In our childhood we have all experienced the agony of waiting for some much desired event:  A birthday, a vacation, getting out of school for the summer, or perhaps being able to drive for the first time.  Sometimes our imagination so glamorizes the event that when it arrives it fails to live up to expectations. This can even happen to grown ups.

In late January and February of 2012, when I had my heart bypass surgery, followed by the second surgery to fix things, I was one sick puppy.  I spent nine days in the hospital in Bellingham with the fix and was weak as a baby when I got home.  I could barely walk around the loop in our neighborhood (about 1/8^th of a mile).  During the long and difficult days of trying to rebuild my strength (and my hemoglobin levels) one of the things that kept me going was my anticipation of our annual fishing expedition to Minnie and Corbett Lakes scheduled for the first week of June.

My fishing pal, Rob, and I have been doing a spring trip for many years and staying at the yurt on Minnie for the last five.  For several of those trips we have taken along two other guys, which helps with the expenses but requires that each of us act as half-assed guides for our guests.  Not that our guests were raw novices but the boats are two-man situations and we know the lakes and what flies and techniques generally work.  For this trip we decided that we would go by ourselves. Although I was getting stronger by the day, I did not feel all that enthused about acting as a guide and running the boat for myself and someone else. For Rob’s part I guess he felt if we fished together he could keep an eye on me.

Rob and I have fished together so much that we function smoothly, each guy anticipating the other’s moves without much discussion.  He casts lefty and I cast right-handed so we can both sling away without shooting line over the other guy’s head.  We never have much debate about when to move to another spot or change up the strategy…fish dry flies on the flats or chironomids off the drop offs?  Whatever.  Rob’s boat is perfectly set up for two guys to fish with Hurley up on the deck in the bow, protecting us from low flying suicidal waterfowl and other fishermen encroaching on our territory.

By the end of February, they pulled the PICC line (the permanent IV thingie in my arm) out and Loi no longer had to pump antibiotics into me twice a day.  The docs were gradually sorting out my chemistry and I was getting stronger.  With the usual crap weather in early March, I headed to the mall and walked in the dry warmth with the other old farts.  The sainted surgeon who did the chest fix cautioned me against swinging a golf club or other exertions that might interrupt the healing of my abused sternum.  Having blown it open once, he did not have to beat that into my thick skull.  I did want to get out my new 6-weight fly rod and see how my casting was going to work but held off.

The time was fast approaching when it would be too late to cancel at Minnie Lake and Rob and I agreed to go for it.  I was getting stronger and now up to walking 3 miles at a crack and getting faster at it.  In mid-April I finally dug out the Winston and did some casting in the back yard.  My dreams of being a bionically-created championship caster were dashed, but I was able to sling it out there in my typically awkward fashion. Good enough.

Through May my anticipation for the trip built and I spent more time than required to prepare the menu and shopping lists.  We do our own cooking at Minnie and rely heavily on grilling… mallard breasts, moose steaks etc. Not complicated. 

On the 3^rd of June I drove up to Whistler, and Rob, Hurley and I headed over mountains on the Duffey Lake Road to the Douglas Lake Ranch and Minnie Lake.  We have experienced some really hot weather on some of our trips to Minnie Lake in early June.  Not this time. It was cold, wet and the wind was howling.  We went fishing anyway after we unloaded our gear.  Apparently the fish were pissed at the weather too and uninterested in anything we had to offer.  We scratched out one measly rainbow each.

The next morning brought more of the same, except windier.  Minnie Lake sits out in the open with few trees around it and when the wind comes from the west it sweeps the lake and renders negotiating the lake with an electric motor nearly impossible.  The adjacent lake, Stoney, about a half mile away, has a sheltered back bay that’s fishable in the worst of conditions, so we headed over there.  Apparently the fish in that lake didn’t like the cold weather either.

The next morning we rose to even worse conditions and the temperature inside our yurt was 2 degrees C.  We restarted the fire in the wood stove and crawled back into our sleeping bags.  In the afternoon we fished Stoney again with lean results. The final day of our stay at Minnie continued with a bit less wind and rain and we did manage to fish a somewhat sheltered bay on Minnie and pick up about a dozen ‘bows each but nothing big (4 to 6 lbs).  That evening we gave in and hit the outdoor shower.  On previous trips the biggest challenge in using that balky thing was fighting off the mosquitoes.  This time with that icy wind blowing we each managed to break the record for shortest shower.  No bugs.

The next morning we packed up and headed to Corbett Lake.  Before we left we checked the water temperature.  It had been so cold that the temp in the lake had actually dropped 5 degrees during our stay.  No wonder the fishing was lousy!

We caught a couple of rainbows that afternoon at Corbett but things were still not great and the weather the next morning turned even nastier.  We donned layers of clothes and full rain gear and went anyway.  Anchored with our backs to the wind, we flipped out some chironomids and settled in to wait.

Chironomids represent a staple of BC trout diets and there are literally thousands of species of these tiny insects.  Fishing these sometimes microscopic flies usually consists of dangling an unlikely-looking imitation on a long leader below a floating strike indicator.  Because dedicated chironomid fishermen are so smug about their skill in this technique, I have always derisively called it “bobber fishing for snobs”. But it works, so I have slowly accepted it.  With the wind and the rain on this morning, it seemed like a particularly good idea.

Hurley had curled up on the bow taking a nap in the rain and Rob and I stood with the cold wind at our backs and stared at our floats.  As happens in these situations, what with morning coffee and cold weather, a man’s fancy turns to urination.  Considering several layers of clothes and major shrinkage (hey, cold weather plus icy fingers), this would be a two-handed operation, so I put the fly rod down.  With the rain pants around my knees and in mid relief, my strike indicator was jerked under the surface.  Not bothering to tuck Mr. Happy away or hoist my rain pants, I grabbed the fly rod and set the hook.  The rod throbbed in my hands and the fish came out of the water like a pissed off porpoise and headed for deep water.

Rob and I both shouted when we saw the size of the fish, waking Hurley who joined the chorus.  With my reel screaming the fish took another couple of jumps about 20 yards directly off the bow.  It was too much for Hurley and he launched himself into the water after the fish.  Rob and I were both screaming at Hurley visualizing the dog, fish and line all intersecting but the fish had reversed course and by the time Hurley got to where the rainbow had last jumped, it was long gone and jumping behind the boat.  Hurley swam back and Rob unceremoniously hoisted him out of the lake where he took up his rightful place on the bow.  In the several attempts to get the big fish in the net, Hurley crowded to get a better look and stepped on my other fly rod snapping it cleanly.  Rob netted my fish and I was finally able to pull up my rain pants.  We guessed the fat rainbow at 8 1/2 lbs and gently released him.

We both figured that would be the big fish of the trip, but a short time later, Rob latched on to another monster that, when boated, proved to be of equal heft, though longer and skinnier.  Later we each caught nice twin 5-pounders along with a number of other lesser trout.  I guess they were finally getting hungry.

We fished another day at Corbett and then the following morning (both so-so) before packing up and making the 4 1/2 hour trek back over the mountains to Whistler.

The trip may not have lived up to my fondest expectations, but it sure gave me something to look forward to during an extremely low ebb in my health and spirits. And landing the biggest rainbow trout of my life with my rain pants around my knees will be remembered for a very long time.  Thanks Rob.