Early Morning

"Early Bird gets the worm you know...." was the phrase that was uttered every morning at 5:00am when the Steelhead Summer run would make its way up the Skeena River toward the tributaries that housed some of the provinces largest sea-run trout.

Dads enthusiasm for this time of year never paled as I would watch him whisper into his flybox as he choose that mornings offerings. I always held a slight jealousy of how he knew exactly what pattern would produce a writhing mass from those waters.

Such an unassuming man, he didn't feel the need for all the fandangled fishing gear of these days. No fly-vest, no tackle box - just a man in his drawstring pajama bottoms out for a quick hour of fly flinging at an ungodly hour. Because we lived so close to the Skeena, it wasn't uncommon to see him on the riverbank in any attire he was wearing at the present time. Once, the neighbours caught him in between stuffing turkey sessions with a chefs hat and apron on. Always a source of amusement he was.

That morning, the freshet rush of spring run off had gave way to a clean walking speed water as he settled down on his favorite stretch. His choice of offering you ask? I think I heard him whisper "oh you delicious Black Zonker...they are going to eat you up!" as his first few casts warmed up his arms and I watched the look of peace come over his face. He was truely in his element here with a flyrod in hand. I didn't even have time to set up my own casting arc when the familiar mumble hit my ears. Its a sound that I will always remember.

Some people yell "FISH ON".

Some people start giggling.

But that funny mumbling sound was my dads way of saying "Good day, Fishy Friend - nice to meet you!"

And that's when it became apparent that this wasn't any other fish than a huge steelhead buck that was headed for the Kispiox. A shining brute of over 20 pounds that had decided my father wasn't going to get in his way of making it to his homewater.

That slow mumble from my fathers lips at first hookup suddenly became a shrill squeal of "OH GOOD LORD, ITS A MONSTER!"

The beastly boy had hit the fly midstream, with 4 feet of flyline was still haphazardly piled around Dads feet. And that line was rapidly shooting out the flyrods eyes with a zipping sound as this denizen of the deep realized he wasn't interested in playing tug of war with a man in pajamas.

His careful stance on his favorite platform soon gave way to a stumbling gait on slippery river rocks that reminded me of elephants that had eaten fermented fruit and had no control over their faculties. I watched his flyline bouncing around as I tried to spy where the beast was.

But what was that purple rope attached to his line? OH NO. It was his pajama bottom draw string. It had gotten caught up in his line that was rapidly retreating out of his reel. And it was gone.

With every step downriver, his bottoms got looser and soon enough he had realized if he was going to have a hope in chasing this creature downstream he would have to step out of his pants. He wasn't about to have this chance of a lifetime escape due to shyness. With a quick flip, one pantleg came off. Then the other.

A guffaw escaped his lips as he yelled "I hope the neighbours aren't watching this!". I followed him in amazement as he expertly forced the beast into the tailout, giving him a chance to calm the exausted steelhead before wrapping his strong hand around his tail.

Gently removing the barbless hook, he raised the pearl cheeked slab and whispered "Nice to meet you" before lowering it back into the lazy water.

He headed back to find his pajamas, and yelled over his shoulder "Glad we didn't have a camera today. We would never be able to explain that one to your mother!"