Specifically, consider purchasing the MyNature Animal Tracks App and/or the MyNature Tree Guide App. Both applications make it easier for the user to identify tree or animal tracks by prompting for general characteristics and getting more specific after each response. Think of them as ‘techy’ field guides for teachers, outdoor ed instructors, anglers and hunters and outdoor fanatics.

What you might not know is that Kari Murray and I conspired together to pitch the next potential app for the MyNature programmers. Developed with permission from MyNature apps, we hope you get a laugh from the video and consider purchasing their ‘real’ applications. (The Quicktime file is 4 mb)

I was sitting with my friend, Darrell, in my dad’s living room when he shared this personal story of one of his fishing trips from years ago…

The story goes that, Darrell, and a friend had been fishing Tim Lake in Algonquin Park. They had been fishing hard without any success and were constantly weighing anchor, from spot to spot, around the lake. Finally, they decided to quit and return to the river mouth that would lead them to their vehicle.

As fate would have it, the winds picked up and they began to struggle against the wind and waves. They quickly became frustrated from the amount of work they were doing while fighting the wind. An hour and half into their epic and blustery battle, Darrell, noticed that they had canoed past the river mouth they were attempting to find.

He told the man in the bow who was paddling ferociously against the wind. Darrell did not get a reply.

Fatigue and desperation began to ‘set-in’ for the two paddlers. Despite the wind, they should have reached the river mouth sooner than they had.

At that moment, Darrell noticed something.

He debated whether or not to tell his friend in the bow. He yelled one more time over the wind,

“We forgot to bring the anchor up!”

“What?!”, his friend yelled.

“WE FORGOT TO BRING THE ANCHOR UP!”, Darrell repeated.

The story ends there. I guess the look that, Darrell, received from his friend was priceless.

The lesson is simple

When fishing in high winds, don’t forget to bring the anchor up.

On a practical note – Is life, away from the fishing boat, sometimes like that? We all paddle furiously, at times, to get ahead and reach our goals. It can be so frustrating when the ‘over-worked’ ground we make is so minuscule.

Check for anchors.

Perhaps there is something that is holding you back. An anchor long forgotten. Something like a broken relationship, or a mis-management of priorities, or a wrong you need to make right.

Your hardest and best work may all be for nothing if you have not dealt with a forgotten anchor. It can also keep you from seeing what is important – like the river mouth that leads you to your car.

End of sermon.

*My reloaded blog posts are some of my favorite previous posts made current again.

Painting by Salomon van Ruysdael/ Wikipedia

1. It has a PETA label

2. Dora, Mickey and Barbie market it.

3. Seconds into a muskie fight you notice the “light action” designation above the handle

4. Birch bark is peeled back to attach your reel

5. It emits a bright neon beam of light, has no visible line guides and sounds like a Star Wars movie on your back cast

6. It won’t launch the mailbox lure you mistakenly bought at the novelty store

7. It hisses and has a forked tongue

8. An Orca takes your bait

9. Your fishing partner has 10 fish and you don’t

10. It’s not made by FethaStyx

I first met Tigerback while practising some swimming lengths at the camp’s waterfront. Something caught my attention in the shallow end of the waterfront while I exited via the the deep-end ladder. A large smallmouth bass was swimming very close to the surface of the water. I could clearly see the ‘tiger-like’ formations (at least they looked like that to me)on it’s back as it swam back and forth between the docks.

I named it Tigerback and it soon became legend!

After a few minutes of swimming, he disappeared into the murky depths.

Later that week, I managed to call mom to bring me fishing gear. I was going to go Tiger hunting. For three afternoons I threw everything I had in my tackle box to try to entice a return visit from ‘Tigerback’. I casted spoons, plugs, jitterbugs, and Mepps around those docks with not , so much as, a swirl from its tail. When I was not working  - I could be found at the docks casting like a mad man.

Captain Ahab would have been proud.

After several days defeat, I visited the waterfront again – without my fishing gear. I thought some swimming would get my mind off the behemoth fish. After a relaxing swim, I started to towel off my hair when I noticed Tigerback swimming some victory laps in the shallow end again.

Oh, if I only had a harpoon!

I left the waterfront in disbelief as I watched the wary bass swim back out into the river.

Two weeks later I returned with a new battle plan. Six of my campers wanted to try fishing. They had never done it before. We raided the craft cupboard and found some 20lb test line and a package of hooks.

It seems destiny favored the creative.

Then, we found some sturdy sticks that we could tie 6ft lengths of fishing line on to. The final touch consisted of some worm hunting in the camps flower beds. With a dozen, or so, worms in a coffee mug we marched down the waterfront hill and started fishing with our rustic equipment.

The kids loved it. Their eyes were wide with amazement as perch and sunfish would swarm their hooked bait. I would spend several minutes that afternoon going over the parts of fish, identification, and hook removal procedures.

I forget which kid it was, but suddenly, we had an issue. One of the kids said, “I am hooked on something!”

As we peered over the edge of the dock I saw old ‘Tigerback’ with a hook coming out of his mouth. The 6ft line did not leave room for a fun fight. I simply helped the kid pull the brute out of the water and on to the dock. The kids swarmed around the lucky angler and watched with gaping mouths as held ‘Tigerback’ by his bottom lip and unhooked him from the small hook.

One of the kids remarked that they swim with that thing and hinted that his final afternoons at camp may be spent canoeing and not swimming. With some more questions and pointing, the kids waved to ‘Tigerback’ as I released him to the dark depths.

These kids became hooked on fishing from that day forward. That was the secret of old ‘Tigerback’.

No one has seen him since.

I suspect he is still out there.

Somewhere.

If you want to catch him. Take a kid fishing.

*My reloaded blog posts are some of my favorite previous posts made current again.

I believe the saying, “a bad day fishing beats a great day at work” to be true. With that said I feel that if world leaders on the opposing sides of any given issue were to come fishing in the same boat – the world would be a better place. In order for this to work, I would implement the following guidelines:

• They would have to net each other’s fish. This starts to develop trust. I know I “bank” on the guy who is about to net my fish.
• They would help each other unhook any fish caught. This develops team work.
• They would enjoy the scene surrounding them. This develops an appreciation for the beauty, peace, and tranquility that can exist in our wold.
• They would ask each other for an opinion on the lure they are about to take out of the tackle box. This develops listening skills.
• The day’s only topic of discussion will be how can they can get together like this again and enjoy it.

For those of you who wonder why I issued a challenge for a bad day fishing instead of good day, my reasoning can be made clear if you consider the following quote,

“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” Henry David Thoreau

If you are a world leader and are willing to abide by the following rules, email me at Muskoka Outdoors. Please let us know who will be attending our adventure. Only one Security Agent per leader. Muskoka Outdoors will take care of the rest!

The fast moving water seemed to retreat around him with every step. It was at that moment I knew that I had entered the water with a real Streamwalker.

Craig Releasing a Big East Brookie

When the fly, I tried to cast into the chosen pool, got hung-up in the branches on shore behind me – I knew my journey to becoming a Streamwalker was just beginning.

While untangling my fly line from the offending bush,  my eyes tried to ‘take-in’ where I was. I had never fly fished in an area like this before. It was like the pages of my favorite  fishing magazine had come to life and I was wading in a western Canada whitewater river. I was only 40 minutes from home and wading in a virtual trout paradise – somewhere on the Big East River. It was the kind of place only a Streamwalker would know about.

When I was ready to try a second cast, I noticed that the Streamwalker was already releasing a second trout. Amazed, excited and almost discouraged the words of another master came to mind,

“Do or do not. There is no try…”

I started my backcast and methodically started working the deep pool with a small Adams. Slowly, I began to work my way towards the angling master. It took me awhile to notice at the beginning, but I am pretty sure he would watch and anticipate my route down the noisy river. He would leave some pools and underwater ledges untouched by his fly. He at least hoped that the trailing rookie moving, clumsily, toward him might be able to tempt a wary trout.

That was the only mistake I saw him make. I could not catch anything but suspended branches behind me and hidden rocks in the babbling stream.

Halfway through our journey down this section of the Big East River, we both stopped and rested on rocky boulders. He asked me what I was using and hesitantly I showed him the tattered fly barely clinging to the hook.

“That’s no good,” he said. “Use one of these.”

Craig - Streamwalker

I think he slowed time as he reached for my fly rod with its shortened tippet. The route downstream had been hard on it.

Before I could protest with any kind of significant resistance, he placed the reel back into my hands with a new marbly, green-beaded nymph and fresh section of fly tippet. This time our adventure continued with the Streamwalker showing me how to read the water for ambush points, rocky ledges, and depth changes. He reminded me to start my casting close and finish towards a 12′oclock position when I approached a new section of stream.

“The least amount of times your fly hits the water before you let it drift increases your chance for a strike,”, he instructed while I struggled to get my nymph to reach a suspended tree trunk on the far side. My friend made his way upstream to me and kindly gave me a lesson in false casting. My casting distance improved slightly after that but it became quickly apparent to me that I may not ever become a Streamwalker.

With a looming sunset on the horizon, we decided to make our way back to our vehicle. The walk back upstream was silent and tiring. The problem with fishing in a spot chosen by a Streamwalker – is the walk back. I found myself wanting to make one last cast back into the pools we had fished hours earlier. It did not help that I had not hooked any trout. Despite this fact, the experience of fishing in such an incredible and seemingly remote area made this trip very memorable.

Later that evening, I tried to explain to my father where I had just been fishing. It seemed my description of area landmarks triggered some old and almost forgotten memories in his mind. He shared some stories of, some 50 years past, how he had spent time on that very section of the river with his father. He then proudly announced that his dad had once caught some nice speckled trout in the very pool my adventure today started in.

It would seem that my grandfather was once a Streamwalker…

The story you are about to read is not for the squeamish at heart. That’s probably why you won’t find it in any Canadian history book. I assure you that it really happened.

I was there. I started it.

It all began with our annual father/son fishing trip into Algonquin Park. None of us wanted a war – we just wanted to fish ’till we dropped. We set-up our campsite on a very large portion of the island that you see (in front of you) as you exit the Tim River. It was flat and sprawling. This made it ideal for a large group like ours.

After camp was ready, dad and I explored the surrounding area. Behind the campsite was a hill. A trail led up to this hill and at the top of it you could overlook the campsite. The rest of the guys were sitting around a campfire. If you followed the trail further, you would come to the outhouse that ‘serviced’ the campers.

It would have been a great photo-op, but dad and I never intended to bring the camera with us. After admiring the view, I took a small step back from the side of the hill and something crunched under my foot.

I looked down.

I had just stepped in a big pile of crusty, aged moose pellets. Dad chuckled. Upon further inspection, we noticed there was a ton of them in various piles at the top of the hill. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe, it was because we held the high ground. Perhaps, I was still enough of a kid to think it would be funny. I grabbed a moose pellet and launched it toward the guys sitting around the campfire. I thought dad would take issue over what I had just done. Instead, he grabbed a couple of pellets and fired a volley.

That’s how easy wars can start.

It took a few seconds for the guys to realize what exactly was falling from the sky towards them. Their reactions varied from, “What is that?” to “WHO IS THROWING THE MOOSE POO?!”

Their payback was swift and quick. We were quickly dodging falling moose dung. I remember laughing so hard my stomach and jaw hurt. For about 25 seconds all you could observe were grown men, and their sons, diving and dodging to avoid being hit with ungulate pellets.

I was glad Dad and I held the high ground. We were spared from the guys’ full fury.

As quickly as it started, it was over. I think the reality of what were doing finally hit us. The sounds of war subsided except for various flare-ups of laughter. We all washed our hands (that was for your sake mom) and returned back to maritime civilian life.

The war was over. The battle became known as Moose Hill.

* my Reloaded series of posts are old posts that have been enjoyed by MO blog visitors in years past. They may be buried in my blog to be easily found.