Kamloops - There's No Place Like Home

Having a wild obsession with fly fishing and growing up in the interior of British Columbia is a match made in heaven. I have had the opportunity to fish some incredible destinations around the world, but the sheer diversity of the Kamloops area always makes it easy to come home. With over 100 lakes in less than an hour’s drive time, one can never say they are short on options.

By: JORDAN OELRICH

After over a decade of relentlessly pursuing every corner of BC’s stillwater fishery, many days spent fishing begin to blend together. However, there are always those that stand out, both the fish that you are lucky enough to land and the ones that leave you wondering. I’m here to recount two fishing experiences that have etched themselves into my mind to a point that just the mere thought of them brings me to another place.

#1 – Against All Odds: British Columbia’s trophy lakes are a challenge at the best of times, the fish often have an abundant food source present and a PHD in “Fly Inspection 101”. The purr of the engine increased as I climbed in elevation, this is the middle of May but still there are snowflakes dancing across my windshield.

This was going to be cold, very cold, but it only takes one trophy rainbow trout to warm the hands and the soul.

The barometric pressure was in the basement, high winds and sleet were forecasted, why did I think I had any business choosing this day to chase double-digit rainbows? Because sometimes the fish gods smile upon you, even in the most unsuspecting of times. After an hour of embracing the vehicle’s heat, my fishing partner and I arrived at the lake and stepped outside.

“Wow, we’re the only ones here!” I said half-jokingly. The fierce wind brought the air temperature to something you would expect on Christmas morning, not in the heart of springtime. We leisurely put on every layer possible, set up our rods and took the cam straps off of our boats. This was going to be cold, very cold, but it only takes one trophy rainbow trout to warm the hands and the soul.

Many of our “trophy” lakes are managed as catch-and-release, have a massive population of free-swimming scuds (freshwater shrimp), and have a purposefully low population of fish that inhabit them. If you add all this up, it is the recipe for fish that will easily break the tenpound mark. Do they come easily? Absolutely not. Are they worth it? Of course, why else would I be pushing my boat into the water as a wall of precipitation quickly approaches?

The air temperature was hovering 5 degrees above Celsius, with the howling wind making things that much chillier. I drop my anchors and send out two lines, each rigged with a small chironomid pupa. I am parked on a shoal with one line set at 5 feet, the other at 7. I could’ve fallen asleep in my little one-man aluminum boat, there were no bugs hatching and only ten minutes in I was already chilled. In a near trance-like state, I look up to see a strike indicator is buried as the line is swimming through the water. “There he is!”I lift the rod to no avail. There he was, I guess.

I was shaking with adrenaline, figuring I had just blown my shot at a trophy fish while my frozen hands tied on a new bug.

I couldn’t believe I had even managed to convince a fish to eat in these conditions, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. In the first hour I had hooked 6, landed 3 and was filled with a slightly optimistic feeling about the rest of the day. The bite was steady, the fish had likely adjusted to the low barometer that had been present for the few days prior, and there were just enough chironomids hatching to get them on a feed. After a few moments of stagnancy, I had a fish take my indicator down with such force that the 4X tippet was broken before I could get the rod out of the holder. I was shaking with adrenaline, figuring I had just blown my shot at a trophy fish while my frozen hands tied on a new bug.

As I was casting, lightning struck again on the other rod and caught me totally off guard. The reel was singing before I could get a hand on the cork, and as I set the hook I watched a fish that was surely in the ten pound range clear its entire body out of the water.

Before I knew what was really taking place, I was into my backing as the fish cartwheeled in the middle of the lake. There is no way to prepare for such chaos, but these are the moments that validate suffering through less than ideal conditions. After a few minutes, I had the fish on a short leash as it made a few attempts to wrap itself around the anchor ropes. I reached for my net as my heart began to beat faster and faster, the silhouette of the fish suspended in the water below my boat not helping my cause one bit.

I diligently played the fish until I could get her laying on her side, and on the first attempt slid her headfirst into the net. This was easily the biggest fish of the spring season for me that year, and my partner rowed

his pram over towards mine with his camera in hand. I grabbed the tape, and she measured 29” from the tip of her nose to the fork of her tail. All of a sudden, I didn’t realize how cold it was or how hard the wind was blowing, if this were the last fish I ever landed on a fly rod I could die a happy man. Still shaking, after a few short photos and a quick admiration of what a special fish this truly was, she swam off with ease to hopefully be caught again on another occasion. I did not put my line back in the water immediately, instead I took a moment to take in what I had just experienced and appreciated the fact that even though conditions were against us that day, it only takes one moment like this to make the day a total success.

We dropped anchor in 19 feet of water and each set our chironomid imitations at different depths, his at 17 and mine at 15.

#2 – A Pattern Broken: My seventeen foot stillwater craft slid into the lake off the trailer, my mind wandering to previous memories of a lake that had brought me both heartbreak and incredible success in years past.

This was my first trip to this body of water for the spring, as I had convinced myself I had it “sworn off ” after so many unsuccessful trips the year before. Sitting on a body of water for eight consecutive hours with no results has a way of breaking down your confidence levels sometimes.

My fishing partner Dave and I made our way to the far corner of the lake, I kept my outlook optimistic and my expectations fairly relaxed. Sometimes it is easy to forget that we are lucky just to have the chance to go fishing in a beautiful place like this, number or size of fish landed aside. We dropped anchor in 19 feet of water and each set our chironomid imitations at different depths, his at 17 and mine at 15. We sat and talked for nearly an hour, our conversation never interrupted in the way that we were hoping it would be. As a faint hint of discouragement began to wash over me, I decided to move my rig up two feet in the water column.

Before I knew it, a rod-ripping grab took place as the indicator shot below the surface. I was sure there had to be a big fish on the other end of the line, and though my assumption was not correct I was met with a healthy rainbow of 14 or so inches. I figured that perhaps moving my fly up in the water column had something to do with it, so back out it went. Again, another fish that was a perfect clone of the last one latched onto my fly. A tight line is a tight line, but where were the big ones? This pattern continued for five straight fish, all roughly the same size, and as soon as my fly would reach its desired depth another fish would eat it.

We began to joke about how we might be fishing in the “nursery”, my laugh was interrupted by the strike indicator submerging mere inches below the surface. I leisurely grabbed the rod and set the hook, preparing myself for another cookie-cutter rainbow on the end of the line. The fish immediately swam towards me, feeling fairly similar to the last five fish that had eagerly climbed on my fly.

The measuring tape read just past the 28- inch mark, and the girth resembled that of a rugby ball.

As I continued reeling, something felt off. There were no vibrating headshakes making their way up the line, and as I tightened down on the fish I realized the pattern had been broken.

I felt as though my line had been tied to a submarine, with the fish leisurely towing me around without yet noticing it had been hooked. Suddenly, hell broke loose as the fish turned around and emptied the fly line and a generous portion of backing off of the reel. The fish leisurely pulled as much line as it pleased, occasionally turning and swimming straight towards the boat to give us a good scare.

I was trying not to let my mind wander to what could possibly go wrong at this point, as I knew the list was long.

After multiple diligent attempts to get the fish’s head turned towards us, finally we were able to get her in the basket. The measuring tape read just past the 28- inch mark, and the girth resembled that of a rugby ball. I realized as I watched a massive tail propel her back to the depths that no matter where or how far I travel in pursuit of new fly fishing opportunities, there is no place like home.