A Backwoods Adventure

It was a return trip for John Douglas and his 15 year old son Jerry to an area that a year ago had provided them with an

exciting end to their summer. The two of them, with Jerry’s brother Kevin had rafted a stretch of the Kennewash River in

central Ontario with a guide from a local rafting company. During that trip their guide, Joe Bourne, had spoken in glowing

terms of the fabulous fishing to be had on the north fork of that river.

This year Kevin was not able to accompany them. His college football team had already started its practice sessions

and Kevin was determined to make the team in his freshman year. In his place Jerry invited a high school friend. Steve, also

15, had never done any camping but, like Jerry, was willing to try anything. They had two weeks before the new school year

began. John, a teacher-coach, had to return before that.

As a young child Jerry had been a victim of rheumatic fever. To compensate for the frailty caused by the disease Jerry

had, for the past six months, put himself through a rigorous body building program. Now, he was an inch taller and twenty

pounds heavier than a year ago. It was while he was in this program that he met Steve, a slender, almost skinny version of

himself. Steve was also taking the program to build up his body. The two had become close friends

On their previous year’s rafting trip they had stopped near the mouth of the North Fork for their first day’s lunch. It was at

that time that Joe described the fishing to them. He had told them it was a distance of about two miles by river to that point.

This year, instead of rafting, they were going to backpack to the North Fork.

Reaching there on foot they knew would take them considerably longer than the three hours it had taken them last year in

the raft. Their research, mot of it done by Jerry, had turned up no developed trails to follow. They would need to follow animal

trails, where they existed, and when there were none would have to bushwhack.

After two days of hard driving from their home in upper New York State they had arrived at the trailhead late at night. In

the morning they were up early, eager to start on the trail. John’s pack, loaded down as it was with the tent and most of the

other camp gear, and weighed more than fifty pounds. The boys’ packs, containing mostly food, each weighed about thirty-

five pounds. John also carried a machete in case they needed to hack their way through dense underbrush.

The first hour was relatively easy. As the trailhead was a frequent put-in point for raft trips on the Kennewash much of the

immediate area had been denuded by rafters in search of firewood. After that first hour all signs of trail disappeared and it

became necessary to work their way slowly through the thick brush in the general direction of the North Fork. All three were

soon sweating profusely.

When they stopped for a mid-morning rest John said, If we have to make a decision about which way to turn, we’ll always

veer to the right. That way we’ll parallel the main river to some extent and will come out eventually either at the main river or at

the North Fork. We’ll know which one it is by the size; besides, the main river will always be to our right and the North Fork

straight ahead or to the left.”

It was mid-afternoon before they heard the sound of rushing water. Fifteen minutes later they arrived at their destination.

“We’ll camp any place that looks good, said John.

Another half hour passed before they came to an area that suited their purpose. Until that time most of the forest close to

the river had been exceedingly brushy, with no place to set up camp. The area finally selected was flat and open with easy

access to the river. When they explored the river itself they were delighted with what they saw. At this point it varied in width

from 15 to 20 feet and was about knee deep. For several hundred yards in each direction there were no trees close to the

river’s edge. The river had one pocket after another formed by large boulders seemingly placed at random.

“Wow,” Jerry exclaimed. “This looks even better than the main river, and that was fantastic. Let’s go fishing, Dad.”

“First things first,” John replied. “We need to set up camp before anything else. Why don’t you two unpack everything

and find a tree to hang the food from. I’ll set up the tent and then build a fireplace while you gather wood.”

The next hour was spent with all three working feverishly to finish the chores. The tent was erected in a level area

between two trees, back a distance from the river. A fireplace was constructed between two small, flat rocks, wood was

gathered and the food placed in one of the packs and suspended from a tree branch a short distance away. Only then would

John consent to let the fishing begin.

“I’m going to use a spinning rod and fish with a lure,” John said as he reached for the rod of his choice. “I’ll start at camp

and fish downstream. You boys choose your weapons and fish upstream. Don’t keep any today.”

“I’m going to fly fish,’ said Jerry.

“I don’t know how to fly fish,” Steve said. “Can I use dynamite? I’ve heard that will catch fish.”

“We’ll save the dynamite to blow you two out of bed in the morning,” John retorted. “Why don’t you take a spinning rod

and after a while you and Jerry can switch. He’ll show you how to fly fish; he’s the expert in that department.”

After donning shorts and sneakers to wade in the boys wandered a short distance upstream to a long, tapering pool

where Jerry set up his fly rod and showed Steve how to set up and use a spinning rod. Soon both were casting to the pool,

Jerry with a fly, upstream and Steve working the lure downstream.

Steve proved to be as inept with the spinning rod as he claimed to be with a fly rod. Each cast went straight up in the air

or way off to one side. Jerry spent the first half hour giving Steve instructions and helping him correct his casting techniques.

Twice Steve got hung up in mid-stream and had to wade to retrieve the lure. After the first half hour he began to get the idea.

Jerry left him then and moved to another pool further upstream.

For the next half hour Jerry cast his fly to every likely looking stretch he found in the next hundred yards of the river. Not

one trout rose to his offering. In the meantime, he could hear Steve in the pool below him frequently yell that he had a fish on.

Each yell was soon followed by a moan when the trout threw the lure back in his face.

When Jerry’s bad luck continued he called Steve to come up and get a lesson in fly casting. Steve proved to be more

adept at this skill than at casting a lure. He soon had the basic rhythm down well enough so that Jerry told him to continue

practicing while he tried his luck with a lure.

To his chagrin Jerry had no better luck with a lure than he had been having with a fly. ‘I guess it isn’t my day,’ he thought

to himself. To Steve he called out, “I’m not having any luck; I think I’ll go see how Dad’s doing.”

“Okay,” Steve replied. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

When Jerry arrived at the pool where his dad was fishing he grumbled about his rotten luck.

“That’s fishing,” John philosophized. “Some days you can’t miss, other days you can’t spit in the ocean. Cheer up, you’ll

catch your quota.”

“I’m going back to camp and start supper. Maybe after we eat my luck will change.”

“Okay, I’ll be with you shortly. Better get Steve to go with you; we don’t want to leave him alone on his first wilderness

experience.”

“Okay Dad, I’ll go get him.”

Jerry found Steve grinning from ear to ear. “This is easy,” he remarked. “While you were gone I caught six big fish.” He

held out his hands about tow feet apart to show Jerry how big they were.

“Great, but I need your help getting supper together. We can fish some more later, before it gets dark.”

The evening fishing was a complete turnaround for Jerry. He again used his fly rod; Steve went back to the spinning rod.

John continued with the same spinning rod he had used earlier in the day on which he had caught four what he described as

lunkers.

They went upstream past the pool Jerry and Steve had last fished, to a pool at the head of which was a small cascade.

On almost every cast Jerry had a fish on. He landed eight in less than a half hour, all of them 12 to 16 inches in size. One

large fish leaped twice and on its second leap broke the four pound tippet Jerry was using.

“Wow, did you see that one?” He hollered at the others.

While Jerry was so happily engaged Steve managed to land two good-sized trout and John three, all 20 inches or larger.

By the time dusk approached they were all weary but contented fishermen.

After a quiet night they woke up to another beautiful, sunshiny day. John suggested they take a lunch in one of the packs

and see how the fishing was further upstream.

For the first half mile the going was fairly easy. Then they reached a section where brush grew to the river’s edge on both

sides. John called a halt and searched, without success, for a route around the brush on their side of the river. He then told

the boys to wait where they were while he crossed over and explored the other side, taking the pack with him. The water

here was over his knees and John soon found the wading more difficult than he had expected. Twice he slipped as rocks

beneath his feet rolled. Each time he managed to maintain his balance and finished the crossing without further mishap.

While he was gone the boys unlimbered their spinning rods and began fishing. Steve soon hooked a large fish which

took off downstream like the proverbial streak of lightning. In his attempts to keep up with the fish he tripped and stumbled

over rock after rock, falling several times. All to no avail, after five or six breathless minutes the line parted and the fish was

gone. Jerry watched the entire process, hooting and hollering each time Steve fell.

“Consider yourself baptized as a true fisherman,” Jerry quipped when Steve returned to where Jerry was waiting. “That

was quite and act, I don’t think I can match it.”

Steve responded with a grin, “Just you wait, your turn will come.”

In a few minutes John appeared across from them and called for them to join him. “There’s no trail over here either but

it’s a little easier going than on that side. There’s a good stretch about a half mile ahead I’d like to fish.”

Jerry started first, carrying a spinning rod and a fly rod. About half way across, with the water almost up to his thighs, he

slipped on a rock and fell. Not able to regain his balance he immediately found himself completely immersed. In doing so he

dropped the spinning rod into the river and had to duck under again to recover it.

Steve, who was following a few steps behind, decided it was his turn to taunt. “Are we supposed to dive in after the

fish?” he asked as Jerry came up sputtering.

“If you can’t catch them any other way I guess you have to,” John replied, straight-faced. Jerry had the last laugh. Steve,

on his very next step, lost his balance and fell in.

John led the way along a path he had partially created, to the section of river he had mentioned. To Jerry it was the most

beautiful sight he had ever seen. For almost a half mile the river flowed in an almost straight line, from a cascade at the

upper end and through one riffle after another. In each pool the sun reflected off the water, making each successive pool

more tantalizing than the one before it. Jerry was certain there were large trout in each pool, waiting to rise to his fly. Steve

was also mesmerized by the scene; his backwoods experience was so limited each new view was enthralling.

Jerry began casting to the first pool; Steve and John moved to a pool further upstream. In almost no time they all had fish

on and were fighting desperately for control as each fish had its own idea about where it wanted to go. By the time all three

had fished as far as the cascade each had caught more than ten trout, some 20 inches or longer. They had also kept enough

nine-inchers to cook for their evening meal. As it was by then almost four o’clock John suggested they return to camp.

The return to the crossing, and the crossing itself, were done without mishap. As they approached camp with Jerry in the

lead he held up his hand as a signal for them to stop and motioned for them not to move. “I heard a noise up ahead,” he

whispered. Then they all heard what sounded like a sawing sound coming from the camp area.

“Let’s move closer, slowly and quietly,” John replied. “It must be an animal of some kind. I’ve never heard that sound

before, though.”

A few minutes later John held up his hand and pointed. A large moose was standing close to their tent scratching its

back by rubbing it against the trunk of a tree. As he rubbed they heard the sawing sound.

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