bout de papier, Vol. 14, No. 2 (1997) — Summer 1997 // Été 1997, pp. 40–41
Robert David Percival Lee, 1936-1997
Bob Lee died in early April of this year, after a six month battle with a rapidly spreading cancer. Bob was a fellow Trade Commissioner and good friend. He served as a trade officer in posts as diverse as Boston, Zimbabwe, Minneapolis and Harare.
Although I knew Bob as a colleague for most of his career, our postings did not intersect until we were both in Ottawa during the last four years, and discovered our mutual interest in fly fishing. We went on many enjoyable fishing outings to Quebec, Ontario and New York State, and had many plans for post retirement trips.
I was away from Ottawa last September when Bob caught the “big one” at Horseshoe Lake. This article, by Bob, reprinted from “The Flyfisher” Newsletter of the Ottawa Flyfishers Society tells the tale.
James Bradford The first indication that this was not your ordinary Horseshoe Lake speckle came when I raised the rod to set the hook. The fish did not budge. I could feel a lot of power and weight out there, but no movement. I socked him again two or three times to make sure he was on. The fish simply turned and headed for deep water, taking all my line and 20 or 30 yards of backing on the first run.
Mats Streigler and I were playing hooky. We’d booked off work for October I to have one last crack at the speckles in Horseshoe. There was an element of trepidation built into this trip for me. On two previous outings, I had failed to take a trout on a fly. Got one on a small spoon, took a couple of nice bass on a rapala, but I’d struck out on why I had gone to Horseshoe
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— to catch on flies a few of the splendid speckles that inhabit that pretty little lake. Several fishing buddies from our club had taken numerous of these fish, including a four-pounder by Mats. I didn’t want the season to end without at least breaking my Horseshoe jinx.
A leisurely hour and a half drive from Ottawa gets you there, through some very scenic country and a few well-preserved old towns. Travel Advisory: Don’t rush through Westport. Stop at the Hawk’s Nest, a classic small-town café/diner. Truly excellent homemade butter tarts will make the stop worthwhile. Not bad coffee, either. We arrived at the Bing Resort, to be greeted by Chris Fisher, the genial and competent owner of this little gem of a lake.
We rigged up ashore. Mats’ successful formula for fishing this lake is deep and dead slow. I never argue with success. Full sinking lines were the order of the day. My sinker is 8 weight, to be fished on a 9 weight rod. Mats noticed this and offered the use of an older 7 weight fibreglass he’d brought along. The action was soft enough to handle the heavier line, and a lighter rod gave promise of more sport with the speckles I anticipated catching. The night before, noticing I was down to about four feet of tippet left on the sinker, I’d tied on another three feet of 3x tippet to provide the seven feet or so necessary for terminal tackle when trolling for speckles.
I wanted to catch big fish that day, so I tied on the biggest fly I had in my box, a No. 2 woolly bugger, dark olive with a black tail — as much leech as woolly bugger, I’ve always thought. This is my favourite fly. It looks alive in the water, even when motionless. It has a fatal attraction for bass, but I’d never used it for trout. Before shoving off, and I still don’t know why I did this, I asked Chris if he had a net and could we could borrow it. He did, and we did. This prescient impulse proved a godsend later on.
We were fishing by eleven o’clock, Mats doing the navigating, skilfully positioning boat and lines to take advantage of the lake’s structures. We took three fish and released one in fairly short order. I’d just asked Mats the time — noon, he said, time for lunch pretty soon. That’s when the fish struck the lure. He had amazing power. Nothing flashy, nothing on top of the water — his sole strategy was to get back to the deeper part of the lake.
For most of the time, the tip of Mat’s noodley old rod was pointed straight down and submerged. I was trying hard to raise him, but with 3x tippet on the business end, I soon realised this would not be a brief encounter.
Within a few minutes, I was sure I’d hooked a lake trout. The way he fought reminded me of struggles I’d had with his distant cousins in Beaverlodge Lake, forty-odd years previously. For two springs, I fished for lakers with spinning tackle around the edge of receding ice in that far distant lake. You could see them coming to the canoe through the crystal clear water for thirty feet or more, straight down, kicking up sand, rubbing their heads along the bottom trying to shake the spoon.
After about half an hour, Chris came by to see what all the excitement was about. We’d hooked the fish a few yards off the end of his dock, below the beautiful log home he’s constructed overlooking the lake. When he saw that this struggle was far from over, he went ashore, returning in a few minutes with a camera. Helmsman Mats, meanwhile, had eaten lunch, all the time keeping the boat well positioned away from the fish. I felt badly for Mats, he wasn’t getting much fishing time in for himself. I don’t know how the fish felt, but this was beginning to take a toll on me. My forearm and wrist were stiff, sore and losing strength. I was changing hands frequently to get momentary relief. I was beginning to win, though, regaining backing, then line, foot by foot.
By now I was concerned that the hook would work its way through the lip. Within sight of the boat, the fish made one last long run. Finally worn down, I led him alongside. We knew there would only be one chance to net him, and Mats lifted him cleanly out of the water. Fifty-five minutes after it began, the struggle was over. boat, with the line slack, the hook almost fell out of his mouth. This was one fish I was going to keep, but as always, there was remorse at killing such a beautiful creature.
We went ashore to weigh and measure the catch. On scales legal for trade, 7 Ibs. 10 ozs., length 27 inches. Chris explained that some lakers had been accidentally introduced along with planted speckles some years ago. This was the biggest one taken to date, and as far as he can recollect, the biggest fish yet to come out of Horseshoe. While a laker this size is far from a trophy fish, I decided it was a trophy for me — the biggest fish I’ve caught on a fly so far, and the biggest from Horseshoe.
My fish is now in a taxidermist’s freezer, awaiting resurrection next spring, when I’ll see him again in all his glory. I’ll find room for him somewhere in our home, to remind me of an outing on a perfect early fall day, the good fellowship of fishing and how I broke the jinx of Horseshoe Lake.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 14, No. 2 (1997) — Summer 1997 // Été 1997, pp. 40–41. Read the rest of this issue →
