MOUNTAIN LIFE - Blue Mountains | Spring 2019

SPRING 2019 ML BLUE 45 “Each river has something different about it. The Bighead River, for example, hasn’t been stocked in years. It’s what we call a naturally returning fish population, with a density quite thorough for a system relying on its own reproduction. A lot of other rivers in Ontario have had help to re-establish the numbers, and the success rate there is quite good, too.” The Bighead stretches from Bognor in the heartland of Grey County and empties into the Nottawasaga Bay via downtown Meaford. It’s a unique stream because of its relatively small size, its thick surrounding forests and its solitary nature. Aside from diehard locals and the visiting anglers who know about its treasures, the banks are empty, and the cold-water fishery that has developed is proof of its under-appreciated reputation. The further you’re willing to hike, the better the fishing is. Trip talks about the guiding experience he offers his clients: “A lot of these people at the end of the day aren’t paying me to catch fish; they’re paying me to go on an adventure. The fish are the cherry on top of the sundae.” We fish the lower section of the Bighead mid-afternoon in Beautiful Joe Park. Trip shows his true talent as a freshwater fish savant. He hooks into a monster female steelhead when I’m parking the car, and a smaller male about an hour later. Later that afternoon, we hike a solid 3.5 km into an upper section of the Trout HollowTrail that traverses the ruins of an old hydro dam. The sun comes out, and Trip ties into a gorgeous female hiding in the shallows. She’s visibly healthy, plump, and glistening in silver and amber scales. This is the type of fish you see in the movies, but I’m 15 minutes from home, tromping through the bush with some friends and a beer in my hand. We hike out and head southwest a few clicks and set up camp beside a tributary of the Bighead on a friend’s back 40. We can’t fish here in early spring, but the trout are present. There are a few bulls hanging out under fallen logs in a section of bush that looks more like Narnia than Grey County. We light a fire and crush a few beers under the stars with the babbling water keeping us company. We end the night discussing sustainability and environmental protection. Key to Trip’s guide philosophy is a dedication to protecting the environment, but not in the regulatedways youmay think. He’s an advocate for respect first and foremost, and his hands-off approach is both refreshing and motivating. “ We aren’t so much keeping [the watershed] healthy. It’s its own strength and force that is—guys at large are still abusing it. But it’s still only at its dawn of existence as a fishery. All this has really exploded within the last 30 years, so it’s still in its infancy. We don’t have stewardship [initiatives] funded by government—a lot of the time it’s fishermen like myself and my friends who are bringing down our own garbage bags and collecting garbage along the way. When I bring people out, I don’t want them to see a Coke bottle at their feet, but if they do, I want them to see people cleaning up and taking care of their resource.” At the crack of dawn, there’s knocking at my tent flap. “Go time, bud.” Half an hour later we’re 5km away and I’m yelling “fish on” for the first time with a fly-rod, all before the sun comes up. Beyond stoked and a smidgen hungover, I let the line remain taut and play with the fish at the other end. I reel it in to reveal a finger-sized brown trout staring back at me, but I couldn’t care less how big the thing is. I’m hooked. Pun intended. Anglers from the world over: Russia, New Zealand, South Africa, Sweden, Switzerland—you name it. They all want to fish here.