Ontario Shore Fishing Forum

(06-01-2012 12:02 PM)manitoubass2 Wrote: [ -> ]I have lots of stories, but one of my best memories was when me and two buddies hopped in a tinny and made a long trip up to the north arm of Rainy Lake. The plan was to camp for 4 days or so, fish during the day and have some drinks at night, just have a good time out in the wilderness. I think I was about 20 at the time, pretty green. One friend was about as experienced as me, my other buddy was a city boy.

So, I packed up all my camping gear before departing. I really had everything we would need. But my buddy calls and says "nope, were packing light, my dads cabin is about 2 km's from the island we are camping on, we'll get up there, set up the camp, then head to the cabin in the morning for supplies". This would turn out to be a big mistake.

So we get to the island after about an hour ride. Find the right spot, crack a few beers and get our two tents up, make a fire pit etc. This day is a wash, no fishing, just sitting around having some drinks.

I wake up the next morning around 530am and decide I'll do some shore fishing for bass while the other two sleep. I rig up and head down to where the boat was tied up. OH NO!!!! No plug in the f'in boat!!!! Onlt thing out of the water is the nose of the boat, the back is planted firmly under about 4-5 feet of water!!!! So I head back up to wake these guys up and let em know the bad news.

As we come back down, the first thing I see is our can of gas floating about 200 yards away, damn, more bad news. We look at the situation from different angles/perspective to develope a plan. Ok guys, we got alot of work to do. It's like 630am and already about 25C on this small rock we decided to camp on.

So we head up to the fire pit to take note on what we actually have. This is more bad news, and really making me regret not taking what I hade previously packed. Here is what we had.

3 lighters, smokes, beer, long island tea, 3 fishing rods, a net, a blowhorn, life jackets, a chainsaw, a fire extinguisher, one skillet (no utensils), toilet paper, 3 tackle boxes, a box of Snickers and rain gear/tents.

Things I wish we had... a spatula, a fillet knife, water.

ok, now this rock we camped on is in a small secluded bay, it's hot, like real hot, and to make matters worse, its shallow and right in the middle of an elgae bloom. There goes are water....

We started by taking a walk around the island, just taking note of what it had for us. Well, basically nothing, other than wood.

Day two is spent chopping down trees, sectioning them, then swimming, lol. Two of us would barely manage to lift the arse end of the boat a few inches, the other guy had to get under water to get in a chunk of log to prop the boat up. It was very hard work, and took a good part of the day to get the boat up high enough to bail. Oh yeah, we had a bail can as well, lol. So now that thats done, we need to get on some shore fishing so we have something to eat. We had all had a few Snicker earlier, cause well they just basically melted.

So we fish for awhile, and we manage to get a few walleye and a pike. But remember, we have no fillete knife, or any knife for that matter. So, chainsaw it is. Off with the head and tail, and I gut the fish. Find a nice stick for each fish and over the fire it goes. Good eats at least.

Next day reality is setting in. The motor is full of water, need to be bled out. All the gas we have left is watered down. The cabin is too far a swim in big open water. I'ts the middle of the week, so there is no tourist fisherman in sight. The lake is just dead. It's a 30C everyday with zero wind. The water is hot and gross, swimming isnt even refreshing. Our goal for this day, boil as much water as possible and fish. We did that, and again we had had fish to eat and a little water to drink. It's beyond gross but it will have to do.

Day 3, day 4, day 5 are all the same, except our city boy friend stick himself with a treble hook through the web of the thumb. Ok, at least we got snips in the tackle box and some hard booze, lol. We planned to get it out without him pannicking, lol. We would give him some booze, and when he had a decent buzz, I would punch him in the other arm. When I did that, my buddy would push the hook through so we could snip it off. Worked like a charm. At this point, dehydration and sun stroke are very real. We have soaked clothes wrapped around our heads, and were following the shade. Only good news is we are fed.

Day six, sun stroke is bad. At this point, I'm pretty convinced that if we dont see someone today, thats about all she wrote. Remember, it's still dead calm and around 30C. Were on a rock, so it's much hotter actually. The mood is pretty somber. Visuals are kicking in, tremors, unbearable headpounding, and no energy to move. We manage to get a little rest, as night falls, it seems like we could recover just a little bit.

Day 7. Pretty sure were all dead at this point. Food doesnt matter. Sun stroke and dehydration is killing us fast. It doesnt feel fast, every minute feels like an hour. It's really tough to see. All 3 of us are going into a haze of blindness. It's like trying to see with your eyes filled with tears. Heart feels like its barely beating, but when it does, you feel it through your hole body. Evening comes, were alive. Then, we can hear a boat in the distance! Everyone of us attempts to fire warning flares and the air horn. It feels like forever, but were firing them off in despair, just totally frantic. I think this is it, the bodies last little bit of calories being used in one last effort to survive. About 5 minutes goes by and trust me, you'll never understand that feeling. The boat veers towards us! Finally some good news.

It's three americans, doing one last ditch of their camping supplies. Right away we get water, every little last bit the have. They have towels too. We set out, leaving everything behind. Once we hit open water we drench the towels to cover out bodies. Wakes pound the boat, sure, its frigging windy out in the open stretched, lol. But man o man, every wave just crushed our skulls. 35 minutes or so and we land on shore. The Americans had called for an ambulance to meet us at the 5 mile dock upon arrival. After that, I don't remember too much other then being hooked up to an iv. I think we slept on an iv for 3-4 days, but all of us were alive. The headache and dehydration took almost a full week to recover from.

Once we were all recovered, we got together to talk about the experience. We all basically said the same thing. That was actually pretty cool. I learned alot from that experience. Number one, never go anywhere in a boat unprepaired, EVER! Two, sun stroke is very real, and trust me, you do not want to experience it. I would never wish that kind of pain, trembling, hallucinations, blindness on anyone.

You think you can survive, well, its alot different when it gets thrown at you when your unprepaired. Nowadays, with much more experience and planning, it would be pretty easy. But you have to plan ahead, use your energy wisely, and act accordingly. Never waste your time. Everything is geared around health and shelter, everything.

Hope you enjoy the story... The next one will be funny, I promise

---

oh, and never go in a boat without paddles. Two simple paddles would have saved us much sooner, as we could have made it to the cabin. There is a very good reason they are a lawful requirement these days.

My god.

Worthy of a novel.

It happens:

[attachment=1216]

Cheers,

OldTimer

It's a funny thing, in retrospect, that for the last few years I've been averaging about 130 days of fishing per year and the quietest time for me is surprisingly mid summer. For some reason July is generally road trip deficient, causing my focus to shift from abroad to local opportunities. This was the case seven years ago last July when a friend told me he had the car for a few hours and asked where we could go to do something other than carp fishing. Taking into consideration the time constraints, we decided to check out Toronto's western shoreline and headed out for Colonel Samuel Smith Park at the foot of Kipling Ave. 

We started out casting spinners and small crankbaits in the harbor and methodically worked the water out along the inner break-wall. On previous forays, this method proved effective and produced quite a few small bass and panfish, but on this day the fish were nowhere to be found.

After half an hour of no results, we found ourselves overlooking a small enclosed area twice the size of an average driveway and it appeared to be the perfect spot for our elusive quarry. Five minutes of casting proved the area was devoid of feeding fish and as we were about to move on, my friend noticed some movement in the far corner near the bushes. This was all the motivation we needed to reassert our assault on the pool. It obviously wasn't a bass, but by then we'd settle for a carp.

Twenty to thirty casts later, and several more breaches by the "creature" in the bushes, we were ready to move on again. Just as we're turning away from the pool, a large V wake moves out from the corner, 40 feet (straight as an arrow) and the "creature" beaches itself directly at my feet. Flopping around in front of us is a 15Lb. "chromer" chinook salmon that had apparently decided to commit suicide.  

 Since neither of us put a hook into it, we both claimed ownership. Between uncontrollable fits of laughter, the requisite photos were taken and we eventually made our way back to the car, stopping occasionally to recount an unbelievable tale to the many admirers. 



 To this day, all you have to do is mention the occasion to either one of us, and the laughter returns with the same intensity. Once again we didn't catch our target species, but who cares! The dog days of summer can be difficult when you're stuck in the city, but an afternoon on the lake shore can have surprising results you may never forget.

Just don't expect the fish to offer themselves up all the time!

For once the fish came to the fisherman, cool story!

Well they were not big but I got out fishing for the first time in years today on an old creek that use to produce and I managed to hook 5 small trout, all released safely to fight another day, so for me it was a great day, dam did I miss days like this, no stress just the occasional fish the sound of the creek and the sound of a thunderstorm rolling in

Sounds like a great outing to me. Fish too........

I grew up around Port Dalhousie and was pretty much raised by an eclectic group of fisherman including Ted Rooker, the last commercial fisherman in those parts. It was a great way to grow up and memories such as this, and dozens more, have enriched my life tremendously. Hope you enjoy reading it. If so, let me know and I'll send part 2. Cheers, Gavin

An excerpt

STANLEY by Gavin Houston

As with many of the important events that happen in the course of one’s life, I remember the moment I met Stanley as if it were yesterday. I was walking towards the bait shop to have a cup of coffee and listen to a few yarns from my collection of retired cronies, as per my usual routine. It was a gray day but warm, the spring melt well underway with only a few dirty drifts still lingering where the wind and plows had pushed it up. As I got closer to the shop I could see that no one was there yet, based on the absence of cars and trucks, but I did observe a lone fisherman on the opposite side of the harbour. As I had been enjoying my walk, and the clouds were not threatening, I decided to cross the bridge and pay a visit to the fellow standing near his car and watching his rod.
The first thing that caught my attention, as I got closer, was the car. It was a faded, red Duster, circa 1970ish, and appeared to be held together with duct tape that had been spray painted a faded red to match the car. I noticed that the back tires were old snow tires two sizes too big and the front tires were smaller and nearly absent of tread. The windows were dirty and pitted and looked almost opaque. The rear bumper was secured with wire as was the driver’s side mirror, along with more tape. As I came up from behind, the driver’s door suddenly opened with a screech of metal on metal, and from the gloomy interior emerged one of the most extraordinary looking people I had ever seen. He had been watching his rod from the warmth of his car and was getting out to check on his line, and, as he was unaware of my presence, I had a moment to observe him unabashedly.
A pair of rubber Wellington boots stuck out first, and when the owner hoisted himself upright, it was as if a garden gnome had come to life. He was short and round, built along the lines of a snowman. He wore a dirty, hand-made toque from which wisps of white hair stuck out in an un-orderly manner. His faded blue-jeans came halfway to his chest, stopping at his widest point, held in place with a pair of wide, rainbow-colored suspenders. Next was a knitted cardigan that wrapped tightly around his circular form with only one stretched button holding it together as pretence of a good fit. Over this ensemble was a well-worn navy parka that had duct tape over several tears with whitish fluff bulging out from a torn patch on one sleeve. The parka was un-zipped as it would have been impossible to do up around his girth. His face was extraordinary. It was like looking at a Christmas ornament, a caricature of Santa, with a round, red nose and two red apples for cheeks, framed in by a white, short, scruffy beard. He had pale blue eyes that looked kind of sad, or lonely, and were sunken in the fleshy pink around the sockets. Then our eyes met, and as he registered my smile, his eyes lit up, as did his entire face, and he greeted me with a loud “Hello there young man.” His voice was almost theatrical and his English accent was crisp. I was completely captivated by him. I just knew he was going to be an excellent addition to my current collection of characters, oddballs and misfits at the bait shop. The guys were going to love him. And they did.
As it turned out, and much to our delight, our short, fat gnome was a retired circus performer, an animal trainer who specialized in chimpanzees, lions and dancing horses and bears. He was a fantastic story teller, forever regaling us about some fascinating incident, big fish that got away, or some new lure he had discovered. With arms waving and voice booming he would perform a pantomime for his captivated crowd. The thing was, try as he might, Stanley was a terrible fisherman. One memorable day we convinced him to join us on a short ice-fishing excursion to the frozen surface of a marina off the Niagara River. As most of us were catching perch in fairly large numbers, Stanley couldn’t catch a thing. He was surrounded by the rest of us and using the same bait but, for whatever reason, the fish avoided his offerings. Every once in a while someone would hook a large rainbow trout that had moved in from the main river and it added a sense of excitement. But Stanley sat there on his inverted pail and cursed his luck. Then, during a lull in the action, Stanley suddenly jumped up with a yell, his rod doubled over with the weight of his catch. As was the usual practice, I knelt and stuck my hand down the hole to grab the trout under the gill and slide it on the ice, but when I grabbed Stanley’s fish, it felt strange, almost mushy, and I sat back quickly on my haunches just as a diving duck, an Oldsquaw, flew out of the hole and flapped around at the end of Stanley’s rod. This was Stanley’s luck. If something odd were to happen, it always happened to him. The rest of us could barely stand up we were so overcome with mirth watching the round elf subdue his prize. Afterwards it took us some considerable time to get him to let the frightened duck go. His trainer instincts had kicked in and he was determined, at first, to keep it as a pet. We soon headed home dragging with us a miserable Stanley, fishless and duckless.
This was life with Stanley. He was a happy elf that oozed character and we all loved him dearly as we waited to see what would happen next. Then, one day, he performed a miracle.

It was August- hot, humid and stifling as only Southern Ontarians can appreciate. Most of us were hanging around at the harbour to catch faint wisps of breeze off the water and avoid any physical activity. There were a few of us sitting at a picnic table under a shade tree near the water when we heard the distant rumble of Stanley’s car and saw the blue smoke that followed it everywhere. He pulled up nearby and was already bellowing to us as he struggled from behind the wheel. He popped his trunk and removed his rod and, waving it like a magic wand, proclaimed:

“Gentlemen, you are not going to believe your eyes” he said using his performers’ voice, obviously in fine form and enjoying himself immensely. “I have before you the greatest fishing invention there ever was. As you will see, this is one of man’s greatest achievements that will revolutionize fishing as you know it”.
It was as if he were trying to sell us some magical cure from a horse drawn carriage in the latter part of the eighteen hundreds. His voice carried and with a flourish of arms and waddling gait, he sailed passed us to the edge of the wharf at a point between two tied up boats.
“Gather around gentlemen and feast your eyes on this little beauty, the likes of which you have never seen before”. As instructed, we eagerly gathered around him. Once his audience was in place and he knew he had our undivided attention, he said “I give you, the Mister Twister!”

At this point he released the lure he had hidden in his hand and it swung out to dangle six feet below his rod on the black Dacron fishing line he was so fond of. It dangled a few inches above the surface of the water, a three inch rubber grub on a yellow jig head, its classic curved tail vibrating seductively. There wasn’t a person in the group who didn’t have a minimum of fifty of these things in his fishing gear in a multitude of colors and sizes. We had fished with them for years, but to Stanley, they were a new discovery. He described how he had found them and tested them in the tub at home and that it was just like having a real minnow on the line. He then lowered his rod so that the lure was a few inches under the surface so we could “see the action.”
If Stanley had lowered the lure any further it would have disappeared from site as the water was thick with silt. It was a dirty brown, the color of coffee with a little cream added. The water was also warm, in the mid 70’s range, both conditions ideal for catfish, carp and drum. A rainbow trout should have been dead in that turbid, warm water, therefore, if we hadn’t seen it with our own eyes; we would never have believed it. The trout came out of the gloom like a rocket and detonated on Stanley’s yellow lure. It hooked itself and tried to continue on its way as we all stood in complete disbelief. No one was more surprised than Stanley and when he felt the pull on his rod, his immediate reaction was to pull back. With his stiff rod and only a few feet of black line out, there was very little give, and with the fish only inches under the surface, it was yanked clear. The hapless fish sailed over our heads in a twelve foot arc and landed in the grass behind us. The surprised fish lay still for a moment but then began to leap about and dislodged the hook. It was at this point that our stupefied trance was broken and I pounced on the fish before it flipped back in. The excited Stanley nearly knocked me flat in an effort to hold his fish and, once I handed it to him, he clutched it in his hands like it was The Holy Grail. His eyes were bulging and his breathing was loud and erratic. As if in slow motion, he straightened himself up and turned, wide eyed, to show his catch to the others. It was a beautiful trout. It weighed about two pounds and looked clean and healthy, like it belonged on the cover of a fly-fishing magazine. It was one of the most beautiful rainbow trout I had ever seen. We all looked at that lovely fish in pure disbelief, not one person making a sound. We looked at each other, as we stood there open mouthed, then back at Stanley. And there he stood, our short, round, elf. Eyes bulging, lips parted, fish clutched tightly in his gnarled old hands, white hair sticking out in all directions, his rainbow suspenders holding up his faded jeans tucked inside his rubber boots, and looking very much like he was in shock. We all erupted in simultaneous cheer.
Stanley, finally, caught a fish!
Now this story is true to a word, you can’t make this stuff up. So unbelievable was the event of Stanley’s miracle fish that the guys and I decided to mark the occasion with a special memento for our famous fisherman, which nearly led to his death.
But… that’s for another rainy day

Love it. More please.

Cheers,

OldTimer

Glad you liked it. I'll happily send more but I'll let you stew for a bit and see if others are in favour!

Curious as to how many reads it actually gets.

Cheers,
Gavin

(11-01-2017 06:11 AM)OldTimer Wrote: [ -> ]Love it. More please.

Cheers,

OldTimer

This is for Old Timer, since he asked so nice.

Enjoy

Stanley 2 – condensed
By Gavin Houston

It was a spectacular day, perfect for the last fish fry of the year. It was the beginning of fall and the leaves were starting to turn, the air was warm, not hot, the bugs were knocked back, and the air was still. The sun was shining and the sky was bright blue with a few fluffy clouds looking more like an artist’s rendition than something natural. In other words, it was picture perfect.
I had arrived at the harbour early with the intent of checking on the smoker Ted and I had fired up the evening before. Inside the converted fridge was three racks of marinated trout, salmon and silver bass, the latter being something I had never tried before. I caught a whiff of smoke in the air as I walked down the lane and my stomach growled in anticipation, that and the fact that I had skipped breakfast knowing that a veritable feast was at hand. Though tempted, I didn’t open the door of the fridge so as to not let the heat escape, but pulled out the little steel box that was underneath that contained the smouldering sawdust and wood chips that provided the smoke for the curing fish. I added some hickory chips to the box and slid it back underneath the fridge. Soon, I knew smoke was rising through the hole in the bottom of the fridge and curing the fish, as some of the fragrant cloud seeped out of the seams at the top of the door. The fish would remain in the smoky interior for a few more hours, until the rest of the food was ready, as to sample freshly smoked fish, still warm from the process, is truly a gastronomic delight. I had just completed my task when Ted pulled up in his truck, a folded wooden table sticking out the back of the box with some folded chairs stacked on top. As Ted opened up the bait shop and put on coffee, I took out the chairs and set up the table that would hold the food. By this time, Ted emerged and together we moved three heavy picnic tables and arranged them end to end. This was where the guests would sit with heaped plates containing smoked fish, fried fish, canned fish, and homemade bread, beets and pickles. The fish-fries were wonderful events enjoyed by all. The good company, friendly conversation and ample, hearty food always made for a memorable occasion. On this particular day, the event was set to be a little extra memorable. Today was the day we would give Stanley his gift.

Stanley was our resident elf – a short, roly-poly garden gnome who exuded good humor and an overabundance of character. He was an integral part of our fraternity of fishermen and outdoor enthusiasts, but he was a terrible fisherman. Many was the day that I would find him fishing with an unconventional lure, completely wrong for the species he was after, while others fishing nearby would be having success with a standard presentation. One of his favorite tricks was to put a worm, minnow, colored mini-marshmallow and kernel of corn on a single hook, “…how can they resist a gourmet meal!” he would quip. But one day Stanley caught a beautiful rainbow trout, under the most extreme of conditions, and stunned us all. It was the height of summer, the water was as warm as pea soup and nearly the same color. Stanley hadn’t intended on actually fishing but was in the process of demonstrating a “new” lure he had discovered, a yellow Mister Twister. He had dangled his lure a few inches below the surface to show us the lures action when the defective trout shot out of the gloom and detonated on Stanley’s jig. With a surprised jerk the poor fish was sent sailing through the air to land on the grass behind us and, to the best of my knowledge, became the one and only fish Stanley had ever caught, other than a few tiny perch. From that day forward Stanley could not resist the telling and re-telling of the story of his magnificent trout. A perfect stranger could be walking by and he would pipe up “Excuse me, but have you heard about the beautiful trout I landed?” Stanley would ask. The stranger would look at him with an appraising eye, especially if he had his bait visible, forevermore a yellow Mister Twister with a worm, minnow, colored mini-marshmallow, and a piece of corn. We had all heard the story many times over and we never tired of it. So comical and animated was he in the telling, with a few additions and modifications each time, it was like we hadn’t been witness to the same event. But of course we had and it was because of this that we decided to give Stanley a memento, a trophy, to commemorate the special event.
By lunch time most of the regulars had arrived and the tables were covered in an assortment of food stuffs while Ted and his wife, Ma, cooked the fried fish over a pair of Coleman stoves. The smoked fish was arranged on a large platter and covered with foil but not before I had sampled the smoked silver bass. It was tasty, but oily, not what I had been expecting, but there was enough fish and food for the most discriminate of guests, something I was not. Soon there wasn’t a seat left as we all heaped our plates with food and filled our glasses from the pitchers of Cool-Aide and water. At the end of one table was a chair reserved for Stanley, and a wrapped package on the table was his gift to commemorate his amazing fish. But Stanley wasn’t there. We all ate and talked but glanced nervously down the lane in hopes of catching a glimpse of his old, red car. It may have just been me, but overall, it seemed the party was a little subdued as the anticipation of Stanley’s presence distracted everyone’s thoughts. Then, just as things were winding down and I had started to clear plates, there was a sudden silence as everyone cocked an ear. It was the rumble of his ancient Duster we could hear as it crested the hill a quarter mile away. Stanley had arrived. As the majority had finished eating, even more attention than usual was bestowed upon our special guest and he was taken aback at first, but pleased with all the fuss. He plopped into his chair and accepted a drink and small plate of fish and relished the attention. It was a few minutes before he noticed the package and seemed truly surprised by the fact that it was for him. With effort, he pulled himself up from his chair and turned to the group that had crowded around him. His reaction was rather odd, a surprise to me, as he seemed on the verge of tears. With the unopened package clutched in his left hand, he shook the rest of our hands with his right, his usual strong voice with its crisp English accent sounding rather shaky:
“Thank ya, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m not really deserving of this ya know.”
“You’re a good friend to be thinking of me.”
“Never been treated like this before.”
“I feel like a king.”
He had a humble comment for each of us as he shook our hands one by one.
Once he had thanked everyone in turn, we expected him to open the gift as we watched in anticipation, but he didn’t. With a tear hanging from each of his apple cheeks, our emotional elf shuffled off to the safety of an old elm tree where the trunk afforded him a little privacy from our watchful eyes. We stood on the lane, a knotted group of his friends, and watched his back as he began to open the package, but instead of the reaction we were expecting, he suddenly bent over and clutched at the bark of the tree with his left hand, the package tumbling to the ground. Stanley was in distress. As a group we rushed forward and I had to kneel down to look into his face. He was almost purple, with tears streaming down his face. His mouth was wide open. He wasn’t breathing.
He was bent almost perpendicular to the ground and I reached out and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and said “Stanley, are you ok?” His red, watering eyes glanced sideways and locked on my anxious face. Then his eyes relaxed and I saw something strange. Humor. At that moment he inhaled with a mighty gasp and erupted in a barking, strangled laugh, the likes of which I had never heard before. He stood in that position for quite a while, the tears streaming as he struggled for breath, clutching the tree for support. The rest of us stood transfixed. After a few minutes poor Stanley straightened up and we helped the exhausted elf back to his chair of honor. Doug picked up the present, that he himself had made, and set it on the table in front of him. Stanley erupted in laughter again, only a more reasonable laugh, and the rest of us, recovering from our shock, laughed along with him. After a few more minutes, calm was restored and Stanley uttered his first words:
“You bloody Buggers” was all he said. And we all burst out laughing again.
What was it you ask? Well it was the perfect gift for our special friend- our faithful companion who endured many a taunt at his less-than-stellar fishing techniques but who shamed us all with his one, miracle trout.
It was a toilet seat and lid that had been sawn neatly in two so that the hinge was at the top. On the lid, Doug’s wife had meticulously hand painted a fish and in beautiful scrolled letters - To Stanley and when you lifted the lid, along the curve of the seat it said - The half -assed fisherman.