Learning to Read

Becoming a Fly Fisher on the Oldman River in Southern Alberta

After publishing my first novel, The Ghosts of Lille, which is set in the Crowsnest Pass of Southern Alberta, I have had the chance to meet people from all walks of life. Whether they are writers themselves, media personalities, or local citizens from the area, they all share one thing in common: their interest in the setting where my ghost story takes place. I have learned as much as I have shared, as I am a relative newcomer to the area.

But it was years before I came to know the Pass that I frequented the wilds in the area. It was in the early days of my relationship with my husband, Tom, that we spent as much time as we could spare, bush camping along the tributaries of the Oldman River. As I learned the complex skills of fly fishing, I also learned to read the waters I had come to love all the more quickly.

A beautiful Brown Trout from the Crowsnest River.

Learning to Fish

The first fly I ever cast was almost twenty years ago. It just happened to be my thirtieth birthday. I remember it clearly because I had spent the day on a tiny, pebbled beach, enjoying the bright sunshine and fresh mountain air. I was on Vicary Creek, one of southern Alberta's enchantingly beautiful tributaries of the great Oldman River.

It was the end of the day, and the light was already slipping away from the stream as the shadows of the evergreens grew taller over the grassy meadow, dotted with splashes of wildflowers in vibrant yellow, purple and pink hues. I didn’t know what I was doing, but after a few snags in nearby trees and bushes, I landed the fly on the water and immediately got a bite. The fish was tiny, and I couldn’t reel it in, but I was elated. I tried again and was outdone by a little fish, but that’s all it took; I was hooked.

Influence and Inspiration

Although I didn't start fly fishing until my thirties, water and fishing have always been a part of my life. I grew up in Labrador, on the east Coast of Canada. When I was young, I lived next to the mighty Northwest River and was used to boat trips to check the fishing nets, watching my Inuit grandmother cut and dry fish on screened boxes in the backyard. My cousins and I would ride out to nearby frozen bays pulling wooden sleds called kamatiks with snowmobiles to go ice fishing. It took many years after leaving Labrador for me to eat fish again, having had it almost daily, sometimes even fried for breakfast.

My father’s side of the family is from Newfoundland, and my grandparents had their own lobster and cod fishery business for as long as I can remember. The last time I visited them, the last time I would ever see them, I tried fishing off the dock behind the house with my grandfather’s spare spinning reel as he watched with pride. Still, I only managed to catch a bewildered crab, who leapt back to the water before I could reel him in, since he hadn’t been hooked and was instead holding on with an oversized claw.

Missed Opportunities

While attending high school, I lived in Yellowknife, the capital of the Northwest Territories. I worked for a few years at a restaurant situated directly on the waterfront of Great Slave Lake. The float planes were moored directly across from the front of the building, and the owner bought the fish fresh from the indigenous fishermen there.  I spent a few summers camping in an old trapper’s cabin with my aunt and uncle on Great Slave. Because I also spent some time during my teens living in Smithers, a prime fishing destination in northern British Columbia, it’s hard to believe the sheer breadth of missed fishing opportunities in my life.

I was introduced to the Oldman River when I moved to Lethbridge for university in 1994. I learned about the river’s name, history, and sacred connection to the Blackfoot people of southern Alberta when I took an introductory Indigenous Studies course at the University of Lethbridge. I learned about the river's brute power and force the following year when the so-called Flood of the Century occurred so suddenly that I was almost trapped on the west side of the river at the university, with my home on the east side. I took one of the last buses that were allowed to cross the bridge before it had to be closed for safety, as the water had risen so high. I remember being unable to pry my eyes away from the raging waters, which seemed they could overtake the bridge at any moment.

Finding the Water

Little did I know that years later, my future husband would bring me to the mountains, to the Oldman's headwaters and its pristine tributaries. The best gift he ever gave me was teaching me to fly fish on the streams of the Oldman River: Vicary, Dutch, Racehorse. I am grateful, too, that he taught me the ethics of being a catch-and-release fly fisher, especially when it came to the exceptional and rare beauty of his favourite fish, the native Westslope Cutthroat Trout.

The skills and knowledge I learned for fly fishing on the technical streams of the Oldman started to expand when we purchased our home next to the Crowsnest River in the majestic Crowsnest Pass. It was the most difficult of the waters I had to learn to read. The fish are highly educated, as they are easily accessible and popular amongst locals and tourists. This means they can be challenging to catch, which makes victory all the sweeter. Fortunately, living next to the river gave me all the time I needed to be the diligent student I was determined to be.

Finding my Voice

Living next to the Crowsnest River developed my love of reading water. My new home also inspired me to write. Although I had divided my time between our main house in Lethbridge, where I taught high school English for almost twenty years, and our tiny house in the mountains, I made the move to the Crowsnest Pass permanent after releasing my first novel, The Ghosts of Lille, a historical ghost story inspired by the community, the mountains, and of course, the river.

Having fished the waters of the Oldman River for the past two decades, I have seen how they have changed and stayed the same. Some of the changes I’ve seen have resulted from the sheer force of nature and the power of the water itself, while many of the changes I’ve witnessed have been man-made. As someone who lives on and loves the Oldman River in all its many names, I know that although change is inevitable, it can also be purposefully approached to sustain and protect the precious things and places we all want and need in our lives.

To read a stream, one must observe not only the physical structures and their impacts on the water flow, but also the telltale signs of safe havens where the fish might hide from predators from above and below. To read a stream, one must think like a fish, watching how light and shadows dapple on the water and taking stock of the hatches that rise and fall with the changing light. To read a stream, one must take time, as fishing is an art of patience. Most importantly, to read a stream, whether raging or calm, one must truly and deeply love, cherish and protect it.