An Excerpt from "Line to Table"

by Larry Kapustka

I was in my mid-20s before I lived in trout country and in my late 20s when I succumbed to the debased lifestyle of tying my own flies. My approach was not one in search of aesthetic perfection, but more along the lines, “is it good enough to fool an unsuspecting trout?” The first trout I caught on a fly I tied was memorable for many reasons. I had driven an hour plus for a few moments of fishing before dark. A beautiful 20-inch brown gobbled my fly. I decided that the one fish was good enough for the day. My Mother was visiting at the time and when I walked into the house proudly holding my catch, she remarked, “Is that all you caught?” I refused to let that dampen my joy.

Through the years, much has changed regarding fishing. Barbless hooks and catch-and-release are now the norm. Gone are the days of bringing home a mess of fish; indeed, now even one. This, at least for me, dampens the enthusiasm for spending a day on the water. I have a sense of guilt of hooking multiple fish that I know will have to be released. How is this not sadistic torture? Will the fish survive? It is for me easier to justify hooking a few or many in search of a keeper to bring home. Because only then can there be closure of preparing a wonderful meal to share with family and friends.

I understand the need for catch limits, including limits of 0. While fishable streams and lakes have remained the same or slightly diminished, the numbers of fisherpersons have grown exponentially over the past few decades. Gear has improved so that a skilled angler has few excuses. And collectively this places inordinate pressure on fragile fish populations. There are no good solutions. Even so, I cling to days gone by – and sharing a meal of fresh fish with special guests.

The full experience begins with the ritual of checking and rechecking rod, reel, line, and supply of tippets. Are the guides clean? The drag set properly. Do I have the best flies for the stream, for the season, for the weather? Have the barbs all been pinched? Is the truck gassed up? Tires and spare inflated? Waders, wading boots, vest, life jacket – check, check, check, check. What are the regs this year? This “pre-flight checklist” might be reviewed several times while the snow is still drifting, but it will be checked one last time the evening before.

Once on the water everything takes on a new sensation. Layers of the storied memory begin to materialize from a myriad of possibilities. It might be the majestic mating flight of a pair of bald eagles screaming high above, or the mysterious American dipper (a.k.a. water ouzel) walking on the bottom of a riffle picking off caddis fly larvae. On a rare occasion, a shadowy form slides through the water to emerge on the shore, the magnificent, playful river otter. As is the case when perched in a hunting stand, the depth of the experience is marked by the unexpected appearance of any number of birds and mammals. Or it might be the refreshing smell of bruised mint plants along the shore.

A hatch begins. Silvery flashes at depth expose feeding trout. Along a drift line, dorsal fins cut through the current punctuated by faint sounds of slurping. A frenzied few moments elapse while trying to find the fly that matches the emerging adult insects – which of the three species are the trout locked in on? And then all is quiet. That opportunity has passed without a hook-up. But the day is long, there will be something later.

Commotion along the overhanging sedge mat signals a new chance. Easing into position, measuring the length of the cast, waiting for the interval between rises – it is time. A gentle cast places the low riding salmon fly (a type of stonefly) a couple metres above the spot of the last two rises, a mere centimetre or two from the overhanging sedges. The timing and placement were spot on. The fly drifts into the feeding window resulting in a slurping swirl. Hook set, the fight is on – a strong run downstream, a jump, a run upstream, another jump. She tires, slides into the landing net, and with a headshake tosses the fly. A beaut, unharmed save for a small sting in the lip, she slides out of the net and retreats to the depth of the pool.

Over the next two hours, the big fish continue to take the salmon fly. And then one sucks the fly deep into its gills resulting in a stream of blood sliding along its flanks. This one will go home with me. On shore, a quick blow to the skull plate ends its life. I pack up and head home.

A couple days later, friends are invited to dinner. The trout, with only the gills and guts removed, is encrusted in a blend of sweated diced onion, chopped parsley, crushed toasted almonds, and lightly seasoned with lemon juice, salt, and fresh ground black pepper. The cavity is filled with the same mix. This will go on a soaked cedar plank ready for the grill as the guests arrive. It will be served with garden fresh green beans and a blend of whole grain and wild rice. An oaky chardonnay will complement the offering.

As the guests arrive, they are offered an assortment of cheeses, mixed nuts, and smoked mountain whitefish from an earlier excursion. The mood is joyous.

The appreciative guests take their places at the outdoor dining table that affords them a view of the Canadian Rockies as the sun sinks low in the sky creating accents of crimson, orange, and slate gray along puffy white clouds. Inevitably, questions about the catch are asked. I oblige with a narrative that need not be embellished as it is good enough as is. Together, we venture into ethics and philosophy, the gift of harvest, the exhilaration of being in a mostly natural setting. The authenticity that comes from eating from the bounty around us. I deflect the compliments stealing a sentiment I first heard expressed by the amazing chef Michael Smith of Prince Edward Island, “What makes it a great meal are the guests.” But in my heart, I know what made it special were the water ouzel, the otter, the eagles, the fawn nosing the pool for a refreshing drink, unaware of my presence.

I have been privileged to learn how to prepare special meals, to build on what the French refer to as terroir. There is a special sense of place that comes with honouring the unique flavours imparted in the fish from the sediments they feed from. This is especially wonderful with a well executed shore lunch. Sometimes all that is needed is a beautiful aromatic extra virgin olive oil, salt, and pepper and the fish on a grill or cast-iron skillet. Or one can go exotic as the time I infused fresh caught sturgeon with lavender blossom water so that it forecast the upcoming dessert of lavender crème brulee. In each meal, whether simple or exotic, the focus is to honour the fish to be eaten. Each time, it connects in some way to my childhood experiences; each time it presents the opportunity to relive the events from the winter-time pre-flight preparation through the catch, meal prep, and enjoyment. It, for me, is always a line-to-table moment.