“That’s red spruce. Really rare.”
The Hawk points it out, just as the supple needles swipe my arm on the way back to the canoe. I was struck by his use of the word "rare." How rare, I wondered. Turns out, according to Google, it’s considered the rarest of the spruce trees in Ontario. Surely, though, it isn't as rare as the kind of fishing we were partaking in. Always in August, our annual trip into the park is something we look forward to. It’s the kind that escapes quicker than a trout tail on release. These are the days, I thought to myself, that are harder to fight than any hungry splake at 60 feet. Your soul wrestles with time, gripping each minute that passes by. It’s the delicate balance of being present while begging for the moments that flee, for one more chance at ‘em. Some say it’s what keeps you coming back. Regardless, the time spent in God’s creation with some of my favorite people, doing some fishing “the hard way,” is time well spent. It’s a quarter past 3, and the rain that’s falling is softer than velvet on a whitetail buck’s antlers for this time of year. I guessed much of the conversation back at camp would be centered around our timing or the weather; most definitely the drought we were having. Maybe it was the depth we were fishing or the spoons we selected. Whatever the reason, the fish weren’t biting. In fact, the day was winding down quicker than a nervous longbeard off the roost in early April, and we were midway through our annual trip into the park with nothing to show for it.
The feeling of fishing hungry was beginning to creep in. Not that feeling of desperation about having nothing extra packed for dinner… That would be ludicrous. After all, our crew would argue that one of the best parts of the day is the portage back to camp. You’re worn out, a little beat up, and thirsty, and whether you’ve landed your limit or not, the steaks, twice-baked potatoes, and cold beers that await you are more satisfying than most things in life. Almost…
The next morning, we made our way for the final portage into “the numbers” lake. It was the third period, and we needed to post something on the board. Each of us was so terrified of being skunked that, if necessary, we decided to abandon the trout mission and head to a lesser-known location to target bass. When all else fails, you can always catch some hungry smallies from a boat. With a combination of luck, perseverance, and stubbornness, we managed to finish strong, finally netting several splake. Good enough for the pan and the memories.
The drive home is quiet. Equal parts tired, with solemn reflection. No doubt, the moment we get home we’ll begin planning for next year; heck, we’ve already started on a couple of things that need to be “added” to the list. Just like the newest car or current politician, this is somehow better than the former. As for the fishing, it’ll remain the same. The same body(s) of water, the same species, the same techniques. The same way the old boys did it. Some things are worth keeping the same.
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