Brush with Death
By Ian Colin James
My brush with death happened when I was fishing in the Niagara Gorge
for winter steelhead and salmon. I was with a woman who was doing
exceptionally well, taking three fish in three casts - very unusual in that
watershed - and I'd helped her land them. I still hadn't had the chance to
set up my rod. And, due to the activity of running around and helping her
land the fish, I'd become quite warm and removed my thick, heavy jacket
plus the two sweaters I was wearing. Inside the gorge, it is usually quite
warm, and it is often possible to fish there in February wearing a sweater.
On her next drift, she hooked into something big and, not wanting to lose it,
handed me the rod to ply it out. I stepped back onto what I thought was an
ice-covered rock, but busted through a thin sheet of ice and fell into the
Niagara River. On the way in, I took a deep breath, figuring once I hit
the water I'd be too cold to inhale.
I popped to the surface, traveling at a hell of a rate, all the while struggling
to keep afloat. As I was being pushed further out into the swells and massive
mud-colored waves, all I could think of was, "Shit, this is loud" and "Shit, the
last thing I'm gonna see is a bunch of sea gulls. Oh well!" Then the current
pulled me back toward the shore. As soon as my feet hit the gravel and beach
boulders, I scrambled for dear life until I was on the shore. As I excaped from
the water - shaking like a grizzly bear - several other anglers who had seen what
was going on grabbed my jacket and sweater and were running along the shore
to meet me. I stripped off, dried myself with one sweater, then slipped into the
other one and my jacket. Walking barefoot through the snow, 300 or 400 yards
up the side of the gorge to the car, was nothing more than a slight inconvenience
compared with what I'd just gone through. Back at the car, I hugged the
dashboard heater until all the fishing gear and wet clothing had been loaded into
the trunk. We drove back to Guelph - a two-hour trip - and wearing only a
sweater, I vowed with each passing mile that it was the last time I would fish in
the gorge. It was - although, since then, I have fished many times several miles
above the Falls for both smallmouth bass and steelhead. . .
Funnily enough, a couple of years later, and at almost the same spot in the Niagara
River where I'd gone for a dip, Wee Dougie, a float fisherman I tie flies for, was
drifting for bass on a warm summer day. Out of nowhere, there were people
running around, and a large silver barrel floated up to the shore. The hatch was
popped open and a very confused-looking chap, bleeding around the head, was
extracted from the barrel and dragged away. Dougie just went on fishing.
Minutes later, as a chopper hovered overhead, the police arrived, screaming and
yelling into walkie-talkies and at Dougie, asking him if he had seen what happened.
Thinking an answer of "yes" might screw up his day of fishing, he went with, "Can't
tell ya anything; that thing was laying there before I got here. Thought I'd fish around
it just in case any smallmouth were using it as a current break. You'd think someone
would clean up that crap, or at least float it over to the U.S. side. It's gotta be bad
for Canadian tourism." Then he asked the cops of they knew of any hot patterns for
catching bass. As he put it, "Well, they were standing right there!" Given the
circumstances, most fishermen would do the same. Later he found out the police were
going to charge the daredevil, under the Niagara Parks Act, with "stunting," which carries
a fine of $10,000. ~ Ian
Credits: From Fumbling with a Flyrod, by Ian Colin James,
Published by HarperCollinsPublishersLtd. We thank Ian for use permission.
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