Sausage Men
Bruce Tilbrook
Copyright 2012 by Bruce Tilbrook
Published at Smashwords.com
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Illustrations copyright of Colleen McGinnis and book cover design copyright of Leon Strembitsky of Wetaskiwin, Alberta.
PREFACE
I began writing this book many years ago. In fact to me, it would seem like it all began with the first chapter. When I was that tender age I referred to in the first chapter I certainly wasn’t thinking of writing anything. Indeed, the records of my schooling would show evidence of this. I remember the most common thing ever written on my report card was “capable of doing better”. Of course my Dad would always see this and his good mood at the supper table would rapidly change for the worse. I cursed those teachers for that comment. In those days, whiteout was not yet invented. To say the least, I was just an average student. However, I did like to read, that I do remember.
The idea of composing this book began some 30 years ago. I often said to my wife, Pat, “Someday I would love to put my fishing experiences down on paper”. She said, “Why don’t you do it. Your stories are worth it—maybe we could make some extra money”.
Well, money was or is not the object of my writing a book, not for me anyways. I’m sure there are many writers out there who are quite poor. But I do thank the good Lord that my only livelihood was not writing. As this book was being put together, I was also in the process of retiring from my real job. Now I have to make some fun money, or do I? I think not. I wrote this mostly for enjoyment.
A friend of mine once said, “Why don’t you write a how-to where-to fishing book?” I thought there are way too many of those kinds of books already. No, I told him, this will be a book of stories, true stories. True stories? In general, the public always have the impression that anglers are liars or, at the very least, that they embellish just a little. Well, folks, I don’t lie. I don’t have to; this is because these stories are all true. Honestly, I wouldn’t lie about that.
The stories are comprised from many years of angling, mostly fly fishing. In the early days of my fly fishing, I would also bring along the spin rod just in case the wary trout didn’t succumb to the well intentioned fly. It was rarely used even when I didn’t manage to fool a trout on the fly. I guess I might have felt guilty if I had used it, I don’t know. But the stories I have put together here are all true…some funny, some not so funny. I have tried not to be technical as I normally leave that to technicians and the like. If the stories were technical, they wouldn’t be funny.
Sausage Men is meant to be light humoured…is there anything such as heavy humoured?
If there is, it isn’t in this book. Let’s go fishing…enjoy!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Without the undying support and patience of my wife, Pat, this collection of writings would not have been possible. She truly is my rock.
A further thanks of support is extended to my daughters, Shauna and Heather, and their husbands, Dean and Gord. As well, my mother-in-law has been a strong supporter, always lending a listening ear and a round of laughter when hearing my stories.
I extend many thanks to all my fishing buddies and acquaintances over the years. Without them, there would be fewer chapters and even fewer funny stories to tell.
A special thank you goes to my friends Colleen McGinnis and Leon Strembitsky; Colleen for her excellent illustrations, and Leon for the cover photograph. They are true professionals. Colleen and Leon own Caelin Artworks of Wetaskiwin, Alberta.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1 THE BEGINNING
Chapter 2 FLY FISHING ANYONE?
Chapter 3 TOOLS, PAINT AND OTHER THINGS
Chapter 4 BEER WADERS
Chapter 5 THE ATHABASCA RAINBOW, OTHER FISHES AND FRIENDS
Chapter 6 SAUSAGE MEN
Chapter 7 BELLY BOATS AND LAUGHS
Chapter 8 THE TROUT CREEK CAPER
Chapter 9 FISHIN’ BUDS
Chapter 10 PEANUT BUTTER AND SCOTCH
Chapter 11 FOOTBALL TROUT
Chapter 12 HIGHLY SELECTIVE BROWNS
Chapter 13 THE ART OF COW CALLING
Chapter 14 EVISCERATING A MOSQUITO
Chapter 15 A NATURAL WONDER
Chapter 16 FLY RODS
Chapter 17 MOUNTAIN HORSES
Chapter 18 SECRET SPOTS
Chapter 19 MEMORIES
Chapter 20 THE ART OF STUMBLING AND FALLING GRACEFULLY
Chapter 21 MY DAD AND I
Chapter 22 MIDGE FISHING
Chapter 23 READING WATER
Chapter 24 BUG TYING
THE BEGINNING
As the North Star taxied towards the terminal building, blowing snow completely engulfed the runway. It absolutely amazed me how the pilot got the aircraft this far---probably amazed my mother even more. It was mid December 1958 and my Dad and Mom and my two brothers and I had just arrived from Medicine Hat after a grueling trip across most of Canada. My Dad had accepted the manager’s job at the Gander Airport with Trans Canada Airlines. He left a similar position at Medicine Hat. This new job was a step up from the “Hat” in that it was a much larger station. We had left very early the same day from the “Hat”, traveled to Regina, changed aircraft and then to Winnipeg, changed aircraft again for Toronto, then the final legs took us through Moncton, Halifax, North Sydney, and Stephenville, with the final stop at Gander.
We started our descent from the plane onto the runway and then to the terminal building in this roaring blizzard. In those days load bridges had not been invented. We had to climb down portable stairs that were slid up to the aircraft; unfortunately these stairs were made of metal and extremely slippery. It was an eerie cold descent. I remember Mom’s first words as the cabin door opened for our exit, “Charles, what have you got us into?” He didn’t answer as he stared blankly into the blizzard.
As my Dad helped my Mom to the airport, my brothers and I just ran and slid our way there. It was going to be fun living here, I thought. I could see huge mounds of snow that had been plowed up by the airport’s snow clearing equipment. HUGE mounds! All I could think of were tunnels, tobogganing, and ‘mounds’ of fun. After a few moments waiting in the airport, our luggage arrived. There were a few other passengers in the terminal that had come off the same flight. My Mother looked at them with a look of pity. For some reason she had the impression that they were new to Gander as well, perhaps from overhearing some of their conversations. My Dad was talking to the former manager. They seemed to be in deep conversation about something. I think deep down inside my Mother was hoping they were discussing that this had all been a big mistake.
With suitcases in hand, we were hustled into a waiting car and were taken to the “hotel”. As we pulled up in front of the “hotel”, my Mother once again gasped. The “hotel” was four barrack-looking buildings from World War 11! On each building was its name: Neptune, Saturn, Mars and Jupiter. We were to stay in Jupiter. By now my Mom had really thought we had left this planet! To add to all this, it was the dead of winter with very little for heat in this so-called “hotel”. We spent Christmas in the Jupiter. Dad and Mom tried very hard to make it a happy Christmas; and, I believe to this day, that it was a happy one for my two brothers and me. Thus was my first look at the Province of Newfoundland, affectionately known as the “Rock”.
A week or so after Christmas, we moved into our new home on Alcock Crescent. That winter was more fun than anyone could imagine, especially for a boy. There was a great deal of time spent building snow forts and tunnels. The snow in the Maritimes was always great for building “things”. My brothers and I weren’t much into making snowmen, although this type of wet maritime snow would have been perfect for that. No, that winter we built a series of tunnels from one end of the yard to the other with a fort on each end. Of course, battles took place with various skirmishes in the middle. Soon we befriended neighbors’ kids and the battles grew larger. That was a winter to remember much like most of the winters in Gander. Gander winters were rarely cold with the temperature only occasionally dipping to –15c or –20c but most of the time it was pleasantly warm. I remember the worst we saw for snow amounts was the winter of ‘60/’61. The total accumulation of snow that winter was somewhere around 215 inches, yes INCHES! So, you can see why tunnelling was so important.
During this ’61 winter, I recall my Dad talking about all the snow one morning at the airport. I guess the story goes that he arrived there to find his employees and other airport staff with hand shovels digging towards the ramp equipment building in order to get the large truck snow blowers out to clear the ramp and runways. He actually took pictures of the event! Also in the picture, a large drift of snow covering most of the building was evident, and I mean most!
Another winter activity was road hockey. I don’t remember any of my friends playing actual ice hockey with skates but instead road hockey was the fare. I remember my Mom always had a very difficult time getting me into the house either before supper or after. I’m sure my schooling suffered for it. But soon spring arrived and my thoughts turned to other “things” such as fishing.
While I was in Gander, my fishing “career” began. It began with a spin rod and reel. It likely belonged to my Dad. I don’t recall the make but suffice to say it helped me lure many a brookie to the bank. There was a lake very close to Gander called Suley‘s Pond with a brook flowing out at one end. It was full of pan-sized brook trout. The ‘lunkers’ would have been 12 inches but they were few and far between. A couple of buddies and yours truly spent many happy hours there.
There were other ‘lakes’ that we travelled to in search of trout and fine picnics. One such lake that we frequented was called Square Pond. Well, it was ‘square’ but not a pond by any measure. I’ve always been curious as to why Newfoundlanders name huge lakes ponds. Don’t get me wrong, there are some very large ponds called lakes…now I’m confused.
When we lived in the “Hat”, Dad took many a trip up and down the South Saskatchewan River fishing and goose hunting. As a matter of fact, he and a few of his friends built many wooden riverboats for just such journeys. I don’t believe any of these boats were sold, but just simply used among friends. I know a couple were eventually donated to the Lions Club. None came east to Gander.
It wasn’t long after our arrival that Dad decided he needed another boat. However, this time he wouldn’t build. Instead, he purchased an 18-foot, v-stern, canvas Chestnut freighter canoe---certainly a marvel of technology but sometimes it was high maintenance. I don’t think he minded the maintenance though. I believe he thought it was all part of the rights of passage into fishing. For the most part, the fishing in that part of the world was fly fishing.
During the fifties and sixties, Gander was ‘the’ major stopover point for international flights. Almost every international carrier stopped at Gander for refueling. Many famous people stopped enroute to other destinations. Most of these people would just stay on the aircraft. A few would get off the aircraft and pay visits to the main terminal building. By 1959, the airport became known as Gander International Airport, which coincided with Queen Elizabeth 11 and Prince Phillip’s arrival for the grand opening. Shortly after their visit they traveled to Ontario and Quebec for the grand opening of the St. Lawrence Seaway with U.S. President Eisenhower. If one were to saunter into the terminal building back in those days, one would be viewing fine abstract art, murals, art, decor furniture, and advertisements for fishing and hunting in Newfoundland. If we had arrived at Gander the previous year, we would have arrived at an old terminal building near those old hotels previously mentioned. My mother likely would have insisted on returning to the “Hat”. I remember seeing it a couple of years later while bike riding and it was basically one large old hanger again from the Second World War era, not something to impress international travelers of the day, nor my Mom.
Bing Crosby, President Eisenhower, John Wayne, Glenn Ford and many others disembarked at Gander. They disembarked to fish and hunt. With an overall population of less than 400,000 people (I believe today the population is only ½ million), Newfoundland was very attractive to anyone who enjoyed the outdoors. In other words, Newfoundland was blessed with wildlife but not blessed with great hoards of people. I believe when we arrived in Gander, the limit for moose was two per hunter per season. I know at one time there wasn’t a limit on moose at all, nor did a resident need a license. Heck, when we arrived at our first house, I remember seeing a moose in the back yard. Our new neighbor even told Dad to go ahead and shoot it, as it would be quite all right to do so. Dad later found out that this very neighbor was always breaking laws somewhere.
But I think the bigger drawing card for the rich and famous was the Atlantic salmon fishing on the many rivers of Newfoundland. Of course, the draw to Gander was the immediate location of the Gander River, which happened to be less than an hour’s drive to the west. The Gander, as it was affectionately known, was a beautiful granite bottom gin clear river. Its source was Gander Lake just below the town. By the time it found it’s way to the Atlantic Ocean to the north, it managed a distance of approximately 50 kilometers. The only time it dirtied up was during an extra bad year of moisture. There wasn’t the problem of mountain runoff.
Dad made friends with many of the locals who hunted and fished. One such person managed a company called Allied Aviation. Allied Aviation had the contract in Gander to service the aircraft, fueling, etc. Allied had also, at some point in time previous to our arrival, built a lodge on the Gander River. This wonderful selection of buildings, known as the Honey Bucket and Rod Club, had a main lodge, cabins and trap shooting stations. It was located about half way up, or should I say, down the Gander. And, of course, most of the guests were people like John Wayne.
Each guest was given a guide and his Gander River boat. The Gander River Boat was invented by the fishing guides on the Gander. It was similar to my Dad’s freighter canoe only with a square stern and usually 2-4 feet longer. The guides knew where every rock in the river was located. They would motor up the Gander using either a 9.9 or 15 hp motor and they would do it with ease and speed. It was a rare occasion that they hit a rock. If they did they would say something along the lines of, “someone must have put it there ‘cause it wasn’t there yesterday”. The guides would be with the same guest for the duration of the guest’s stay.
Occasionally, Allied allowed other guests. Dad journeyed to the lodge a number of times while we lived in Gander. His hunting and fishing stories along with the photos are still imprinted in my mind. In those days, it wasn’t uncommon to land many a salmon over 10 pounds. I believe my Dad managed to fool his largest one with a scale tipped at 12 pounds. I know there were many salmon caught larger than that. Also in those days, the traditional salmon fly was used. That is, flies tied with jungle cock, pheasant, tinsel and yarn. Salmon patterns nowadays are mostly tied with synthetics and buck tail; a sad, but I suppose, logical trend due to the scarcity of materials. Fly tying was not my Dad’s strong point. He made a stab at it but he never really enjoyed it. Not that it mattered. So many famous local fly tiers surrounded him that his source for flies was endless.
His first fly rod was a Shakespeare “Wonder Rod” measuring 8½ feet in length. It threw a seven line (double tapered in those days) and had a very soft action, not unlike a bamboo fly rod. It was a unique white coloured rod with spiral fibreglass wraps. The choice of reel was a Pfhueger Medalist.
In 1965 my Dad ordered an Orvis split cane bamboo fly rod blank from the factory in Vermont, U.S. It was the same length and weight as the “Wonder Rod”. That same year he had also ordered a new car, an Olds F85 Cutlass from the GM plant in Oshawa, Ontario. He had decided to fly to Toronto, pick up the car and drive back through the northern United States to Vermont and pick up the blank, and, then drive home to Gander. When he asked me if I wanted to go with him, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I thought this was better than girls.
I don’t remember much about the portion of the trip to Oshawa. The latter half was the highlight. The time of year was late August and the weather the whole way back was beautiful. We passed so many fine looking trout streams that I vowed someday to return to fish a few. Our goal after Oshawa was Manchester, Vermont.
Manchester was a sleepy town of about 8000 souls at that time. The Orvis factory was, if I remember correctly, the oldest building in Manchester. In 1856, the Orvis Company was founded. They began building wooden (bamboo) fly rods and tying flies as a mail order business. So, as I stood there in this marvelous smelly old building watching a craftsman actually construct a split cane fly rod, I hoped someday to have a piece of history. I will again someday, visit Manchester. I understand the factory is now a museum.
When we arrived back home, Dad immediately began the task of building his new fly rod. Along with the blank, he had ordered all the components to finish the job. He didn’t have the use of a fancy rod-building jig, but instead he used a series of books. I think he was happy with the job he did. Many a salmon succumbed to the bend in that rod. Many years later, Dad and Mom made it back west and soon retired on the Sunshine Coast in B.C. I eventually would become the proud owner of that very rod. The “Wonder Rod” never came back west. Some fly fisher friend in Newfoundland became its lucky owner.
The years I would spend angling in Newfoundland were with the brook trout family. They, as most brook trout, were extremely accepting of me. I didn’t fly fish back then but instead used the well-known Mepps spinners. That Suley’s Pond that I previously mentioned was well fished by myself and other boys. I’m sure my schooling suffered for it.
There were many other sojourns into the heart of the “Rock”. Dad and his buddy would take myself and his buddy’s son along with them from time to time. The mode of transportation was an old Land Rover. In those days they hadn’t yet invented proper suspensions, and this, combined with the rock-hard rear seats, made for extremely interesting trips to the pond. We always hoped it wasn’t too far but it always seemed like an eternity. No doubt the fishing made up for it…then there was the ride out.
I can honestly say that the years in Gander were the best a kid could have had. Of course, not being able to compare it to anything else could have been a problem. But it wouldn’t matter anyway. I also can honestly say that the rest of my family enjoyed the friendliness of the folks on the “Rock”. Those were very good years to us. However, I’m sure my Mom didn’t miss the winters…too much snow.
My wife, Pat, and I managed a trip back to the “Rock” in 2001. And, yes, I did fish the Gander with my Dad’s fly rod. Unfortunately, I didn’t coax a salmon to the rod but I did fool a few others with another rod. A toast to my Dad and the Gander ensued.
I didn’t begin my fly fishing “career” in Newfoundland. I don’t think my Dad had the patience to teach me the casting and it does require a great deal of patience. I eventually learned my fly-casting from a book. But he did encourage me to get into the art and I did so---by then I was the ripe old age of 19 years. The only fishing I did in Newfoundland was with an old fiberglass spin rod, a handful of spinning lures, a bicycle, and an occasional trip in a Land Rover. Those were the good old days…the Beginning.
25 feet away from me, a rise form got quite large.
FLY FISHING…ANYONE?
It has been written many times that fly fishing is considered an art. It was called an “art” as far back as the publications of Dame Juliana Berners in the late 1400’s, through the times of Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton in the mid 1600’s, to the writings of today. These folks haled from England and much was written about the “art”, especially by Berners and Cotton. When the word “art” is applied to the sport of fly fishing, it usually refers to two aspects of it: the casting, and the type of lure used, in this case a fly. There are also many other parts of fly fishing that would be included in the “art”.
However, most anglers would consider the casting to be the most important part of it, and, perhaps, the most difficult or challenging. For me, fly casting was not all that difficult. The only teacher I had was a book. When I began this sport there weren’t many books written on the subject of fly fishing available in Canada, at least, none that I could find. As a matter of fact, there weren’t that many other fly anglers either. One was often alone. Myself and two other buddies sort of stumbled along together for the first couple of years. But we did manage to fool a trout or two.
During my first and second years of fly fishing, I had been fishing quite regularly in Jasper Park, Alberta. At that time Jasper Park was a haven for anglers. There were many lakes, most literally teaming with trout. Like a number of other similar locations in the Rockies, the trout farm in Jasper Park released a great deal of trout into local lakes. Most of these lakes were not able to reproduce on their own. So this was a fantastic situation for anglers. Alas, all good things did come to an end, for the trout rearing in Jasper ended in the early ‘80’s.
My trips to Jasper usually involved rather strenuous hiking sojourns. The lakes were anywhere from a one to ten kilometre hike away. There would sometimes be a great increase in elevations and numbers of switchbacks. It was often thought that fishing was always better the further away one got. There were, however, some trips that were quite close to civilization. There is one trip to Jasper that probably stands out amongst all others.
One day in July of 1973, another angling buddy and myself decided to fish in close proximity to the townsite. We had been driving around in my Beetle, checking out the lakes, when we came across Lake Beauvert, which borders on Jasper Park Lodge. Noticing trout rising, we immediately grinned. The Beetle ground to a halt rather abruptly.
Trout, from what I had read at the time, mostly swam in large circles in a lake situation while cruising for prey. These particular rise forms, however, appeared to be sort of helter-skelter. No matter though, these were trout surface feeding and we were going to fool a few. By the time we had suited up and threaded the rods, a sizeable crowd had gathered to watch. We were pretty well in full view of Jasper Park Lodge. I was imagining that some famous fly angler was watching us while he was eating his scones and sipping Single Malt. I thought, “This was going to be so simple”.
We decided to pick an area where we thought two pods of trout were feeding, so as not to crowd each other. Wading was simple, as the bottom was hard with a gradual slope. Our fly casting, at least in my estimation, looked great. These fish were surface feeding and we rarely touched any water before laying the flies ahead of them. The casting strokes that day looked textbook. The loops and the layouts of the fly lines were perfect. The leaders were nice and straight with the flies floating upright, just like the real thing. If I were a trout, there would have been no hesitation. But for some reason we were doing something wrong and we couldn’t figure out what it was. But, God, the casting was great!
After about 30 minutes of “chasing” them, we were beginning to get a little disappointed. I was quite sure we were using the correct fly imitation. Before we had started, we had studied the water and decided the main insect was a slate gray dun mayfly. We chose a good match of a number 12 Adams. We had thought about emergers but decided that the dry fly looked so much more impressive.
By the time my buddy had decided to call it quits, we had been flailing away for almost an hour. I had even changed my fly a number of times in desperation. The trout would not cooperate. More people began gathering on the roadside. However, I felt good about one thing, my casting was, in my opinion, exquisite. I was imagining how it looked a few hundred yards away in the lodge, probably impressing a few rich people. But no matter how beautiful the casting, the trout certainly did not care. Obviously the fly was incorrect.
After my buddy had quit and just as I was about to change my fly again, a rise form got very large. Then, not more than 25 feet away from me, a scuba diver poked his head up to check things out. I was in shock! He would have been the only person who could have seen my expression as I glanced around still searching for trout. At this time, I didn’t look at the crowd; I didn’t hear any laughing; actually, I didn’t hear, or didn’t want to hear or see anything behind me at that moment in time. It was as if time stood still. He had no sooner poked his head up than he disappeared again. I just casually kept casting and moving towards shore in the opposite direction of the crowd. I felt very alone at this time. The thought of turning and heading to shore where the crowd stood was out of the question. I desperately wanted to just bury myself in a hole but I had a problem with that, water……
By the time I made it back to the car, the crowd had pretty well dispersed. They had probably wondered how I was going to land the scuba diver if I’d managed to “fool” him. If I had, it might have been even more embarrassing for me. My buddy was in fits of laughter by now. He told me that he pretty well knew what was going on before he quit. He told me about all the compliments about our casting. How it looked like the “book”. How wonderful, I thought. Of course, I wanted to kill him. Fortunately, he didn’t bring his camera.
I decided it was time to head home. It was a long drive back to Edmonton and a quiet one at that. In the years to follow, I told a few angling buddies this story. Along with me, they all found it quite amusing to say the least. I think all of them would find it a difficult task to top this charade, not that they would want to. But wow, was the casting great that day, or what? I think Dad would have been truly impressed, with the casting that is.
TOOLS, PAINT AND OTHER THINGS
When I took up the sport of fly fishing, there were few sources for gear. In Edmonton the choices were basically The Hudson’s Bay, Woodward’s Stores, and maybe Simpson Sears. In these types of retail outlets, it was usually difficult to find help; when one did, they didn’t know much about the sport. I basically learned fly fishing from a book. Or, at the very least, I did what I could from the benefit of a book.
With fly fishing information the way it was, it was to one’s great advantage to find someone who was already a fly angler and try to glean every bit of info out of him. I say “him” as it was very rare to find a “her” who indulged in such a pass time. By 1970 I had already latched onto a fly angler who was about 20 odd years my senior. He had been fly fishing for about 15 years at that time. He was a great help to say the least. I’m sure, though, he thought I was somewhat of a dimwit but he was always patient and polite. One aspect of the “art” he encouraged me to pursue was fly tying.
He told me that if I tied my own flies it would only make the whole “affair” easier. Having this part of the sport under one’s belt, one would then figure out what the trout where feeding on, hence, “matching the hatch”, so to speak. “Besides,” he said, “you can save a lot of money over the years by tying your own flies”. What better satisfaction would there be in fooling a trout with something you made yourself? Well, I thought, at the very least I would PROBABLY save some money considering the number of flies I was losing to those pesky “tree trout”.
In the sixties and early seventies, one’s choices for purchasing flies were at those aforementioned retail outlets. One word defined the selection, HORRIBLE. Heck, they weren’t even tied in North America; no, they arrived on our shores from the Orient. They were so badly tied that after a few casts they would begin to fall apart. I am convinced the tiers didn’t use any type of glue or cement. To top it all off, very few of these patterns imitated any insect or bug where I fished. It used to make me wonder that possibly these were the rejects and not the proper patterns. I would learn later in life that these flies were always ordered by some buyer in eastern Canada who didn’t have a clue what fly fishing was all about, much less partake of the sport. His orders would form what was sent to all the outlets across Canada.