Memories of Magical Waters. Gord Deval
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thoughtless person, most likely a non-resident. No longer pristine as they were many moons ago, these icy cold waters still provide an interesting, if not necessarily aesthetic, fishery for the “brookies,”3 some of which had actually departed their cover in the beds of watercress to take up residence in, or beneath, the debris.
A short distance beyond the towns main street where the stream emerges from its subterranean course below several buildings, it travels beneath another bridge before flowing alongside a row of ancient willow trees with many of their gnarled and enormous branches suspended low over the water. The roots of these massive trees, many of which extend into the stream, provide excellent cover for its fishy inhabitants. However, on one occasion when travelling through the village and taking a minute to see what I could raise from the undercut bank and willow roots, I experienced another magical moment.
I studied the stream looking for the most promising target for the first cast. It appeared probable that the place with the most potential to provide a brookie, worthy of being kept for the pan, would also be the most awkward spot in the area to fish. A huge branch, jutting out from the main trunk of the biggest willow tree on the bank, guarded the likely holding spot for a decent-sized trout—an entanglement of the willow’s tentacle-like, underwater roots. It would require a perfect and flat cast in order to propel the spinner far enough beneath the branch that a trout, holding court in the cover, would catch a glimpse of its flashing blades, exit the hole and strike.
The branch, more like a twin to the tree’s main trunk, was probably a foot or so in diameter and suspended only another foot or so above the water. It was a challenge I could not refuse, although the likelihood of donating my spinner to one part of the willow or another was considerable. Flexing the rod tip with wrist movement a couple of times, while keeping it close to the surface of the stream and holding my breath for a brief moment, I fired a sharp cast towards the selected target. As luck would have it the lure shot over the branch, not under as intended.
“Damn!”
Then came the memorable moment! After crossing above the big branch, the silver spinner did not have enough momentum remaining in the cast to even reach the water on its far side. It hung there enticingly, its blade flashing six or eight inches above the surface of the stream and a few inches beneath the branch, while I contemplated the best way to extricate it—but only for a split-second.
Before I could repeat the cuss word, a seventeen-inch brook trout shot out from the hole’s nether regions and acrobatically managed to latch on to the still fluttering spinner. This was easily the largest and most beautiful brookie I had ever seen in any stream, anywhere, and I somehow knew that I had to have it—but how?
Fortunately, reflex action had immediately taken over on my part. I had already loosened the clutch to the point where the weight and struggling of the trout was sufficient to pull the line smoothly down off the branch without its hanging up. With the fish now in the water, at least now its weight alone would not suffice to free it from the lures treble hook. Without pausing and wearing only my regular clothes and street shoes, I leapt into the pool, splashed my way furiously towards the branch and awkwardly passed the rod over the top to a spot where I could reach beneath and grab it before it dropped into the stream, all the while attempting to maintain sufficient tension on the line so that the hook wouldn’t simply fall out of the trout’s mouth.
Soaking wet from stem to stern, only a few minutes more remained before the battle was over, including one heart-stopping session where I had to extricate the brookie that had retreated into its underwater tangle of roots under the bank. My luck held and, stumbling backwards towards the bank, I carefully worked my prize into the shallows then pounced on it on all fours. I thought for just a brief moment about placing it back in the swim, but the fish appeared to be as exhausted as I, so it was kept for showing off to my fishing buddies at home and for the frying pan the next day.
My plans for that day were of course completely derailed by the experience as I sloshed my way back to the car and headed home, grinning all the way back to Toronto. Even the scolding I endured from my wife for ruining my clothes and shoes didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. Easily, this is one of my incredible memories ever and it occurred in what has always been for me—the magic of the waters of Uxbridge!
The waters in and around Uxbridge didn’t become the fodder for the opening of this book merely by chance, or just because of the earliest magical memory factor, but because there is a wealth of these wonderful recollections pertinent to the area in my mind’s hard drive. There is probably enough material stored there to actually write an entire book on the memories created over all those years by its springs, brooks, the pond and the river.
A couple of other reminiscences occurring at the pond deserve reporting here. Although the principals in the first anecdote do not include me, the Uxbridge Pond and I were sufficiently involved to create this next recollection. The Scarborough Fly and Bait Casting Association, launched by me and a few cronies in 1984, has from its outset been a club comprised of fishermen, skilled anglers and expert fly and bait casters along, of course, with others wishing, practising and learning to become skilled in the art of angling themselves. A few years ago we were approached on the last evening of the summer season at our outdoor practice venue, the reflecting pool behind the Scarborough Civic Centre and City Hall, by a couple of curious and interested spectators while we practised our presentation and accuracy on the floating targets.
Instead of the usual and dumb, “How’re they biting?” remarks, they inquired about the club’s activities and what were the requirements to join. Although their names have escaped me, I do remember that they were recently retired senior citizens who had moved to Ontario from Newfoundland a few years before our meeting them. They mentioned several times though that it was unlikely that they would become long-term club members, as their plans were to return to the island province within a year or so. But initially their stated objective was to become as proficient with their fly rods and casting prowess as were the club’s expert anglers. Both became eager students when we moved our operations indoors for the fall and winter season, working diligently on their fly tying and casting fundamentals. Their thoughts on the island and its excellent trout and salmon fishing were never far from their minds though. We were frequently entertained throughout that winter in the gym with tales of the wonderful trout fishing to be had in their home province.
I distinctly remember one of the chaps addressing us around the fly-tying table one evening, “You know, boys,” he stated unequivocally, “it’s got the finest trout fishin’ in the world, the island has, you know”
He continued, “We’ve caught speckled trout there as long as your arm and as thick as your leg. At least eighteen inches and a couple of pounds on the scales.”
We all glanced at our arms then our legs then each other. His buddy, not quite as loquacious as he, then inquired, “You got any trout like them in these parts, boys?”
Not wishing to be impolite, we merely nodded back and forth, before someone spoke up, “Well, yes, occasionally we hear tell of trout that big caught not too far from here.”
Another added, “Usually a brown, but the odd big brook trout does show up, too.”
By the May 1 opening of the trout season and our exiting the gym for the outdoor practice pool, both of the club’s Newfoundlanders had become quite competent with their fly rods and eager to test their new skills on the real thing. I was asked, “We’ve got a twelve-foot canoe we would like to use for fishing if you know someplace not too far away where we can catch trout? Neither of us have got good enough legs to do a lot of walking up and down streams.”
Uxbridge Pond immediately came to mind. “There’s a spot,” I said, “actually a fair-sized pond, not much more than a half an hour’s drive from here that has an assortment of fish in it that you can catch on a fly; specks [speckled trout], perch and ‘bows [rainbow trout]. The trout are smallish, maybe nine or ten inches tops, but they do smack flies there pretty good and you should have a bit of fun. You can test your new fly-casting skills by trying to lay your presentations right on top of the