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Fly Fishing in the Yukon
story by Jennifer McMahon
The sudden tug at the end of my line
comes as a surprise. But it's the electric-like shock to my forearm,
as the wildly spinning reel whacks my thumb, that jolts me from my
casting stupor. A novice fly fisher, I'm so deep into the Zen of
sending a perfect cast arcing overhead that I forget there's a hook
attached.
I'm standing up to my
neoprene-protected thighs in the frigid gin-clear waters of Tincup
Lake, 260 kilometres northwest of Whitehorse in the Yukon. It's the
second morning of a five-day female fly fishing retreat at Tincup
Wilderness Lodge, a fly-in resort so remote even Yukoners scratch
their heads when asked its whereabouts. The lodge sits alone in a
wild-grass-and-flower meadow on the lip of Tincup Lake - a fishing
pond 15 km long, 180 metres deep and teeming with fish (Arctic char,
trout, Arctic grayling, northern pike and whitefish). The only
neighbours are the four-legged kind: moose, beaver, lynx, bear,
wolf, cougar, mountain sheep, red fox, elk and wolverine.
My fellow fishers-in-arms are the
energetic and vivacious José Janssen, co-owner of the lodge and
former owner of Whitehorse's not-to-be-missed Chocolate Claim Cafe;
photographer and sauna enthusiast Danielle Hayes;
looks-like-a-million-in-her-waders Susan Carda, the new owner of the
Chocolate Claim; and the Netherlands' modest ace fly fisher Ina van
Klinken, a lab technician and partner to world-renowned fly fisher
Hans van Klinken.
Susan, Danielle and I are the
beginners of the bunch, a fact made abundantly obvious from our
first feeble attempts at casting. For the second morning running,
Larry Nagy, the lodge's other co-owner and Helio Courier float plane
pilot, patiently demonstrates how to let out our lines, draw the
rods back over our shoulders to two o'clock, then trigger forward to
eleven o'clock, sending the floating lines swirling over the water.
Eleven o'clock, two o'clock. Eleven o'clock, two o'clock. Unfurl the
line out behind and, with a quick flick of the forearm, shoot the
line forward. Unfurl, flick. Unfurl, flick. There are no flying fish
in the Yukon, quips Larry, "so it's important to let the line
actually land on the water." Despite a shaky start, Susan quickly
proves she's a natural: her line arcs gracefully overhead and, as
she lets it fly forward, lands a good six metres out onto the water.
She even manages to look sexy doing it. We, on the other hand, in
our lumpy, borrowed, oversized gear, are the riverside Michelin men.
After my first misguided cast, Larry
diplomatically removes the hook from the end of my line. This comes
as a relief not only to those ducking madly around me, but to
myself. Not having to worry about haphazardly harpooning someone
with a flying hook, I happily spend the next hour and a half
unfurling and flicking the line above my head and onto the water
until my shoulder tells me to stop. But the hours of practice pay
off. By the end of the day, we're all experiencing the thrill of
catching a live one. A sharp tug, a short fight and we're reeling in
beautiful two- to four-pound trout and grayling. Even I manage to
snag one when Larry reinstates my hook privileges, after an hour
going without. All of us are happy to be fishing with barbless
hooks, in keeping with the lodge's catch-and-release policy (which
does, however, allow fishers to keep a fish or two for eating or
smoking). Not only do they reduce damage to the fish, the hooks are
easy to remove; the fish generally fall off on their own and make
bullet-quick darts back to the depths of the lake.
The beauty of fly fishing, I
discover, is its utter simplicity. There are no weights and no big
metal lures to hurl into the water. Gear can be as straightforward
as a rod, reel, line and a few flies tucked into a piece of
lambswool pinned to a jacket. It's a solitary, peaceful pleasure
(one so quiet that, one afternoon, a moose comes within three metres
of Ina to feed on the underwater grasses; only the sound of dripping
gives him away). There's also a rhythmic cadence to the cast that's
hypnotic; each evening after dinner at least one enthusiast takes up
a rod to cast in solitude as the gentle Yukon sunlight settles
softly on the water.
Of course, our fly fishing experience
is all the more appealing given that the lodge's ample comforts are
close at hand. For five straight days we gorge on José's down-home
cooking: risotto, paella, freshly smoked trout, pavlova, tarts and
squares crammed with sweet fat dates - all of which severely reduces
our chances of ever fitting into our waders again. Tincup's duplexed
log cabins, complete with covered verandas, are rustic but cosy. A
wood-burning stove, guest slippers, plush robes and thick comforters
take the chill off the cool summer nights.
At the end of each day, we retreat to
either the hot tub on the deck of the main lodge or the wood-fired
sauna, then leap like lunatics into the lake for a riveting cold
splash. The perpetually light northern summer sky belies the time -
the wee hours of the morning. And as the beer and wine flow, so does
the talk, which switches from the hilarious (sex, men,
relationships) to the serious (cancer, divorce, family and work
issues). Five women in a tub - women enjoying each other's company
and tall tales of a sport that, until recently, was primarily a male
stronghold. Five years ago, for example, only one per cent of Dave
Steele's North Vancouver Highwater Tackle shop customers were women.
Now, they make up five per cent. "Women come in on their own or with
their non-fishing boyfriends trailing behind," says Steele. "They
know what they're doing." Steele, who considers fly fishing "the
best form of mental health medicine you can get," thinks the sport
is enjoying a sudden upsurge in popularity - with both men and women
- because of its catch-and-release policies. "It's sort of an
'eco-neat' thing for city folk to do," he says, "even though rural
outdoorsmen have been doing it for years."
Kathy Ruddick, instructor and owner
of Ruddick's Fly Shop in Vancouver, says that while most men tend to
go out to catch fish, women are attracted by the tranquillity and
Zen-like qualities of the sport. "Women are there for the big
picture," she says. "Fly fishing has everything to do with rhythm
and patience, the very things that women are best at. So when
beginners catch a fish, it usually comes as a shock." And I would
know.
Although this is a women-only
retreat, there's still plenty of testosterone milling about the
lodge. There's Ron Chambers, Tincup's naturalist and guide; Ina's
husband, Hans van Klinken; Utah's Jiggin' Jack Beeler, the
denim-clad, cowboy-hatted expert fishing guide mapping the lake with
a depth sounder to suss out the deep holes fish love to hide in; and
Ed Davis, a Salt Spring Island pilot helping Larry with the Helio
float plane, who happily turns "cabana boy" by night, firing up the
sauna for all to enjoy. All of which adds a distinctly male flavour
to the humour over dinner. On our first night, while music from the
ABC travel series on fly fishing, A River Somewhere, plays in the
background, Jack asks, "Did ya catch any fish today?" "Well, no," I
reply. "I didn't exactly have a hook on the end of my line." "Oh?"
he grins, his eyes crinkling. "Guess that explains all the fish with
whiplash." Great guffaws all round. In between fishing, we hike up
steep shale- and brush-covered slopes for eye-popping views of the
lake and surrounding limestone peaks, and kayak the nooks and
crannies along the lakeshore. (There's so much wilderness there are
no names for the mountains or rough animal trails we follow through
the bush.) On our third day, Jiggin' Jack takes us fishing using
spin-cast rods and lures, and we manage to haul in a significant
number of trout and grayling without capsizing. Jack pulls in a pike
the size of my thigh, then gently releases it back into the water -
much to the chagrin of José, who is looking for tonight's dinner.
Five days pass far too quickly. I am
smitten with the unspoiled Yukon landscape and the easygoing,
friendly people who live here. As we fly above the St. Elias
Mountain Range on our way back to Whitehorse, Larry banks low over
the pocket-sized lakes where moose graze knee-deep in emerald
waters. Occasional ripples on the surface of the otherwise
mirror-flat lakes belie fish rising to feed. They may not be hooked
this time, but I am, barbed hook and all.
Yukon Fast Facts
It's estimated that only 26 per cent of the planet can still be
classified as wilderness; 80 per cent of the Yukon qualifies.
Yukon population: 33,000 (of which a
whopping 70 per cent live in the capital, Whitehorse, along with a
corresponding number of schools, bars and churches). The remaining
residents are scattered like gold dust throughout the territory's
483,450 square kilometres.
Average temperature: 18°C to 25°C in
summer with 19 daylight hours; -6°C to -25°C in winter with five
daylight hours.
One Rod, One Reel and One Lure
Now that the clothing and fishing industries have finally clued in
to the fact that women are fast taking up the rod, designers are
coming out with clothes and gear that actually fit the female form.
Also, women intimidated by male guides can take advantage of the
increasing numbers of experienced female fishers working as guides
(check with local tackle shops for references).
Start-up:
You can get into fly fishing as deep as you want. But for starters,
$119 buys a decent rod, reel and line that will get you out on the
water. When ready to upgrade, expect to pay $450 to $600 for a
high-end rod; top-of-the-line cane models run as high as $3,000.
Vests range from $40 to $200. Vinyl waders go for about $100; the
warmer neoprenes (best for use in a float tube) will set you back
about $190. Also, the new equipment has made it easier for people
living in apartments to take up the sport - fly fishers no longer
need a humongous garage or locker to stash a boat and other
paraphernalia. They don't even need a boat. Easy-to-store float
tubes (think of a kid's round floating tube with a pair of waders
attached) tuck into a closet along with a rod and lures.
Top spots:
Red River, The Pas/Cranberry Portage area, Knife River, Lake of the
Prairies.
Tips:
Visit the Manitoba Fly Fisher Association's Web site at www.mffa.mb.ca
for information about local fishing spots and events.
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