The Fish Course
Whiteswan Lake, B.C. June 4
Succulent as scallops served on pea puree, Whiteswan Lake held my interest with its unique flavour. Everything I’d read about the lake promised a pleasing experience. Whiteswan proved an exceptional one.
The drive in, on a logging road off Highway 95, south of Canal Flats, heightened my determination to see the lake. We climbed steadily on a winding road, surfaced with crushed rock. Often, from the passenger window, I looked a hundred feet straight down, into a treed gorge, where water dancing over rock, played peek-a-boo with me.
After driving approximately fifteen kilometres, we came upon a tiny picnic site at the side of a small lake. Disappointing – you bet. Though it was pretty as a bluebell in a patch of scrub grass, it would take all of ten minutes to circumnavigate. Den, who did all the ferrying, suggested we drive further. This can’t be it, we decided with more hope than fact. The rain, till now, just spitting damp spots into the dusty road, took an interest in wetting everything. Go on or turn back? The consensus was we were paddling this lake, no matter what.
Our reward for perseverance soon appeared – a long stretch of water flanked by mountain vistas on all sides. As we drove down the south side of the lake, we passed several small picnic areas, and even a small marina and cement ramp. However, we continued around the east end of the lake to Whiteswan Provincial Park, a quarter of the way down on the north side. With the ceiling hanging low and gray over the lake, we kitted up in our wet weather gear and launched into a light crosswind coming down the length.
We decided to cross into the shelter of the south shore, and in our usual inexplicable style picked the widest part of the lake, then paddled on a diagonal, to make our route even longer. Ten minutes out, the rain stopped and I was boiling in my cold weather gear. Taking off clothing in a kayak is always a challenge. I managed fine until the leg zipper on my dry pants stuck, and I was forced to shore. Stripped down and paddling strongly I joined Barb, already intent on lining up a shot of me against the awesome mountain range to the west.
While I cruised the inlets along the shoreline, searching for magic in the smaller details, Barb took the direct route down the middle of the lake, scoping out the larger picture. She explained it allowed her to keep up with me, as her Tsunami was heavier and flatter than my Perception.
At the west end of the lake we found shallow water, the surface smooth as a shaving mirror, surrounded by the prickling growth of reeds. Fallen leaves formed intricate patterns on the sand bottom. Here the various bird songs coming from the fir locked shores, formed a playlist of nature’s best. We met up with Den, and ate lunch at the small marina we’d passed earlier. Unwilling to end the glorious experience, we decided to circumnavigate the lake, and Den, as patient and affable as ever, agreed to drive back over the rough road to the Provincial park again.
Off we went, paddling up the north side of the lake. There were few people on the water. I spotted only two fishermen, and a family of three in a canoe the many hours we paddled. At times, the silence and beauty created moments of rapture that stilled my breath, or shocked out an explanation of delight.
Loitering, we continued our tour of nature’s art gallery. A tree trunk split by lightning became a dramatic sculpture. Mountain streams formed gushing waterfalls as they leapt across the rocky edge to join the lake. Rocky abutments loomed like unfinished works.
Then long shadows floated beneath us, again and again. They were large fish, eight to ten pounds, swarming along the north shore. Clusters of five, three, seven were clearly visible against the pale sand bottom. In ignorance, I called to a nearby fisherman, “Here’s the spot. There are fish everywhere.” “They’re spawning,” he called back. “What kind are they?” I asked. “Trout.”