The Art of Hiking and Cosmological Maintenance 11

The morning was fresh. The world was new. Gone were the cobwebs of sleep and the phantasms of the unconscious. Ogopogo was just a branch sticking out of the water. The Sasquatch was just a fallen tree. The three maidens were just moonlit ripples in the water. Only raven was real. His echoing crow as he carried the sun in his beak and brought forth a new dawn in this corner of the Pacific Northwest.

Yawn like a bear. Scratch like a cougar. Tousle hair like a fox.

“Good morning. How did you sleep? Hmm. You seemed out of it. I was dog tired, but it took me a while to catch some Zs. Every little sound was enhanced. I could hear the pine needles falling on top of the tent. Mysterious noises all around. Had a couple of nature calls too. So, I went down by the creek. When I turned on the headlamp, I saw a bat flying through the trees. At one point it flew towards me, and I thought it was going to land on my face. Can you believe it? That’s just what I need: turn into a frigging vampire in the middle of nowhere.”

But that was just a faint irrational memory, and in the clarity of the morning light, all that mattered was that a new day had arrived in all its full splendor.

We grabbed our cooking gear and made our way to our private spot on the lake shore. It wasn't too far from the the campground, but we had to climb down through a rugged little path and jump down the nearly empty creek. We had to hold on to the tree roots that snaked out of the primeval soil like the mighty haietlik (who shot bolts of lightning with its tongue). The mud was slippery on the embankment, but thankfully most of it had already dried. So getting to the lake was a little adventure in and of itself.

The morning plan was to make pancakes and brew some coffee. Easy enough under typical conditions at home. Out there, however, the procedure was a bit more intricate. We found a nice spot beside a fallen log and sorted our gear to determine exactly what we needed. Stove, gas canister, pan, ingredients, utensils and dishes, bamboo paper towels, coffee, of course, and fire. Oh yes, soap and water. Our cooking set-up consisted of a tripod-style stove mounted on a fuel canister. I always got a kick of just how small the stove was; it fit right in the palm of my hand. Talk about minimalism!

We mixed the ingredients in improvised plastic containers and bags. Then poured the batter onto a portable titanium pan, which had been coated with cooking oil as it warmed over the stove. We made a mess of the first few pancakes but scraped up the results nevertheless and poured generous quantities of maple syrup on them and lathered them up with copious amounts of peanut butter, so they turned out quite delightful after all. I often marvel at how we’ve been conditioned to think of food a certain way. Pancakes have to be round. That’s just how things are. Yet, there I was in the bushes happily munching on clumps of burnt batter, and they were the most delicious pancakes in the world.

Coffee consisted of Starbucks instant packets, which was quite the glamping thing to do, but there you have it. I make no apologies because the results were superb. We dropped the coffee into collapsible plastic cups then filled them up with freshly filtered water from Singing Creek. I could sit here and enumerate the corporate evils of Starbucks, which I hear are plentiful. But I won’t lie to you. At that moment, Starbucks instant coffee tasted like the nectar of the gods. And no, I’m not getting a cut of the profits to say that. I’m just a happy customer (INSERT STARBUCKS LOGO HERE).

After eating, we proceeded to clean up, and this was also a methodical procedure that required plenty of clean water. I grabbed the Sawyer bottles and made my way across the campground towards Singing Creek. The creek wasn’t singing so much as loudly belting out her torrential song. Its current rushed down from the mountain and numbed my fingers as soon I stuck them in the water. I then followed the filtering procedure of the Sawyer Squeeze water filtration system, which basically consisted of filling up the plastic bottles with fresh water and squeezing it through a screw-on filter into a pot.

To be on the safe side, I also stuck the UV steri-pen in the filtered water and twirled it around for a few minutes to destroy any microscopic critters.

Fresh and full of energy, we grabbed our Tenkara rods and headed back to the lake. We had decided not to bring our standard fishing gear because it was heavy and cumbersome. The tenkara rods were perfect for hiking because they were telescopic and easy to fit in a tube-shaped case. We strapped them up to the side pocket and barely took any room at all. Plus the the set-up had the added bonus of making us look like intergalactic explorers.

Tenkara fishing is based on an ancient Japanese fly fishing technique. There are numerous small streams in Japan, so fishermen of old developed a way to use compact gear in order to harvest the streams. In those bygone days, the fishing gear generally consisted of a bamboo stick, a line, and a fly (which they carefully and meticulously crafted like wise sages under bamboo groves). The village fishermen used to dart up and down the streams- keeping an eye out for bears- with one hand holding aloft the fishing rod, swinging it back and forth in quick succession, causing the fly to swoop across the crisp mountain air and then fall gently into the water as if from heaven. The word Tenkara in Japanese means “fishing from heaven”, and some speculate that the word originates from the trajectory of the fly as it descends from the air and onto the stream. The nimble and methodical fishermen worked the stream, hiding behind rocks and luring the fishes with quick strikes. Having caught a trout or some other specimen, they chucked it in the basket dangling from their side and quickly moved up the stream.

In modern times, this ancient fishing technique has developed a cult following, and yours truly has been unashamedly taken in by the whole thing. I enjoy the active, precise, and Zen-like nature of tenkara fishing. I was looking forward to this moment, but there was one kink in our plans. Tenkara was developed to fish small streams not lakes. Because streams are often surrounded by brambles and trees, it is better to use compact gear that will allow you to cast without getting your line entangled everywhere. With its almost austere set-up, the tenkara method is suitable for these environments and highly portable. As far as lakes is concerned, the effectiveness of the technique is open to question, as we were about to find out.

We stayed in our private spot where shrubs and branches grew along the lake shore, so it wasn’t possible to cast from there. We had to take a few steps into the water, and it didn’t take long before our lines got entangled on the tree branches above us. This meant that we had to wade deeper into the icy water and within a couple of minutes, our legs grew numb.

“We’ll have go to the other side,” I said and walked back to the shore, where I gathered my gear. “The beach is wider, and we’ll be able to cast from shore.”

We scrambled up the embankment and then headed across the campground towards the beach. The water had a rich greenish hue and looked positively cold. With the lush mountains in the distance, it was an amazing spectacle of nature. But I was on the hunt, and my appreciation of the environment was not one of aesthetic but of practical necessity. Survival was serious business. So, I set up my tenkara rod and got down to it.

We began on one end of the lake and then moved along the shore. Our short tenkara lines looked pitiful against the great span of the lake. It quickly became obvious that unless we went deeper into the icy water, we couldn’t cast far enough to reach any promising spots.

What about Singing Creek itself? The current was too swift as it streamed at an angle down the mountain, and the terrain around it was rugged and impassible. I was about to give up on the whole tenkara affair when I remembered the advise of a fisherman on Youtube. He recommended casting near the mouth of the stream because that area contained many nutrients carried by the current into the lake. Fishes were likely to congregate there to feed.

I waded across the freezing current of Singing Creek and set up my little fishing base station near the mouth, where the stream emptied into the lake in a roiling mixture of water, bubbles, minerals, and debris. It was a wonderful spot with very little vegetation near the open shore. I raised my arm and swung my rod back and forth. The line sailed like a lasso- glistening under the sun- and snapped back in an arc when I swung back, then forward again. Yahoo! The attached fly- sporting a stylish black body and red wings- followed the arc of the line then descended onto the surface, where it was immediately pulled and carried by the currents beneath.

The fly disappeared under the surface, and the only clue of its location was the angle of the line as it swept in an arc around the lake shore. The turbulent current tugged on the line, and at times it felt like a fish bite. My heart leapt every time I felt the a tug, and I pulled back only to find little resistance on the other end of the line. Nothing. But just when I was losing hope and becoming impatient, I felt a sharp tug on the line, and I quickly pulled back the rod. There was resistance this time. Jerky movements to and fro. I heard splashing on the water and saw the silvery sheen of the fish as it twisted back and forth on the surface. I held the rod in place as the fish swam back and forth. Given that the rod did not have a reel, the trick was to let the fish tire itself. Then slowly but firmly I pulled back a little on the line, and the fish came towards me without a struggle.

It was a trout. It squirmed when I grabbed it. Slippery bugger. A good size too, so it was a keeper.

Pluma couldn’t believe it when I told her.

“You decided to cast there because you remembered advise on a Youtube video?”

Had I told her that I used divination, she would not have been more amazed.

“Tonight we feast on fish!” I said to her with a grin. I could see she was jealous of my prize and not at all pleased I had been the first one to catch one. She quickly positioned herself in the exact spot from where I had cast and unceremoniously sent me to the other side of the creek.

No sooner had she dropped the line than she announced “a bite!” and pulled back on the rod. There! Quicksilver beneath the surface.

“Hold it steady!” I reminded her.

“I am!”

“No you’re not. You’re pulling back, so hold it steady!”

Snap!

The fish was gone. It had spit out the fly.

“I almost had him!” she said beaming with a smile in spite of the lost catch.

We ended up catching three trouts and resolved to have them with pasta for supper.

Overhead, the sun was bright and the lake shimmered like a polished emerald. The day seemed endless and so was our joy.