Monday September 01, 2014




Not really wired as solitary fisherman

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Welcome to Week of ‘Fishing Parkland Shorelines’. Like most of us I am a novice fisherman, loving to fish, but far from an expert. In the following weeks I’ll attempt to give those anglers who love to fish but just don’t have access to a boat, a look at some of the options in the Yorkton area where you can fish from shore, and hopefully catch some fish.

So last week I did something I have not done in years, I went fishing alone.

It wasn’t a planned thing, just a case of needing to get away, and Canora Dam and a fishing rod seemed like a good way of doing that, especially since there was a bright yellow orb in the sky, something that has been so rarely seen in these parts of late I can’t recall exactly what it is called.

Now when I say fishing alone, in this case I mean it.

One other fisher-fellow arrived shortly after I did.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries of fishing ‘catch any?’ ‘What ya using?’ ‘Sure been a wet spring.’ And then we went about the business of casting.

He was having as much luck as I, and since he lives in Canora, close enough to try his luck any day, he was soon packed and gone.

Leaving me in the sun to fish.

Now I have read my share of books on fishing, and many anglers crave what I had that afternoon - solitude.

Aesthetically it was a sort of idyllic spot on a very nice afternoon.

All those annoying rains had raised the water pouring over the dam, and the water was rolling swift and white.

The sun was warm.

And even the mosquitos were bearable.

But I recalled rather quickly why I had not been fishing alone, and that is simply I don’t particularly enjoy it, in spite of what all the aforementioned books might suggest about fishing in solitude.

For some it’s a place to empty their minds, but I am afraid, alone my mind reflects on everything from the big mistakes of life, to my bad choice for lunch a week earlier.

Neither reflection did much to address either situation, nor did the hundred other thoughts that flickered through the caverns of my mind that day.

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It’s different fishing with another.

If go with my son, there is always sports to discuss, gaming, books we’ve read, scifi on television. Any of the topics pass the time if the fish are not biting.

With buddy Graeme it’s much the same.

And while I’d likely deny this under oath, I get joy out of seeing them catch fish too.

Then there is the better half. We’ve put a lot of miles on the roads together since I started writing this column.

It’s funny, she’s the comfy man’s sweater, the one stretched, threadbare, and patched that you still feel the most comfy wearing. I’m not sure it’s an analogy some will think flattering, but every man has that one sweater, or t-shirt, he is most happy wearing.

That’s how it is fishing with the better half.

I’m sure the mosquito in the car window might wonder about that.

We can motor down a highway for miles and not say anything, but you don’t need words to know the pilot and co-pilot are enjoying the flight.

And often, since we shore fish, we can end up 30-yards apart, not exactly allowing for reasonable conversation, but when I look down the shoreline and see her, well I know my best fishing bud is there.

There are days she’ll out fish me, and I’ll mock complaint, but on the plate I can’t tell if it was her walleye, or mine, that tastes so good with homemade fries.

But back to my day at Canora Dam.

As you might have gathered the fish did not bite.

That’s why I actually sat in the car in the all too rare sunshine — yes I recalled what it was — writing this article.

I wonder, as I look out on the swirling water, about many things, what will go on next week’s front page, what an editorial topic might be, when I might catch a fish again, and about my best fishing partner.

I suppose like many men, I put my foot in my mouth too often, and have made enough ‘man’ mistakes to teach a class, but the better half has stuck through it all. I am sure she is due a Purple Heart Medal, or at least a lifetime supply of some drug to deal with the headache of being married to me, but you know, when I looked down the shore that day, I realized what a great fishing bud she is.

Now I am guessing being a best fishing bud isn’t a title most women would want, but I do know watching her fish sure beats sitting alone on a rock catching nothing but sun rays.

So here’s a blatant abuse of having access to a newspaper column where I can sneak in a thanks to the way better half for all the miles travelled on the fishing trail. I wouldn’t have wanted to have made them with anyone else, even those days you out-fished me. Just don’t do it too often, we men have easily bruised egos when it comes to fishing.


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