Of Fishing and Marriage: An Engaging Paddle

In honour of our recent engagement, Francine and I decide to celebrate with a canoe trip down the Shikwampkwa River. I tell Francine that I chose this gorgeous Northern Ontario flow because it reflects her purity and beauty. She accepts this explanation but I suspect she knows I chose it more for the deep swirling pools of walleye than for the swift riffles and easy rapids squeezed between its pine-studded rock and gravel shores.We’ve been on several river excursions together and Francine is well aware that my paddling trips are actually thinly veiled fishing trips. But with this being our first trip since becoming formally engaged, compatibility issues are now in sharp focus.

You see we come at angling from different angles. I revel in every aspect: finding fish, selecting the right lure, bait, and presentation. I like photographing fish, admiring fish and I enjoy releasing them unharmed. Francine’s relationship with fishing is a bit more practical. She sees it as a means of procuring flesh for the table. I know from previous experience that any fish unfortunate enough to bite her lure is destined for great things, like floating around in a pan of hot oil.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time we slide our canoe into the Shikwampkwa. We’re prepared for foul weather but the overcast day and the onset of driving rain begin to grate on our spirits as we wend our way down gentle rapids and swifts. Time glides by as swiftly as the current but as the day wears on our perpetual dampness is punctuated by pangs of hunger.

Luckily, we’re within sight of the island where we’ll camp, but the alluring prospect of shelter and food is suddenly diminished by the need to angle.Ahead lies all the warmth and nourishment I need in the form of a deep walleye pool. Here a short riffle eddies out into the slack water sequestered behind a spit of rock. To paddle past such a spot would be like ordering a cold beer and not drinking it. I lower the anchor and we pull our fishing gear from wet packs.

The walleye are holding near bottom where the current and slack water meet. I cast and let my lure sink before deftly bouncing a small jighead and white soft-plas- tic grub along bottom. I have the walleye dialed in and a precise presentation means hooking a fish every few casts. I catch and release the fat green-and-gold river dwellers in quick succession and, with the fish giving such an enthusiastic endorsement of my angling skill, the hours slip by like minutes.

I glance at Francine. Her rod is resting across the gunwales of the canoe—a sure sign of waning interest. Although she is catching her share, rain soaking through her jacket has dampened her angling zeal.

“I’m tired of fishing, let’s just keep a few for supper and head in,” she says.

Rain trickling down my back only lubricates the angling machine within and I’m shocked at the suggestion of quitting. Anything less than four or five hours is a bit of a letdown, especially when the fish are biting. Francine points out that, without fish, our evening meal will consist of a well-travelled package of freeze-dried chili. I tell her I’ll keep a few fish closer to dinner, “they’ll be fresher that way.” Francine knows this is simply an excuse to fish all evening.

“I think you like fishing more than sex,” she sighs. Luckily I am anticipating this statement. It’s the inevitable accusation from the partners of passionate anglers. I laugh and quickly reply, “Of course not my dear, don’t be ridiculous.” Thankfully, fishing from a canoe, I don’t have to look her straight in the eye.

While contemplating the pros and cons of the two activities, I’m jolted from my musings by a double-header. We both have a fish on. Although Francine obviously has the bigger of the two, she is too worried I’m going to let mine go to enjoy the battle waged by her walleye. She twists around to face me.

“Keep it!” she commands as I’m pulling the jig from a 16-inch walleye. As I lower it to the water she makes one last desperate plea as she reels. “Wait, we’ll stuff it with rice and bake it by the fire.” But even in the face of this last fervent appeal, I loosen my grip and the walleye swims away. Francine’s wrath falls squarely on her fish, although she looks directly at me as she snaps the walleye’s neck. “We’re heading in,” she states.

Vivid hallucinations of lines forming on my fiancée, dividing her into shank, ribs and loin convince me of the need to eat. We pull anchor and make for shore. I get to work reconstituting the chili while Francine prepares the walleye. Although I’m quite willing to share my chili, I’m not sure how Francine feels about sharing her fish. But when we sit down to our respective feasts, Francine slides a large fillet onto my plate and garnishes it with a kiss.

Freelance writer/photographer James Smedley lives in Northern Ontario. He has earned nine national writing awards, his most recent from the Outdoor Writers of Canada National Communication Awards for 2002. 

This article on canoeing and fishing was published in the Summer 2003 issue of Canoeroots.This article first appeared in the Summer 2003 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.

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