Kiosk at Sunrise

Did another painting today, which makes me extremely happy. I have been really busy the last week or so doing paintings for Christmas presents and the very last one I did, for a very dear friend, turned out GROSS.

I was so disappointed that I stayed away from the brush for a while.

Finally I told her, "I did a painting for you and it really sucks," and I felt so much better afterwards that I started painting again.

The moral of the story? If something sucks, admit it! Shout it from the fecking rooftops! You'll feel EVER so much happier!

This painting, by the way, was inspired by a photo I took a couple years ago at Kiosk, at sunrise, in the northern part of Algonquin Park. We used to go there every spring and every fall for fishing trips. It's a gorgeous place, desolate and wildly beautiful, and I miss it like crazy. (It's available for purchase at my Etsy shop.)

By the way, I can't show you the sucky one because apparently my friend still wants to receive its suckiness for Christmas. So it has to be a SURPRISE SUCK, if you get my drift.

Geez that sounded bad ...

The Band-Aid Trip

That's my Band-Aid. The nurses always put happy stickers on everyone's Band-Aids to cheer patients up. It works! Look how happy that sparkly Band-Aid is! Every two months I pay a visit to the Huntsville Hospital chemo clinic for an infusion of Remicade, the drug that has tamed my Crohn's disease and changed my life. (If you, or someone you know is struggling with Crohn's, you need to try this drug.) I take it with a side dish of Benadryl and the whole thing makes me goofy for the rest of the day so I always take the whole day off. Last Friday the weather forecast was good, we had no kids and no plans, so we decided to use the extra time to make an impromptu trip up to Kiosk to see if the fishing situation had improved. We were there a month ago and the fish were apparently still sleeping in, their cosy blanket of winter ice barely thawed.

See my hair? It's literally oily with bug spray. Going camping/fishing this time of year is crazy because of black flies. They're tiny little pains in the arses that swarm in your face and literally scrape the flesh off you, one teeny divot at a time. I don't know what we were thinking. Look at my smile, though. That's a Benadryl-looped smile if I've ever seen one.

The bug arsenal: Dave works feverishly to light a Pic. At his elbow is a liberally used can of bug dope. Both are probably highly toxic chemicals. I sprayed my leg with Off and then it literally STUCK TO THE BOAT. It was like I was Krazy Glued! When I finally peeled my leg away a whole bunch of BOAT PAINT came with it! 

Our dog Misty HATED the bugs. She tried to hide everywhere. Even in the grass. Eventually we plopped her in the tent so she wasn't such an all-you-can-eat bug buffet.

Our camping buddy did a lot of mooching. Bagels, popcorn, whatever was being offered.  Chipmunks are the friendliest little critters. Dave's late father used to call them "bush tigers" because of their stripes. I love that expression. 

A white pine near the beach. All the new growth is directed towards the sun, creating a uni-directional pattern that reminds me of the old tuft quilts Dave's mom used to make.

Dave and Misty take a stroll down at the beach.

The call of a loon. So haunting. So quintessentially Canadian. They're curious birds, diving underwater and popping up close to the boat, curious to see what we're up to and who is catching more fish, us or them. Usually it's them.

Fishermen with a lot of money have down-riggers and lots of fancy equipment to get down to where the lake trout hang out. Some parts of Lake Kioshkokwi are 160 feet deep and more so the average fishing line will not get down that far. Here, Dave uses his father's old Murphy troller for steel line fishing. It's a bit of an art, letting out all that steel line, then keeping it at a perfect distance from the bottom of the lake. It's one of the things I admire about Dave – his proficiency with simple, old-time tools and his knowledge of the outdoors.

Now THIS is MY fish! We didn't weigh it but Dave figured this bass was at least six pounds – the biggest bass he has ever laid his hands on! No, we didn't keep it. First of all we always catch and release because we want to preserve fish stocks for future generations. But bass is also out of season. We were trolling for some speckles when these hungry monsters jumped on our lines. This was the biggest one, by far, but man oh man there are a LOT of big bass in this lake.

The fish master in action. "Keep a bend in your pole" is what he is always yelling at me as I reel in my catch.

And he's into the net! So exciting!

Dave's not happy at all, can you tell?

Another mighty bass smiles pretty. Check out the scenery. Isn't it spectacular? I love this lake. I can hardly wait to go back up – hopefully when the black flies are done.

Misty loves fishing almost as much as we do. She curls up in a pile of life jackets and catches some Zs.

If you didn't know already, Dave's been a Chrysler mechanic his whole life so you'll understand if he's a little bit Chrysler-happy. While we were having breakfast the other morning we heard the distinctive sound of a vehicle getting stuck at the boat launch. "Go help," I said to Dave. Sure enough, a nice young couple in a Ford Explorer was trying to pull their boat and trailer up the rocky shore – to no avail. Dave threw a tow rope on the back of our Jeep and, without even spinning a wheel, walked that Ford and its boat and its trailer right up that bank like nobody's business. As soon as we were out of earshot Dave smirked ear to ear. "My Chrysler just pulled a Ford out of the lake," he said. He could hardly wait to show the photo to his buddies at work.

In closing, I just want to say that sometimes I get tired of fishing in a lake. Sometimes I want to try my luck in trees, to see if the fish are any different there. For some reason, Dave gets grouchy when he has to pull my line out of a tree. Men, eh? Go figure...

The Black Fly Song

Well, we went fishing this weekend.

Fishing in northern Ontario.

Camping in a tent in northern Ontario.

In the height, no, the very apex of black fly season.

When I begin to recover from the itchy swollen mound between my shoulders, the squishy, pusified thing that used to be my head, I will tell you all about it.

In the meantime, watch this. It explains everything you need to know about black flies, the scourge of northern Ontario in May. I know, you don't have TIME to watch this. Well, make time. It's a classic Canadian folk tale, one of my very favouritest songs on the planet and, besides, I watched that video YOU posted, so ya owe me.

:)



And I'd be completely remiss if I didn't include the lyrics so you can sing along. Get singing! I'm listening!

The Black Fly Song
Lyrics by Wade Hemsworth

'twas early in the spring when i decide to go
For to work up in the woods in north on-tar-i-o
The unemployment office said they'd send me through
To the little abi-tibi with the survey crew

And the black flies, the little black flies
Always the black fly, no matter where you go
I'll die with the black fly a-picking my bones
In north on-tar-i-o-i-o, in north on-tar-i-o

Now the man, black toby was the captain of the crew
And he said, "i'm gonna tell you boys what we're gonna do
They want to build a power dam and we must find a way
For to make the little ab flow around the other way"

And the black flies, the little black flies
Always the black fly, no matter where you go
I'll die with the black fly a-picking my bones
In north on-tar-i-o-i-o, in north on-tar-i-o

So we survey to the east and we survey to the west
And we couldn't make our minds up how to do it best
Little ab, little ab, what shall i do
For i'm all but goin' crazy on the survey crew

And the black flies, the little black flies
Always the black fly, no matter where you go
I'll die with the black fly a-picking my bones
In north on-tar-i-o-i-o, in north on-tar-i-o

It was black fly, black fly everywhere
A-crawlin' in your whiskers, a-crawlin' in your hair
A-swimmin' in the soup, and a'swimmin in the tea
Oh the devil take the black fly and let me be

And the black flies, the little black flies
Always the black fly, no matter where you go
I'll die with the black fly a-picking my bones
In north on-tar-i-o-i-o, in north on-tar-i-o

Black toby fell to swearin' 'cause the work went slow
And the state of our morale was gettin' pretty low
And the flies swarmed heavy, it was hard to catch a breath
As you staggered up and down the trail talkin' to yourself

And the black flies, the little black flies
Always the black fly, no matter where you go
I'll die with the black fly a-picking my bones
In north on-tar-i-o-i-o, in north on-tar-i-o

Now the bull cook's name was blind river joe
If it hadn't been for him we'd have never pulled through
For he bound up our bruises, and he kidded us for fun
And he lathered us with bacon grease and balsam gum

And the black flies, the little black flies
Always the black fly, no matter where you go
I'll die with the black fly a-picking my bones
In north on-tar-i-o-i-o, in north on-tar-i-o

At last the job was over, black toby said, we're through
With the little abitibi and the survey crew
'twas a wonderful experience and this i know
I'll never go again to north ontar-i-o

And the black flies, the little black flies
Always the black fly, no matter where you go
I'll die with the black fly a-picking my bones
In north on-tar-i-o-i-o, in north on-tar-i-o

A to Z Honesty - Y is for a Year since Kiosk

Where are you, right now?
Sitting in front of your computer at the kitchen table?
Sipping coffee? Looking out your window?
I'm here.
*waving*

Magic happens every spring and we rush to this spot, to watch it happen.
Ice melts, sun shines, fish bite.
No one else in this world, this northern mystic, this land of silver birch.
Reflections of our own faces
the only ones we see.

"Hello, Mr. Lake Trout. How have you been?
Did you have a busy winter?
Was Santa Claus good to you?
How are the eggs? Did they all hatch out?
No worries, fishy friend, we just wanted to chat."
And, sploosh, back into the water he goes.

I wish you were here.
I wish we could argue over whose fish was bigger.
(It was mine, by a scale.)
I wish we could make s'mores tonight by the fire.
I wish you were with me.
In Kiosk.

Kiosk Fall 2011 and Bear Poo

Got an e-mail from my friend Alan in Newfoundland who wondered why I've been so quiet lately. I've been fishing, Alan! Dave'll tell you – I haven't been quiet, I've just been noisy in a different, internet-free place.

Kiosk is one of the northernmost camping areas in Algonquin, one of Ontario's most famous and largest provincial parks. The are no roads into its vast interior, just a loose waterway of canoe routes, lonely dark lakes and black forests. The bottom end of the park has a highway and several campgrounds running through it (we go to one of those campgrounds regularly, Lake of Two Rivers), but there are really only two campgrounds in the north part, Brent and Kiosk. Both are at the end of long dirt roads stretching through Crown land. Both are former sawmill and railway villages, now ghost towns with only foundation remnants as clues of once thriving communities. And both are launching points for adventure-seekers looking for true wilderness experiences.

While Dave and I have camped in the interior, our trips to Kiosk are far more comfortable. We bring our trailer and our aluminum motorboat and spend four days every spring and every fall looking to catch and release some big fish, spend some time together and catch our breath. No jobs, no kids, no pressure.

The weather was downright terrible. Grey skies and rain the whole time we were there – except on Sunday, when it was time to pack up and leave. Oh well. We've never let the weather put a crimp in our style. We fished, we rode our bikes, we read our books, we played cards. We celebrated our first wedding anniversary in a place we have both come to love as much as we love each other.

I took this picture to show you the difference between water levels in the spring and in the fall. This past spring we couldn't get under this bridge because the water was so high. Last weekend the water was so low there was barely enough water for our boat – the difference is at least four feet. The bridge, by the way, is part of the abandoned railway line built by lumber baron J.R. Booth in the 1800s. It's the main reason Brent and Kiosk existed, with sawmills cutting up the rich forests of Algonquin and shipping them, via railway, all over the world. Before Algonquin was cut bare of trees, it was mostly giant pines and spruce that grew here. The regrowth has brought maple to the park, making Algonquin a gorgeous place to be in the fall.

Normally you would never be able to perch on a rock in the rushing Amable du Fond, the river that connects Algonquin's northern lakes: Kiosk, Manitou and Tea. We've never seen the river so quiet but took the opportunity to walk up the waterfall and take some photos. Dave brought his line and tried to wangle a brookie onto his line but even the fish thought there wasn't enough water.

This was my fish, a nice 4 pound bass. Dave, of course, did fish holding duties, baiting the hook duties and looking good in his rain suit duties. I did all the real work, wrestling that beauty in, kicking and screaming. We posed him for a pic, than he flicked his tail and disappeared into the water. 

Dave also caught a nice bass - not as nice as mine, though. .. jest saying...

And a trip to Kiosk just isn't complete without a lake trout. Dave was happy to snag this one.

Isn't this ridiculously cute? I know. You should have seen her waddling around in it.

When I was taking this photo I couldn't see Misty in the viewfinder – she completely blended in with the orange leaves and dark water of the Amable du Fond waterfall.

Because my friend Linda requested it, here's the bear poop in our front yard. Yup, we went all the way up north to see wildlife and we come home to see that a bear had ripped down our bird feeder and then crapped in our front yard. Linda, you can see the pitts of the choke cherries the bear had been eating. Judging by the freshness, the bear had been there within the last day. And judging by the size, it was a BIG bear. For ages we were under the false impression that there were no wild animals in our neighbourhood, other than a few foxes, raccoons and skunks – but now we know there are bears so we have to be a little more careful. We did see some wildlife in Kiosk – on our way there we had a rabbit run right towards our vehicle – Dave had to swerve to avoid it. The hare had eyes as big as saucers. A little bit down the road we saw the reason why: a fisher hunting it. "Run, bunny, run!" we shrieked out the window. Dave honked the horn and scared the fisher into the bushes. We hope we gave the bunny enough of a break to survive.

Our busted bird feeder with poo in the background.

The top of the feeder the bear had ripped off.

The wire that had held the feeder until the bear decided to have a closer look.  

Because you need a laugh

Go here. Trust me. You will laugh.
Siren makes me laugh out loud. She's wry and witty and sarcastic, but nice. She's been through hell and back (oh god, read her older posts about her horrible young life and you will weep) and now she's carving out a nature-loving life for herself with her partner, Diane, and a bunch of pets. I've come to admire her and thought you might, too.
The post I'm referring you to? About the Bruces? It's an original. Never. Seen. Anything. Quite. Like. It.

Harry B. Sanderford asked how I could hate touching fish so much when I go fishing all the time. Well, Harry, going fishing has nothing to do with touching or eating fish! Dave baits my hook, takes the fish off the line and he throws the fish back. See? No fish are involved! Salmon sandwich on the counter? That's a whole different kettle of fish.

I just noticed somebody cut down a dead tree in our front yard. I was out late – came home in the dark, and Dave was half asleep when I rolled in. Funny, he never mentioned cutting a tree down. You'd think when I asked him how his night was he might have referred to cutting down a tree. Kind of a major bit of news. But there it is. A chopped up tree. Huh. Excuse me while I go outside in my pajamas and take a picture. For evidentiary purposes. Just in case there is a mad man with a chainsaw running around the neighbourhood cutting people's dead trees down.

One more thing: I am NOT shaving my head. OK? Even though y'all want me to shave my head. My head is not pretty like Laurita's head. Trust me. Or even Mike's head. My head shall not be shorn in the best interest of those who pass by. I know. I'm noble.

OK, OK, so one more thing. Have you voted for the Best of Friday Flash Reader's Choice story yet? You should! I just happen to have a story nominated, you know, if you can't decide who to vote for, mine is, ahem, available. Y'know, if you need a suggestion... you know me, always trying to help... Here's the link... go to the bar on the right hand side and click madly.  And thank you. Really. Thank you.

The Legend of Catfish Hunter

"CATHY! SAM! GET OUT HERE! GET THE CAMERA! I GOT HIM!"

Hell's bells, can't a person even loaf around on the internet for five minutes without some kerfuffle?

Dave's face is positively fuchsia. His eyes are as round as tennis balls and he's got this shit-eating grin on his mug.

"I got the fish!" he says as we run to the dock.

"THEE fish?" I ask.

"Oh YEAH," says Dave, without any regard to his daily limit on all-caps.

THEE fish is the fish of local legend. It is the Catfish Hunter to Dave's Grumpy Old Man. He has been trying to land this elusive pike since we moved here, almost three years ago. So many times he has been so, so, so close: a spit hook; a line severed by the pike's sharp teeth; divine intervention, oh, who knows?

Dave isn't the only one who has tried and failed.

"I had something on my line and there was this huge swirl, something BIG right at the surface, and then it got off," says Vic.

"I had the !$#@$%#^#%& on, too," says Dick, the sultan of swear.
"%#$#$^@!#&^(&*$#."

(Just a coincidence that our friends' names rhyme? I think not.)

Perhaps destiny was simply waiting for Saturday to arrive, when all the seaweed was aligned and Dave's Green Hornet was perfectly attuned to the cosmic tides of the river.

"Where is it?" I ask.

"In the canoe!" Dave says, like I'm stupid because where else would a fish be than in the canoe? Next time he asks where his keys are, or where the clicker is, I'm gonna say, "in the canoe."

Sure enough, there's ol' Catfish Hunter floundering in a few inches of water in the bottom of our boat.

"I had to put him somewhere. I yelled and yelled for you guys to come and you didn't hear me so I had to put him somewhere and run up to the house. Quick! Take a picture!"

Dave picks him up and hoists him proudly in the air. It's definitely not the biggest fish I've ever seen – pike can grow to be enormous. But he's bigger than most of the small bass we catch in the river and he was certainly a scrapper.

"Hurry up," Dave says. "I need to put him back. He's been out of the water too long."

I snap a couple of pictures and Dave places him in the water. We wait for Catfish Hunter to swish his mighty tail and disappear but he rolls belly-up instead. His gills are moving and his fins are waving slowly but this is not a good sign.

Sam and I say "oh no" in unison.

We all wanted Dave to snag the big fish but nobody wanted the big fellah to die.

Dave jumps in the canoe and paddles to Catfish Hunter, who is floating downstream belly up and whose fins are no longer moving. Things do not look good. Dave pulls up alongside him and grabs his tail and turns him upright. Then he swishes the fish back and forth in the water for a minute or so, to push water through his gills and oxygenate his bloodstream. Sam and I hold our breath.

"Is he...." I ask.

"I don't know," says Dave, and swishes the fish through the water some more.

It's like he is doing CPR on the fish; such is his determination. He is applying the same will to saving Catfish Hunter as he used to catching him.

He lets him go, waiting to see what happens. Waiting to see if he floats belly up again.

The fish swishes his mighty tail and disappears down into the black water.

"Woo HOO!" We all say.

Sam and I give Dave a standing ovation.

The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of that which is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope. 

– Anonymous