Part 2 – Carping Capers in Canada
At the beginning of June this year we boarded a plane bound for Canada – well let’s get this right, we eventually boarded a plane bound for Canada. The holiday got off to a great start; a 6 hour delay at Manchester Airport. Sitting around waiting for the flight, lying on a sticky airport carpet listening to Nozza blowing off on the half hour as last night’s curry sought revenge. The wait punctuated by only the sporadic ramblings of five desperate anglers hankering after a life less dull. We saw Peter Stringfellow you know. Oh yes, he was there with his lovely girlfriend. Now what was her name? I forget. It’s funny, they say television ages you, he must have been on TV a lot then our Pete. 
Against all the odds we arrived at Toronto International Airport, mind you it took the pilot two attempts to get down. I think the first go was a practice run, you know, just to get his eye in. It went something like ‘We’re coming into land, yes I can see the airport.’ The engine slows to a purr, we drop gently down – whoops! Engine revs up again, let’s have another go. ‘Sorry about that chaps.’ I swear, when I got off the plane, I kissed the ground.
We arrived at the chalet about 7pm Canadian time, having first stopped of at the local LCBO for a couple of bottles of jollop, well we were all a bit thirsty after all that travelling! Permits bought, we resolved to start fishing at first light the following day.
Well, as sure as night follows day, day followed night and Sunday morning saw us setting up in our first swim on the Otanabee river, and this is where the problems began. Normally the river is a slow flowing, gentle giant only too eager to share it’s Cyprinid bounty with anglers. However, would you believe it, during our week the thing was a raging torrent. In fact one of the locals later told us the it was the highest and fastest the river had been for 50 years!
Not that any of this fazed the chaps, oh no, they were most unconcerned. As I looked on I knew that we would need to find areas of slack water, but that was about my limit. But Gary and the others knew exactly what they were looking for, barbel swims.
‘What you need to do Mike,’ said Gary, ‘is fish the crease.’
What was that he said? The crease? Are my pants split or something? Quick check, no, everything’s okay. 
‘The crease?’ Asks I.
‘Yes mate, the crease. You see where the fast water meets the slow water?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, d’you see the line just on the join? That’s the crease. Top Barbel swim that mate.’ He said, sage-like.
So we fished the crease, and blow me down if we didn’t catch! The fishing was slow and there’s no doubt that the conditions affected the fishing potential, but we all caught consistently. After talking to a few other English lads staying in nearby Peterborough, we found out that everyone was struggling that week and it appeared that, out of all of the groups fishing the area, we were probably having the best catches.
And that’s pretty much the way that the week went. Find a swim with a bit of slack water, fish the crease and catch. Between the five of us we had split up into two groups as some of the fishable swims were only small, but we all caught wherever we fished.
As the week passed by I gradually realized just how much fishing with these lads was teaching me. I’m sure that they picked up the odd tip from me, but the flow of information was more toward me than from me, and this is how the enjoyment began to seep back into my fishing. I was learning again, learning how to fish. We were fishing rivers, something I’m not used to and I was having to learn how to locate my quarry in a fast moving torrent of water and I loved every minute of it.
But there was more to it than just the fishing, there was the watching. Now, all anglers are lovers of nature, it goes with the territory, but the conditions on the river allowed us to witness sights that I’m sure none of us will ever forget, or see again. For instance, fishing off the edge of a lock into slack water adjacent a weir into a shoal of 20 Carp, none of them smaller than 15lb. The water was crystal clear and you could see every movement of the fish, I lay over the edge of the jetty, flat on my belly, and just watched the fish cruising around. They were not interested in feeding, the groundbait scattered around was quite simply ignored, but I was content just to lie there, watching nature and the beauty of these majestic creatures going about their business.
Or imagine margin fishing, again in gin-clear water. You can see your bait, popped up, just next to a pebble. You scatter some loose feed in and retire into the sanctuary of a nearby bush to watch and wait. Along comes Mr Carp and his friend, both easily 20 lbs each, they can smell the feed, you can see it, they stop cruising and start extending their mouths, tilting slowly down at the same time. The temptation to feed is just too much, one of them moves on to a small pile of loose feed and gobbles it down. The second joins in and they move slowly around, gently hoovering up pile after pile of little yellow corn grains as they go. And then, it’s your turn, one of them moves over your hookbait. He’s not seen the line and he’s had enough free offerings now to be confident enough to take it. The mouth protrudes, body tilts down, yes he’s definitely going to take this. He moves forward, onto the bait, down, lower, lower, lo-w-e-r until……. 
Wallop! A rampaging shoal of 15-pounders drive at breakneck pace through the swim and physically knock Mr Carp out of the way. No ‘excuse me sir’ or ‘mind the doors please’. Oh no, straight through if you don’t mind and damn the consequences. Normally I would have been uptight, a big fish so close to being hooked, everything working as it should, but I didn’t care. It was funny, the comical way that the feeding fish was barged out of the swim, he went flying, the poor sod.
As the week passed by, and we caught more fish, I gradually began to loosen up bit. As Gary said ‘You know, I’ve never seen anyone look so worried when they’re playing a fish. You’re allowed to smile you know,’ And it was true, I was petrified of losing anything that I hooked. I started to realize that I had never really experienced the enjoyment of landing a fish, it was more like feeling the fear of losing it. But, by Tuesday I’d started to smile a bit more, I was actually enjoying this again, I mean really enjoying it. The thrill of playing the fish, feeling the ping of the line across it’s dorsal, giving way to a surging run as it powers into the current of the river – fantastic, simply fantastic.
By Wednesday, we had imbibed sufficient quantities of local hospitality to necessitate a morning fishing on the lake adjacent the Chalet. So three of us baited up and fished until lunchtime without so much as a sniff of a bite. We had been chatting to a couple of lads in the next chalet, comparing notes as it were. On our way out to the river each day we had noticed a stretch of water at the rear of some houses, but had never explored it, always resolving to do it the following day.
It turned out that the water was actually the point at which the river joined Lake Katchawanooka where, incidentally, we had fished that very morning. Apparently one or two fish had been caught from the area during the week, so we thought ‘Let’s give it go. In for a penny, in for a pound’ and so forth.
Next…….. Part 3 – More Canadian carp and a realisation dawns.
