Tide Lines: No Locals

I had a chance about a decade ago to go ocean fly fishing for pinks on the North Island. My wife’s high school friend promised to take me off the beaten path, where we wouldn’t be bothered. It was a large run year for pink salmon, and the rivers close to town got quite a lot of pressure. But this river takes some effort to get to, so it isn’t nearly as popular.

“There won’t be anybody there,” he confirmed. “Not even any locals.”

I won’t say the name of the river, but I can’t stop you from looking at a map. To get to the river mouth, we parked two miles north of the beach. Sitting in the parking lot, my host suggested we put on our waders for the walk. At certain tides, wading through the ocean was sometimes necessary to get around rocks and other obstacles. My waders were the old, neoprene type, not the newer dry-style waders. My mistake. I hadn’t walked 100 yards draped in black foam rubber in the blazing summer sun before the sweat pooled at my toes. Only another 3,400 yards to go.

At the river mouth, the only company was about a thousand jumping pinks boiling 20 yards out. Ignoring my wader sauna, I rigged up. My wife’s family gave me some advice the night before, and I had tied up the “red special”—a 3/0 hook with red wool. That’s it. And man, did that work. Waist-deep in the surf, casting wet lines into the crowd, almost every cast was a winner. My host was doing even better. Between us, we released more than 50 fish.

After about an hour and a half, with my arm ready to give out, I heard a noise behind me. Turning, I was almost face-to-face with the biggest black bear I’ve ever seen. Immediately, two problems became clear. First, he was only a few yards away, blocking the beach. And second, he was a bear!

“Holy crap,” I said.

My host turned. “Oh, he’s back.”

“What do you mean back?”

“Oh, he’s here at every high tide.”

“You said no locals!”

My host shrugged noncommittally and picked up some beach stones. Tossing the rocks at the giant’s feet, he shouted, “GO AWAY BEAR, GO AWAY BEAR,” and started purposely walking towards Evil Paddington and the only way back to the parking lot. I guess this is North Island for “Let me through,” because the bear simply turned and walked up the river mouth.

He promised no locals. He didn’t say anything about regulars.

 

Pete Bourgeois
islandtidesportfishing.ca
604-908-0753

 

 

 

 

 

 

This article appeared in Island Fisherman magazine, never miss another issue—Subscribe today!