Memories of Magical Waters. Gord Deval
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to learn how to use their light-weight fishing tackle than on the tight quarters to be found on the streams that their father fished.
Prior to their initial exposure to stream fishing with their own equipment, they had accompanied me on numerous sorties to more easily negotiated streams such as the headwaters of Duffins Creek, a few miles east of Toronto. Duffins is in an area with well-defined stream-side trails due its proximity to Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources conservation area at Claremont.
Their patience was sorely tested that summer as they tagged along with me on those occasions, not to fish, but simply to observe and learn. If they were going to be able to enjoy their fishing on streams, decidedly more difficult than fishing out of a boat on lakes, then reading the current, determining the holding spots and how to fish them and simply getting through the bush, were lessons that I deemed necessary.
Although they were eager to prove that the lessons had been absorbed, they both patiently awaited the word from the teacher and consoled themselves with cleaning some of the brookies that I flipped over my shoulder towards them. By the end of that summer they were allowed to bring their rods with them and fish some of the more accessible pools on successive trips. It soon became obvious that I would have to begin cleaning my own fish again as both boys proved that they had become excellent students and were ready for a more exciting and difficult test of their recently acquired skills—fishing the magical waters of the Ganaraska River.
The season was almost over, but after managing to fish the Ganny on a couple of short, problem-free outings and their having caught a few small trout in the process, I was being bombarded on the one-hour trip home with pleas to go again and be allowed to stay over and camp on the riverside. There is a little copse where I normally parked the car and where we had taken luncheon breaks on these trips to devour the goodies their mother had packed in the picnic baskets for us. That was the spot they had in mind.
I can remember every detail of the conversation and what followed on the way home after our second visit to the Ganny. Although it was more than forty years ago, it is such a startlingly vivid recollection that it must be considered my number one truly magical memory of fishing the waters of the Ganaraska River.
As we drove back to Scarborough, Ronnie asked, “Dad, why don’t we ever fish until dark, or early in the morning like you do when you go with the other guys? You’re always telling us that that’s the best time to catch the big ones.”
Before I could answer his question, Randy fired one of his own at me as well, “Yeah, Dad, can we bring our tent the next time we come? We could set it up in that clearing right beside the spot where you park the car. You know, the “Picnic Grounds.”
Still contemplating their surprising requests, I had yet to respond when Ronnie suggested, “You could help us set up the tent before you leave then Randy and I would be able to fish until dark before we got into our sleeping bags. Then we would get to fish early in the morning, too, before you come back to pick us up. What do you think, Dad? Could we, please? Please?”
“I don’t know about that, guys. What about food? And there are animals there, too, you know. I doubt if Mom would ever give you permission to stay overnight in the bush and right beside a river—all by yourselves.”
“Ah, Dad! Please. You can tell Mom that we’ll be okay, won’t you, please? We’re not little kids now, you know!”
They moaned in unison. I told them I would think about it for while. By the time we arrived home I had pretty well made up my mind to consent to their wishes, but only if their mother could be convinced that they were capable of surviving the mini-adventure.
The final weekend of the trout season was approaching and Ron and Randy had both been on their best behaviour since our last outing. Their exemplary conduct, along with my assurance that I believed they would be able to stay out of trouble eventually led to their mother’s acquiescence. We agreed that providing they packed their gear and Mom made lunches for them the night before, that I would pick them up from school and they could change their clothes in the car. In that way we could reach the Picnic Grounds with time to set up their tent and still get in an hour or two of fishing before dark.
Arriving at the edge of the stream, they chattered with exhilaration as their sleeping bags, picnic basket, tackle and tent were unloaded. They refused to let me assist them in setting up and could hardly wait to say goodbye to their old man. My final words to them before departing were that there was to be no campfire and that they had to be in their sleeping bags before dark. The boys had a couple of reliable flashlights with them to ease any fears of the dark after they zipped up the door to the tent. Trying not to display my anxiety at leaving them there on their own, I swallowed my concerns, smiled and hugged them both before hopping into the car and waving until I was out of sight. As I glanced in the rear view mirror I could see they were paying no attention to my departure and already busying themselves in setting up their little camp.
I slept fitfully that night, skipped breakfast in the morning and had to suppress my urge to set a speed record for the drive to the Ganny We had agreed that I wouldn’t come for them until at least ten o’clock so that they could have a little time to fish by themselves in the morning. As I bounced down the trail towards the Picnic Grounds, I could see by the grins on their faces as they greeted me by the tent, each displaying a fat fifteen-inch brown trout for my approval, that my concerns had been completely unwarranted.
After the hugs, I admired their catch and asked if they had stayed up talking all night or managed to get in a little sleep because I had another treat in store for them. They had slept alright, or so they said, but a big fish splashing around in the pool right in front of the tent had awakened them a couple of times.
“Yeah,” Ronnie added, “and there was a bear or something poking around outside the tent, too. But when we shone the light through the side of the tent we could hear it scramble away.”
“Probably just a big racoon after your fish or the picnic basket,” I said. “After all, you were trespassing on its night-hunting territory, you know.”
Things had gone so well for them that I thought we would spend an hour fishing another piece of the Ganaraska watershed. Obviously it was no problem getting them to agree to the proposition. I was thinking of a big pool below a dam some distance upriver from where we were, the section of the river we referred to as the “Used Car Lot” stretch. The owner of the land there sells used-car parts from wrecks that he buys and stores on his property, hence the name.
I sweetened the suggestion, “It doesn’t look as nice as the Picnic Grounds, but if nobody else has fished there yet this morning you’d have a chance at catching a big brown, even bigger than the ones you’ve already got. Sound okay to you?”
The smiles that had not left their faces since my arrival, broadened even further as we threw everything in the car and drove the back roads for twenty minutes until we came to the lane leading between the wrecks and derelict cars strewn around the property which led directly to the pool below the dam. Pointing the way down the lane to the dam, I said, “You guys can fish from shore there while I go back down the road to the bridge and fish the stream near it for a bit. Okay? I’ll come back and meet you right here on the main road in an hour. All right?”
We synchronized our watches as I dropped them off and wished them good luck. The hour flew by, and while I was standing on the bridge a couple of hundred yards away from the lane leading to the Used Car Lot pool, no fish in my creel, I could see the lads emerge on to the main road and head in my direction. I have lousy hearing but have always had excellent vision. Even at that distance I could see that although they were soaking wet they were both smiling excitedly, while Randy was making a futile attempt to disguise the fact that he had a huge fish strung on a length of cord and hanging over his shoulder down his back. The problem was its tail was easily visible between his legs, swinging back and forth in unison with his footsteps. Not wishing to spoil the surprise that they were hoping to lay on their old man, I feigned ignorance and awaited their arrival.
“Okay guys,” I said, “What’s with the grins? Catch a ‘biggie,’ or something?”
Randy heaved the big brown