Sitting at a desk in my Australian classroom, as a pre-teen, I was mesmerized when a favourite teacher gave this description. “You can walk across the Fraser River on the backs of the salmon when they come up to spawn,” he stated. “At least you could at one point in time.”
When I eventually saw the Fraser some 15 years later, I was blown away – by its small size! The Brisbane River is wider by far; I had expected to be barely able to see the other side of this famous waterway. Australian rivers tend to be more like the ones in the Maritimes – tumbling at first, then flowing for longer distances, gradually widening (more than the Fraser does) through flatter lands until the ocean is reached. I didn’t realize the length of B.C.’s rivers until I’d been able to explore. And there is no ignoring the importance, the significance, of the waterways in this huge country, the original transportation system for both First Nations and Europeans.
First Nations men fished in their traditional way in the Fraser River near our first home in the Cariboo. On a trip to Prince Rupert, we watched them precariously balancing above cavernous rocks near Hazelton and dipping their nets to capture a beauty out of the Nechako River. While I had never expected to ever see these huge salmon, I was disappointed not to be able to cross either river on their backs! The spawning channels of Meadow Creek, north of Kaslo, run red with Kokanee in the fall – but these small fish would never support me! Further north at Gerrard, where the Lardeau River drains Trout Lake, Mothers’ Day is the time to stand on the bridge and watch the largest rainbow trout in the world spawning. “Closed to Fishing!” Not so in Kootenay Lake where John was out in our canoe one summer. Using six lb. test line, he snagged a big one. By letting it drag him around and around, it eventually wore itself out and, about 45 minutes later, he landed a rainbow trout weighing in at just over 26 pounds.
It’s catch and release only in the Clearwater River where Bailey’s Chute pulls tourists and locals off the road to view the futile attempts of the salmon to go further upstream. At Mahood River now that it is fall, spawning will be in progress, easily visible from the campsite where the Mahood joins the Clearwater River. Those big fish, nearing the end of their life cycle, dart along just above the river’s gravel and rocks, occasionally splashing through the surface. At the end of May the water is so deep and flowing so fast, it’s hard to believe you’re in the same place. That spring run-off changes the topography, creating temporary islands, short-term ponds complete with ducks and geese, with the wider rivers seeking places to carve a new route.
In England, I watched fishermen clad in hip waders, standing in the classic fly-fishing pose, cast out into their stream. I was visiting an abbey nearby, so sadly destroyed at the orders of Henry VII. Having no hip waders, I could walk across the river on a bridge – or on stepping-stones. The water, not all that deep, was flowing fairly quickly. A tumble into it would soon dampen one’s spirits – and minor injuries were possible, but I was young and adventurous. What I wasn’t prepared for was the effect of proceeding at right angles to the flow so close to my feet. Feeling disoriented as I walked forwards, and pausing several times to get my bearings, I almost ran across the flat surfaces of the last few rocks to avoid falling in!
