Water Taxi

The calming sound of the water breaking over the rocks cools the air. Frost begins to crawl around the propane tanks shortly after the sun tucks itself underneath the horizon line. The warmth of fire dries the aftermath of yet another pair of leaky waders. Smoke warms my lungs in the same manner whisky warms my stomach. The air lays crisp as the trees hang dry. Window makers lay overhead and wake during the night while the wind sings me to sleep.

I am home.

Or at least the closest thing to home I’ve known in the past four years. The tranquility of a river amidst a late fall run, paired with the company of an old friend. Off we go, floating endlessly into paradise. It may not be the Skeena tributaries we’ve dreamed of fishing together since we first met. However it remains one of the Great Lakes finest rivers to swing for steelhead. 

Thirty Kilometers of water between the put in and pull out with steelhead peppered amongst each run. A cooler full of food, a handful of camping gear. A few beers, and a fine whisky, what more could I possibly need in life. Simplicity. Minimalism. An escape from the overpopulated prison commonly referred to as the Greater Toronto Area, a place where I can finally be myself. It feels as if it’s been years since I’ve truly had the chance to connect with nature in the way that once seemed so effortless. 

The aggressive nature of these fish soothes my soul, as unpredictable as they are beautiful. The high pitch sound of my reel sings a sweet melody of accomplishment. Night after night we float down the river patiently awaiting the next grab. Our campsite seems to find us where the fish have found a sore jaw. Day’s pass, a sense of reality is lost and surrealism gained. 

I can't feel my hands. Frozen. Numb. Sharp pains from frigid fall waters creep up my spine. Yet my cheeks feel swollen from sharing so many laughs. As water thrashes between my fingers at an exponential rate, it feels just as if I were home.