Thanks Dad

Some of my earliest and fondest memories of my father relate to his teaching me to love and respect the land.

It seemed as though a weekend never passed without us heading north out of Toronto on yet another camping trip or a stay in a rented cottage.
Dad would pile blankets and pillows on either side of the transmission hump on the floor of our 1962 Pontiac up to the level of the back seat, load up the car and then put myself and my sister, both still half asleep, in the back seat where we would drift back into a slumber.

When we awoke, we would already have been on the road for a few hours and on the way to what for myself was another great adventure.

I didn't always know where we were going and in point of fact neither did my dad on many occasions.
At times he would take us to a favourite camping spot on the Nottawasaga river and at other times we never knew until we got there.

On one such occasion that still makes me smile, he had borrowed a camper from a friend and by the time he found a place to stop it was already well into the darkness of night.
We awoke the following morning to find ourselves parked right next to an ancient overgrown graveyard!
While most of us didn't give it a second thought, my mum was unimpressed to say the least and refused to spend another night there and unilaterally decided we were moving on.

On on another occasion during the opening day of trout season I remember Dad hooking into a large fish in the Nottawasaga river.
Large enough in fact to garner the attention of a couple of local reporters who were there in hopes of getting a picture of the first rainbow trout of the season.
There hopes were dashed when he pulled a large carp into the shore.
Our hopes were dashed later on when we tried eating the damned thing.
I still recall the lineup at the garbage can!

When dad did catch a trout however, it was an entirely different story.
He would clean the fish, smear a thick layer of butter inside and outside of it, add salt & pepper,tightly wrap it in several layers of aluminium foil, and then toss it onto the hot coals of the campfire.
The aroma that escaped when the foil was opened is something that has seared itself into my memory.

Another occasion found us much further north in the spring scouting out a place to spend our summer vacation.
There was a stream running into the lake, and in this stream there were so many small fish swimming side by side that you could hardly see the bottom of it.
A disagreement started between my dad and a family friend as to whether these fish were smelt or chubs and it seemed to go on and on.
"Why don't you just grab one an see?" I volunteered, and was promptly told how ridiculous my idea was as the two got back to arguing about it.

Undaunted I left them to there discussion/argument, lay down on the bank of the stream, an scooped a fish out with my hand.
After I dropped the fish at their feet, it was decided that they were indeed smelt.
As best as I recall, "Do you think you can do that again?" was the next thing they said to me.
With that said I quickly caught another one and the next hour or so found all of us belly down beside the stream flipping smelt onto the shore like a family of hairless bears fishing for salmon!

The afternoon found us cleaning smelt, dredging them in seasoned flour and frying them up for supper.
That is to say my mum fried them up as she had balked at the idea of catching the wiggling little silver fish by hand with the rest of us.
I think we ate smelt until we were ready to burst!

Somewhere along the line dad bought me a fishing rod and we spent countless hours together on river and stream, lake and pond, from the tiniest brook to the mighty great lakes.

As I grew, so did my love and respect for the forests and waters of Ontario and all the living things therein, and if my dad never taught me anything else, this would have been enough.

I recall fondly my dad waking me up well before dawn and heading down to the boat carrying our fishing rods, tackle boxes, and a bag full of bacon & egg sandwiches prepared by my mum for our breakfast out on the water.

On one such occasion I recall fishing on Rice Lake and watching the sun rise over the misty calmness of the lake which without a hint of a breeze seemed like a perfect sheet of glass.

We watched as an Osprey circled silently overhead, silhouetted against a perfect blue sky as it searched the bay we were in for its prey.
Without warning the raptor's wings folded back and it dove with incredible speed towards the surface of the lake.
This magnificent bird was reflected beautifully on the water until its talons broke the quiet calm, first with a ripple and then with a boiling splash as its talons closed on the unsuspecting fish.

The Ospray's wings began beating mightily against the air as it worked to break its catch free of the water.
For a moment it seemed that the bird may lose the battle, but then it began to rise back into the air.
Once free of the water the Osprey turned the fish head first in its talons and unleashed a long series of what I can only describe as a series of exalted screens of victory as it rose high into the morning sky.

I don't recall our exact words that morning but it was something along the lines of "What an incredible sight that was to witness"
I do recall though that dad, half laughing mentioned he hoped to catch one that big himself.

There were of course many such magical times we spent together on the waterways of Ontario, from the morning calm on the French river to cooking lunch on the stove on an ice hut on a frozen Lake Simcoe and even to being caught out in a storm on the mighty Lake Nipising where we doubted our sanity for being out there, but I'd not trade a single one of them for all the video games and skateboards that seem to so impress much of today's youth.

My dad was never a hunter but when I took it up he was always ready to hear of my exploits upon my return to the city.
Or, I might add, to share in a feed of venison, rabbit, grouse, or whatever I had been hunting on a particular outing.

Many of my fondest memories are of the times I spent hunting and yet I still owe my non-hunting father a debt of gratitude for them.
The way I see it is that had he not instilled in me a love of the natural world and a longing to participate within it, then those memories would simply not exist.

Before I close this I just want to mention that after my father passed away, I sprinkled his ashes in Rice Lake, not to far away from the bay where we both watched that Osprey.
He would have liked that.

Thanks Dad.