The Doc Spratley and Kamloops Trout

Doc Spratley fly

 The other day I was thinking about a fly called the Doc Spratley. The fly is named after a dentist who happened to be in the shop when the fly was being tied for the first time by Dick Prankard, who originated the pattern around 1949 in Mt Vernon, Washington.



It is a deadly pattern I first used in Postill Lake, British Columbia for Kamloops trout.

Kamloops trout are rainbow trout. They are well adapted to the clear, rich waters of Canada's west. They eagerly take a fly, fight with lots of jumps, grow to an impressive size and are great table fare too.

If ever "Intelligent Design" advocates need an example to prove their point, the Kamloops Trout sure seems like it was custom built for the fly fisherman.

I was just beginning my fascination with fly-fishing in those days and we fished the lake by trolling a black Doc Spratley slowly around the edges. We regularly caught a bunch of fish.

My main fishing buddy in those days was Nick Palmaruk. Nick is a great guy with a wicked sense of humour. At the time, he was the chef at a downtown hotel in Kelowna. One of the traditions that evolved early in our fishing trips was that we would take fairly elaborate lunches.

I only mention this because when I was in my twenties I'd regularly fish all day on a can of Pepsi and a chocolate bar. I'd barely stop for a pee, let alone for lunch. It was a completely foreign concept to me.

 A typical day's outing would involve meeting in the pre-dawn, loading the lunch and gear then heading up into the foothills of the mountains in my old Nissan pick-up. The narrow logging road was an adventure in itself. Every blind curve, of which there were plenty, could reveal a fully loaded logging truck barreling down upon us.

As a chef, Nick when it was his turn to provide the lunch, would provide an incredible feast, foi gras stuffed cold pheasant breast with an aspic glaze sort of thing complete with a three-foot baguette and a very good bottle of wine. Of course I felt obliged, when it was my turn, to at least match his effort so I'd get extra crispy on the bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and never diet cola, only the real thing was good enough.

Postill Lake BC

I remember one particular day as we were trolling along with mixed success. I was holding the motor control arm with one hand, eating a drumstick with the other and watching my rod tip carefully as I listened to Nick expound on the importance of good food.

Apparently this particular bucket of chicken didn't exactly represent the state of the art of culinary expertise, at least as practiced in the better restaurants of the day. I calmly finished my drumstick and carefully brought his line in hand over hand across the transom, cautious not to alert him to anything unusual going on in the back of the boat. As his fly came into my hand I hooked the well-cleaned chicken bone onto it and then, just as carefully, let the line back out. When it reached the end I gave it one good tug.

"Hello", he hollered and started an epic battle to land what he expected to be another good trout. The fact that it wasn't jumping convinced him that it was in fact a big fish, bigger than any I'd caught that day anyway.

That’s when I learned an important lesson about delaying the bragging until you have the fish in your net. Nick hadn't learned it yet so he kept up a steady stream of chatter until it slowly dawned on him that this was too strange and one-sided a battle to be a fish.

He fell silent and continued to reel in line until he was holding his leader. Dangling below his hand was the beautiful Doc Spratley fly with a well-stripped chicken bone firmly attached.

He slowly turned and gave me a cold stare. "Damn" he said. "He got my bait."



image of fly from www.thechronicflyfisher.com/HOME.HTML

The serious business of salmon fishing

fishin'

Here is one more story from this year’s salmon season.

My fishing partner had just hooked and lost a big, big salmon. Out of courtesy, I had reeled in my line and cleared the water to give him room to play the fish before his line had gone slack.

Standing on the shore, I was well positioned to offer an observation on his technique, the size of the fish and more, even a bit of sympathy. He just shrugged, stepped back into the pool and after checking his fly and leader proceeded to hook another fish.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. He didn’t do much more than grunt to let me know he was hooked up again. With a very deliberate motion he made sure of the hook set. The first run was blistering. The salmon had him into his backing within seconds. Not too many seconds after that Brad was running down the shore trying to recover some line.

After four great jumps and as many runs the salmon was nearly into the next pool down stream, still putting up a good struggle. Brad was making his stand on the last gravel bar before deep water. I was a couple of hundred yards away and ambling in a slow walk towards him.

My pace was timed to put me there when he was ready to land the fish. A salmon has to be on my own line to make me run nowadays.

I was pretty close when the fish made a run directly towards Brad from about fifty feet out in the pool. He raised his rod smartly to pick up the slack and started reeling as fast as he could. I guess he somehow hit the spool release because the next thing I saw was his reel exploding. It just flew apart!

exploding reel

 His rod arm extended out far to left. His right hand flashed and grabbed the spool in mid-air. When I think of it now it was like watching a big league shortstop picking off a line drive. He somehow slammed it all back in place only to realize he had jammed the line between the spool and the frame when the fish, which had turned by this time, started to arc his rod again.

By now this was getting pretty exciting and I expressed my support and concern by laughing until the tears came.


As the fish tightened his tackle to the breaking point Brad grabbed the jammed line and by brute force alone managed to free it. The reel screamed as it released the tension. The salmon took off on another impressive run. But one more jump and some sulking were all that remained of the brawl.

Late Fall Nova Scotian Salmon

 I managed to tail the fish without too much trouble even though I was weak with laughter.

You know, my impression of Atlantic Salmon fishing when I was young was that it is a serious thing, one of the mysteries of grown men, practiced only by elite specialists who solemnly played out their dramas in the hallowed, pristine wilderness.

There may be places where this is true. This place on this day was certainly not one of them.