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Regional Report for Southern Ontario - AJ Somerset
Originally Published in
August / October 2007 Issue
Fall is upon us, and civilization is doomed.
Perhaps I exaggerate, but it is
safe to say that with the advent of the salmon and steelhead
runs, the overall standard of stream etiquette on some of
southern Ontario’s more crowded waterways takes a sharp
nose-dive, descending rapidly through “somewhat less than
civil” before meeting its nadir at the level of shouted
threats and obscene gestures. At which point, the grownups
find a quieter place to fish.
Salmon and
steelhead bring out the worst in some people. Ian Martin, the
author of Fly Fishing the Grand River,
ran into three float fishers this spring who deliberately and
systematically crowded him off the water he was working. I can
say “deliberately and systematically” with authority, because
the three discussed their plan before the fact, oblivious to
the presence of Ian’s fishing partner. They then proceeded to
offer Ian a choice: put up with their intimidation, or seek
opportunities elsewhere. Ian, being one of the aforementioned
grownups, chose the latter option.
Of course,
float fishers have as much right to any given spot on the
river as anyone else. You shouldn’t expect to be able to swing
a fly on a 60-foot line at Denny’s Dam on the Saugeen, in a
crowd reminiscent of five o’clock traffic through Mississauga
on the 401. Sharing the water normally requires a little
understanding on both sides.
Real problems
arise only when, as Ian did, you run into those people who are
not interested in such niceties as the rights of others—or, as
such people are known to social psychologists, jerks. And the
only practical option on encountering a jerk, since risking
physical injury or an assault conviction over a fishing hole
is just plain silly, is to move on.
In theory,
jerks who indulge in outright harassment and intimidation can
probably be charged under the Fish and Wildlife Act, by
applying the law that makes it illegal to harass or interfere
with anyone fishing legitimately. What was intended to control
some of the more rabid animal rights activists might well be
applied to other jerks. But in the real world, unfortunately,
that’s not going to happen. The jerks get their way.
The easiest
way to avoid conflicts is to avoid the places where jerks
congregate, the crowded and popular hotspots where there’s not
much room to fish anyway. It’s disappointing, though, when the
jerks start showing up in other places. Ian’s encounter, for
instance, took place in an out-of-the-way spot on the
Maitland, a river that seems to get more crowded each season.
And the best
spots inevitably begin to draw a crowd. Steelhead occupy the
same water year in and year out. If you catch one from the
eddy behind the big rock in the tailout of the third pool down
from the hydro lines, you can bet you’ll find a fish there
next year, too. Eventually, word will leak out, the spot will
start to draw a crowd, and the day will come when the grownups
go elsewhere—as will the fish. Call it, if you will, the jerk
cycle.
There’s only
one way to beat the cycle: get ahead of it. Scout new
territory. Look for the patterns (channel form, depth, and
flow), that hold fish in well-known holes, and then look for
those patterns elsewhere. After all, it’s about the fishing,
not the catching.
The
alternative is to get used to crowds and the occasional jerk.
Because the unfortunate truth is, that while the meek might
yet inherit the Earth, the Sermon on the Mount didn’t say
anything about who was going to get the good steelhead water.
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