***Full story to be published in the upcoming issue of Fly Fusion magazine.
I have spent the entirety of my last four summers living in a small tin-roof cabin nestled comfortably in the grasps of overhanging cedars and burrowing mice… our camp is simple; we run it with love, integrity and appreciation.
For a full three months out of each of these years, I have awakened every day to the lapping of saltwater atop the uninhabited beach that sprawls tirelessly through the narrows of the Dean Channel (near Bella Coola).
Bears and wolves quietly roam the sandy shores and splashing salmon boil the bay into a churning frenzy as they defy natures’ normalcies and spawn within the saltwater.
The freshwater of the Dean River pours into this lively bay only a few minutes from my cabin and I marvel at the routine and beauty of it all.
But this year was different.
The same scenic bay lay still and devoid of life, a skinny mother grizzly taking notice as she walks alongside her three cubs looking for nourishment in the deserted estuary. The side channels of the river sat stagnant, their gravel untouched and spread evenly without so much as a hint of a mounded redd or circling pair of salmon.
The once disgraced odor of salmon carcasses became replaced by the smell of fresh air and the morbidly hushed river bank was surreal to all who had come accustomed to its thriving life.
There are four of us who guide on the lower stretch of the Dean River (two guides per two lodges). Sharing only five kilometers of river below the canyon, we see each other daily where we communicate and share reports.
Slow fishing brings fly-tying to the river. Ross Purnell photo.
Seven days a week, three months a year from sun up to sun down, each kilometre of the lower river has nearly one of us monitoring its productivity, inevitably allowing us to witness when the fish make their push.
As the fish poured in, the season progressed as usual and we settled in to the assumption that our fishery would peak productively. Then, as though a switch had been flicked, one day it simply just stopped.
The sea-run cutthroat still ran strong but the salmon and steelhead had gone missing. Like a giant wall had been placed in front of the river’s entrance, there was truly nothing making its way through the gates.
Slowly a trickle of steelhead and small salmon filtered through the river but the atrocity of torn skin and sliced fins that each of them endured immediately raised a flag for the anglers on the Dean River.
Catch numbers dropped to an astronomical low and the fish who were caught were clearly marred by net marks. Salmon spawning grounds sat unoccupied and continued to stay that way for the entirety of the season.
It didn’t take long for us to find the source of our problem.
Net closures and restrictions in other, larger fisheries had pushed an abundance of commercial netting to the delicate fishery in the Dean/Kimsquit region. The federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans allowed a concentration of more than 160 commercial chum fishing boats in the Dean Channel; arguably a fishery whose returns simply can’t support overfishing.
While it is mandated that non-target species such as steelhead are released alive, the open wounds on their mangled bodies made it clear that such practices might not be as conservation oriented as one would assume.
Guides, anglers and lodge owners cried bloody murder and put their foot down on an issue that they felt government had been pushing the limit on for far too long.
Unlike the vast systems of the Skeena and Fraser rivers, the Dean river fishery is one with few residents and relatively little public support. Dean river enthusiasts (myself included), felt it was time to draw attention to the issue.
By way of letters, emails, blogs, articles and social networking, the small community pulled together to make their presence known. Their ignored pleas by Department of Fisheries representative Dan Wagner only heightened the controversy…
More details on this in the next issue of Fly Fusion Magazine. Regular updates can be found here http://area8watch.wordpress.com/
Adrienne Comeau photo.
As August made its way out of the calendar, Stevie and I excitedly counted down the days for our week off where we traditionally fish, sleep and become reacquainted with fine Scotch until we feel we are back to ‘normal’ after the hectic 7 day a week season.
To celebrate, this year we were bringing in good friends Ryan Heitz and Adrienne Comeau to join us for our end of season wrap up.
Adrienne is one of those people who can make you giggle just by looking into her sparkling, mischievous baby blues.
One of my very best friends (and a super talented photographer), her and I have shared countless experiences together and I am very proud to have her in my life. Check out her talented photography and read about our friendship in her own words here.
Ryan is a man who I have known since my early days as a customer of the famous BC fly shop, Michael and Young’s. Even-keeled, talented on a long-belly line, and an all-in-all genuinely kind man, Ryan is the manager of the fly shop and the heart of the store.
Seeing the two of them step off the plane lit mine and Stevie’s faces while we proudly watched their eyes take in the majestic surroundings of the Dean.
The schedule for the week was one that must have been difficult for the two of them to stomach. You see, after almost 75 days of work without a day off or morning to sleep in, the last thing Stevie and I were looking to do was burn ourselves out any further.
A late night crab session…
Famous for catching a steelhead and then sleeping the afternoon away in the warm sand, for Stevie and I, our week off was about so much more than just catching fish; or so I had thought…
Colby has the right idea… and an empty bottle of wine too? Gosh, what a lush… 😉
Our first day out, a mere twenty casts in and I was fighting one of the largest fish I had seen all season… before my reel seized and the spring in my new Hardy disengaged. This was actually a great sign! There were fish around! It was going to be a productive week (or so I thought)…
Following the fish upriver, we grabbed a couple quads, transported our rafts above the canyon and spent the next six days tirelessly chasing fresh steelhead.
It was my fourth season of this routine and catching multiple fish in a day was not uncommon for us. This in mind, I kept my dry fly on, wasn’t overly concerned about going first through a pool, and certainly didn’t wake up at the crack of dawn to get outside.
What I didn’t know was that the slow fishing was not about to magically pick up.
Struggling through the week, there were moments of frustration and while fish around me were caught on sink tips and large profile flies, my silly stubbornness maintained a more traditional approach and I kept with it, throwing a mid-belly line, further embarrassing myself as I learned the intricacies of the Single Spey with my left hand up.
Rocking the new (and gorgeous) Farlex.
As Colby and I pulled our raft into a long run, I heard a friendly woman’s voice call out “Is that Colby!?”
Smiling back, “Yup!”… I hoped she couldn’t hear the disappointment in my voice as I came to the realization that I officially had witnesses to the retardation of my left hand in the top position. How embarrassing…
Sticking with it, my patience eventually evaporated and a small boil of red anger started to churn in the pit of my belly. I couldn’t catch a fish for the life of me, God knows my casting was killing both my shoulder & pride in one swift blow, and I was having an increasingly difficult time smiling for anyone who caught a fish in a run that I had skipped over.
There were coho everywhere… but it was a steelhead that I was after.
It hit me in the face as I felt my positive energy dissipate… I was being “that guy”. No wonder I couldn’t hook a fish. Everyone in the guiding world knows that the angler whose negativity gets in the way is prone to getting a much deserved kick in the ass by Mother Nature herself.
By day five of the trip, I had accepted that my beating by her was somewhat deserved… placing both of my hands on the rocks, I grounded myself again with my surroundings.
I was rewarded by a vicious take and lengthy battle. As the silver fish rolled and thrashed through the pouring rain and dimming light, I caught a glimpse at it’s kyped mouth and recognized the characteristics of a huge coho.
I smiled, was this my test? This was the fight I had been after, only without the result I had been expecting. I chose to take it as a gift (regardless of the species) and reeled in my fish, releasing it and retiring for the evening with a smile and uplifted spirits.
Fishing this year was tough for everyone.
The fish were there but unfortunately couldn’t make their way to us. That red boil in the pit of my stomach was not an unfamiliar feeling to many anglers on the Dean and while I am thankful that I was able to dispose of it before the final day of my trip, there is one thing you can be damned sure of… I won’t be forgetting that feeling anytime soon… I’ll be giving it the reins next year when we saddle up to take this fight into the ring.
Thank you for reading! ~AV.
