Flying Fish in the Rockies

Flying fish in the Rocky Mountains. Not something you see everyday.

My buddy, Murray, and I had made plans to hike into the Kananaskis backcountry and camp by a small alpine lake. The idea was to relax for three days, away from university life, take in nature and fish a little.

The reason we picked this lake was because Mur had never fished before and we needed any and all the help we could get. The lake was used as a breeding pond for trout and it hadn't been open for fishing for a couple of years. I was hoping the fish were really hungry.

We pulled into the parking lot at the trailhead and grabbed our packs. During the last minute check to make sure we had all the required supplies (chips, beer and toilet paper), Murray reached back into the truck and proudly pulled out his new fishing gear.

I have never seen the like, before or after. Rod, reel, line and four or five types of lures, all packaged up in a nifty plastic triangle about the size of a loaf of bread.

“Where,” I asked, “did you get that?”

“The grocery store had a sale. This is the ultimate in back packing fishing gear”. It was the ultimate something, but I didn’t want to say anything out loud. No use starting a three day wilderness hike with a cranky partner. After all, he was carrying the beer. Don’t tell him.

After I finally stopped laughing and got my pack on, we made the trek up to the lake in a record setting time of 4 hours 15 minutes. This record still stands today as the slowest time – ever – to get to the lake. I knew we should’ve taken that left at the outhouse…

We arrived in time to set up the tent, stow the gear and hide our food in the trees. The rangers we saw on the way up said there had been bear activity and to be sure to hang the food high enough. It’s amazing how high up in a tree you can hang food if you use all the boot laces and t-shirts you have.

With enthusiasm generally reserved for Christmas presents, Murray opened up his new fishing kit and proceeded to attempt to figure out how everything fit together. That is another story altogether.

We had found a likely spot to fish from and after Murray and I finally got all the pieces of his fishing tackle put together in the right order, we headed out to catch our supper. Don’t worry, I had brought some freeze-dried lasagna, just in case.

After I gave him a few quick lessons on attaching a lure, casting with an open-faced reel and how not to hook yourself in the ear on the follow-through, I quickly ran down to the end of the spit to watch how Murray did. His enthusiasm and glee made it a bit scary to be too close to the neophyte angler.

Safely ensconced at the end of the spit, I started to read a paperback. Not two pages in, I heard a shout from Murray. All I could think was “BEAR”. I jumped to my feet, looking for anything that looked remotely threatening.

Murray had caught a fish! “Now what do I do?!” he shouted. “Reel it in! Reel it in!” I yelled back, running toward him. So what does he do? He turns away from the water and starts running up the beach, hanging onto the rod with both hands. He got about twenty yards away from the water and gave a tremendous YANK on the rod, like he was casting in the other direction. And there it was.

I’m not sure who was more surprised, the flying trout about fifteen feet in the air (with a very surprised look on his face, even for a fish) or myself, seeing Murray’s unique technique. After a lot of flopping and jumping around, I finally got Murray settled down and we grabbed the fish before it wiggled it’s way back to the lake.

Murray was so happy, he didn’t even notice when I pulled the beer from his pack.