Texas Plastic Navy Invades Canada – Part I

Last year during the dog days of our Texas summer I headed north and found a brief respite from the heat in the mountains of southeast Oklahoma. This year I went a bit further north. North of Oklahoma, north of Kansas, hell... I went north of the border into Canada. If you're gonna get away from the coast for a bit, you may as well do it up right.

A few months back I wrote about having a crew down on the Texas coast for a photo shoot. A couple of those guys were from Canada and now they had invited us along on a kayak fishing photo shoot in that country to the north. Well I couldn't refuse that kind of offer. Plans were made, plane tickets were purchased, and the waiting began. The more I thought about this the more I wondered if I was really ready. The plan was to fish the Ottawa River before heading off to a secluded lake many miles north of civilization for the remainder of the week. For those of you who aren't aware, the Ottawa is a world renowned whitewater destination. I'm a flatlander who likes to paddle in the bays. The surf in Galveston is rough enough for me. Class IV whitewater is not in my paddling resume.

As the date approached I watched all the whitewater videos and talked to anyone I could about how to run the rough stuff. The only saving grace was the fact I had two previous world champion whitewater kayakers coming along on the trip. Ken Whiting and Brendan Mark are the kind of paddlers who can handle anything a river throws at them. These guys live right on the Ottawa and spend many hours playing on the river. On top of that my partner, Joel McBride, would be there. Joel lives in Colorado and has paddled whitewater for over twenty years. I couldn't be in any better hands. The only downside was the videographer and photographer who would be standing by to capture my every screw-up.

I arrived in Ottawa with more pounds of gear than you'd need for a month long expedition to the Arctic Circle. These guys are whitewater paddlers, not fisherman. As a result, I was placed in charge of bringing all of the fishing gear for three anglers. As I stood there in the baggage claim area I started getting a sinking feeling and my stomach began to churn. One by one my bags had popped out of the chute onto the conveyor belt. Everything had arrived–except for my rods!!! Here we were with three months of planning, many dollars spent, and no fishing rods other than the two fly rods I had brought as carry-on luggage. How do you lose an eight inch diameter, seven foot long tube containing a couple thousand dollars worth of rods? Several phone calls revealed that the rods were safe and sound in Philadelphia!

After much assurance that the rods would be delivered by the next morning, we left the airport headed for the tiny town of Beachburg, Ontario. We arrived in the dark and were shown to our cabin. Once our hosts had headed home, Joel and I walked outside and listened to the roar of the river rapids. Pretty cool. Joel has been on hundreds of rivers so I'm sure it wasn't any big deal to him, but for me it was quite intriguing. I went to sleep with the bedroom window open and a cool breeze blowing in. It was sort of like sleeping on the beach in the fall with a big surf crashing except there was no break between the waves, just a constant roar. I drifted off to sleep wondering what the river would be like.

The night was short and the alarm clock wasn't really needed. I was awake and staring at the clock well before the buzzer went off. Anyone who fishes new and unfamiliar waters understands the uncertainty and excitement that comes with the anticipation of exploring a new place. For me this was not only a new place, but a type of fishing that was totally foreign. A huge, deep, and fast moving river filled with smallmouth bass was something I'd only read about in magazines. When the guys arrived I was looking forward to seeing my rod tube riding in the bed of the truck with the kayaks. No such luck.

We strung up the fly rods and launched the kayaks from right behind the cabin. Within minutes we were out of sight of civilization. The Ottawa is a big river with beautiful rocky shorelines and towering trees growing right to the water's edge. Since this was a fishing trip, we decided to use sit-on-top kayaks the same as we do down here in Texas. I was in a T120, Brendan had the T140, and Joel drew the T160. On moving water a shorter kayak is definitely an advantage and I needed all the help I could get. Joel's sixteen footer would be a real challenge. The only special equipment added to the yaks were thigh straps. These padded straps are attached to pad eyes fore and aft of the cockpit along the sides. Thigh straps are often utilized in the surf and allow the paddler to use his legs to help control the movements of the kayak the same as the thigh braces of a sit-inside style kayak. The straps also help to keep you in the kayak when you inevitably push the limits of physics. I'm pretty sure I was brought along so that we could test those theories of kayak physics and learn at what point they will flip over. I was assured several times that the Tarpons would do just fine. The camera guys seemed to have a bit more sense. They were safely tucked into real whitewater boats.

The interesting thing about these whitewater guys is that they tend to name the big drops on the river. Iron Ring, S-Curve, Garberator–and my favorite–Bus Eater. Imagine what goes through your mind as you are being pulled by the river currents into a place called Bus Eater! How the hell did it get that name? Did it really chomp up a bus load of kids? Or was it that some guys were sitting on the river rocks and one said, "Dude, that thing could eat a bus." No matter, I was committed by this point and there was no turning back. I was going whitewater kayak fishing!

My first test was Iron Ring. We pulled over just upriver of the rapids and scrambled up onto the rocky shore to scout the run. It looked pretty straight forward. There was an hour glass of water pouring through a chute in the rocks and then dropping several feet into a churning cauldron of twisting currents. Sure thing, no problem. With the camera guys situated to get the best vantage point on the carnage that was sure to come, we went through the chute one by one. Joel shot through like a champ and easily pulled up in a downstream eddy. Damn, that was cool. As Brendan headed into the chute he told me to just follow his line once he got through. His only other bit of advice–just keep paddling. As in the surf, keeping a paddle blade in the water at all times helps your stability. Just like Joel, Brendan shot through the rapids and neatly peeled out of the current without so much as a wobble. My turn. What a rush. Coming into the chute you are only looking at a horizon line of disappearing water. Once the kayak crests over that line it is like a really wet roller coaster ride. Within seconds I was through the rough stuff and cruising past my buddies. They were cheering for me and I was feeling pretty dadgum cocky. For some reason I decided to raise my hands over my head in victory. If you're ever in that situation–don't celebrate. Apparently that irritates the river and she sends up what these guys called a "swirly" that grabs your kayak and flips it upside-down to teach you a little lesson in humility.

Once my flotsam of gear was gathered and the photographers had reviewed their prized images it was finally time to fish. This had been the plan all along, to run a drop and then pull out of the river to fish the tail race behind the rapids and into the pool before the next run. It worked like a charm. The fish on this river simply don't see any fishing pressure. Traditional fishermen can't get to these spots, and the whitewater guys running the river couldn't care less about the fish they bump over on their way through. It's what all of us fishermen dream about. Untapped fishing potential is hard to find these days and here we were with miles of river all to ourselves–and my favorite fishing rods were in Phila-freakin-delphia!

I have to admit that Brendan flat kicked our tails that day. He had brought along a little spinning rig and a handful of small chrome crankbaits. These were the ticket. Every place we stopped Brendan caught fish. Joel and I were a bit more challenged with our fly rods. I had brought along an assortment of sinking flies, but only had floating lines. With the strong currents and deep waters it was simply not the most effective way to cover the water column. I spent many minutes muttering under my breath about those damned airlines. I just knew if I had my preferred weapons I could be whipping these fish into shape. As it was, we weren't doing too badly. The variety of fish was impressive. I had figured we were going to catch smallmouth bass, but I had no idea we'd get walleye, catfish, perch, pike, and some kind of ugly little guy they called a chub.

My first ever smallmouth will be one of those fish that stays in the old memory bank forever. I was standing on a huge boulder overlooking a lane of fast moving whitewater with a hard eddy line. If you aren't used to strong rivers it can seem a little strange to have a current going upstream right alongside a rushing river headed the opposite direction. These eddies are where the fish are stationed to feed taking advantage of baitfish getting hammered by the currents. I had cast into that eddy a dozen or so times and had begun to think about moving when a jolt came up through the rod and the little 6-weight reel started screaming. The fish had briefly flashed in the clear water before heading straight downstream. It was cool how he kept using the current to power away from my grasp. Every time I brought him close using the eddy current, he'd dart over to the downstream current and gain himself some breathing room. Once I finally landed the little guy I was struck by the beauty of this fish. I'd seen plenty of pictures of smallmouth bass, but no picture could do justice to the real thing. Those fish have a truly wild look in their eyes that's hard to describe. After a few photos he was returned to his place in the river and I was headed down the Ottawa spoiling for the next fight.