of the earlier ones were at the bottom
of Alberta's lakes. We tried in Pike Lake, in Bass Lake, in
Fisherman's Lake and in lakes we never heard the name of,
but the end result was always the same. Skunked.
Okay, then we'll try Manitoba's lakes. Doesn't "Rod and
Gun" have periodic stories about the fabulous fishing in
Manitoba?
Well. you guessed it. Skunked again. One thing we did
different. Since the licence issuers in Alberta and
Saskatchewan hadn't earned their money, I decided to omit
buying one in Manitoba. Of course it would have been poetic
justice if I had been caught by a game warden or if I had
caught my limit. But no such thing happened. 1 didn't get
caught and 1 didn't catch.
By now, a faint suspicion was growing in me that maybe I
wasn't born to catch fish, that maybe, just maybe, I was born
a conservationist, but I decided not to give in yet, and give my
home province of Ontario a chance. After all, where is the
fishing better than in Northern Ontario? We camped in a
fishing camp near the North Shore of Lake Superior. I fished.
My fellow campers brought home their limit. I fished. My
wife, who had never tried before, caught two pike, or
Northerners as our American friends called them. I fished and
I got skunked again.
From the foregoing you can see that I don't give up easily.
but now after some fifty years of trying to fight my fate, I am
finally convinced that I was born to be a conservationist of
fish. Any fish. I will have to accept this. But next year --
maybe somewhereel:else -- who knows, after all, why give up
easily?
20, Village Squire%January 1977
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