Urban angling
There’s great fishing to be had — within city limits,
Wearing waders, Matthew Saieva stands knee-deep in the Humber River gracefully casting a homemade fly into a pool under the 99-year-old Old Mill Bridge. Bands of gold shout through the grey dawn. A cormorant bobs on the cool, shallow water. The nearby tennis courts are vacant and the river’s muddy banks are dotted with footprints: raccoons, ducks, herons and rubber boots.
“When I’m fishing, my mind is blank,” says the 20-year-old Toronto angler. “I’m not thinking about anything. It’s very soothing. It’s very good stressrelief.”
It’s a perfect escape from his hectic family home and the pressures of university.
I’m joining Saieva and David Clark to fish for a Toronto trout to eat. The Ministry of the Environment and Climate Change’s Guide to Eating Ontario Fish states most of the city’s fish are safe to eat. I can’t help but find that a little surprising.
Toronto’s rivers and lake don’t exactly conjure up images of aquatic delicacies. Growing up in the city, I shared the prevailing urban opinion that Lake Ontario and its tributaries were as filthy as waterways could be.
While this was more-or-less true when my folks were young in the 1950s and ’60s, contaminant levels have since declined. Still, many of my millennial friends won’t touch the lake. But in light of the province’s guidelines, I’ve decided that I want to try a Toronto fish.
Saieva and Clark spend a lot of time fishing in the city. Both are members of the Toronto Urban Fishing Ambassadors, or TUFA, a collective of urban anglers who educate, advocate and regularly host waterfront cleanups and family fishing events. They agree to help me on my mission.
Clark co-founded TUFA in 2012 in response to the Harbourfront Centre’s attempt to ban shore fishing along its expansive lakefront property. With the help of city councillor Paula Fletcher, TUFA successfully fought the ban early that summer.
“The fishing ban was one of the best things that happened here because it solidified the anglers,” Clark says. “People suddenly realized there were fish here because it got so much publicity!”
Clark says the best places to fish are the Toronto Islands, Tommy Thompson Park, the Scarborough Bluffs, Toronto’s waterfront and the Don and Humber rivers. Trout, salmon, bass, carp, pike and perch can all be found.
“Most people in Toronto can’t afford to have a family cottage like they did when I grew up,” Clark says. “But you can go fishing right here in the city and enjoy the parks.”
Clark takes the TTC from his tackle-cluttered apartment at Queen St. W. and Spadina Ave. to meet me at the Old Mill subway station at 6 a.m. on a Friday in early May. Doorstep fishing, he says. It couldn’t be easier.
He comes armed with rods, tackle and a pair of waders — rubberized overalls attached to boots. He wears a TUFA cap low over his eyes and gets animated when we talk about fish — which is most of the time.
Clark spent a long night bussing tables and washing dishes at a downtown pub. He didn’t finish work until 4 a.m., but shrugs off my suggestion that he get some sleep.
“Originally it was for relaxation and to get engaged outside with the natural world,” he says of fishing in Toronto. “It’s become — now with Toronto Urban Fishing Ambassadors — a way to give back to the city that has given me an awful lot.”
Raised in Peterborough, Clark has been fishing since the age of five. He has lived and fished Toronto’s waters for the past three decades.
A half-dozen fisherman are within eyeshot when we arrive where the Humber River runs under the Old Mill Bridge, just 500 metres from the station. Saieva is already there. “I like being on the river, just exploring,” says Saieva, a Toronto-native, whose first fished at a family cottage at the age of two. “Everyone nowadays — even my friends — they’re all stuck with technology. We need more people to go outside and actually enjoy the outdoors.”
There’s a sincere childishness to his laugh, which seems incongruous with his long ponytail and short goatee. He wears a diamond stud in his left earlobe and a hoodie adorned with a rainbow trout. Saieva fishes year-round and a few times a week.
Clark wastes no time getting started. He rigs up spinning tackle with a weight and live worms.
“I usually don’t eat what I catch,” he says. “We generally like to promote catch and release.”
Saieva agrees — he only eats about one catch a year — but they both decide to humour me. Saieva’s setup is more elaborate than Clark’s — he uses colourful homemade flies, bundles of fish eggs, worms and multicoloured plastic beads that resemble roe. When he’s not in his environmental sciences classes at York University, Saieva sells his insect- and egglike creations through his online company, Kypefish Quality Flies. Clark shows me how he rips a worm in half and hooks it. I borrow his waders and enter the river. Birds sing and flit in the trees. I cast. A trout jumps and splashes upstream.
Clark tells me about the time he saw a mature buck grazing along the banks of the Humber, just south of Bloor St., close to where we are now. “It just floored me.” An hour passes. The waders leak. Tiny fish nibble the bait off my hook afew times before I finally get a bite. I reel to disappointment. I’ve hooked an ugly little goby: an invasive species believed to have been brought to the Great Lakes in ballast water from Eastern European cargo ships. Clark says it’s illegal to throw it back or use it as bait. We leave it on a rock to die. “A seagull will eat it,” he says. Clark, Saieva and I try different spots along the river, passing graffititagged bridges, the subway rumbling above. We see a raccoon scampering on the eastern bank, a mink slipping into the water.
When we go back to the Old Mill Bridge, Clark and Saieva both land several white suckers — a common fleshy-lipped bottom feeder. Clark says they’re good eating, but I’m set on a Toronto trout.
By10 a.m., most of the other anglers are gone. The sun illuminates the water. Fish are supposed to be active in the cool early morning, but defying fisherman logic, this is when the trout start biting.
Saieva lands a small silvery rainbow trout. He decides to give the fish a chance to grow into a proper dinner.
I catch my second and last fish — a little glittering chub that’s only a fraction of the size of my hand.
“You finally got a real one,” Clark grins as I release it.
A gull dives into the water nearby, catching a chub too.
“Everybody’s catching fish!” Clark says.
On one of his last casts of the day, Saieva hooks the Big One.
He reels. The fish fights. Saieva’s rod bends. Fearing the line will snap, he attempts to tire the fish out.
“I think she’s hooked in the tail,” he shouts as they fight. Only fish hooked in the mouth are legal to keep.
Saieva manages to get the 2.5-kg fish in the shallows before grabbing it.
“She’s fresh from the lake,” he says before releasing her. She had been travelling upstream to lay her eggs.
By noon, we’re done. Clark needs to rest before his 5 p.m. shift and Saieva plans to meet a friend. We carry our gear onto the subway. There’s something delightfully incongruous about riding public transit with tackle and fishy smells on your fingers. We get more than a few curious looks.
While the suckers we caught are decent eating, I had my heart set on a Toronto trout, so Clark put a call out on TUFA’s 500-plus member Facebook group and local angler Colin Hatcher offered up a 2.5-kg fish he caught that same morning, slightly south of where we fished near the Toronto Humber Yacht Club.
The province’s Guide to Eating Ontario Fish recommends no more than one meal per month of a Humber rainbow trout this size. Because children under 15 and women of child-bearing age are more sensitive to contaminants, the guide recommends they eat none. By comparison, anyone can enjoy eight trout this size caught near Thunder Bay.
Hatcher, who runs a small catering business, was born and raised near the Humber and has been angling since the age of four. He still lives a short walk from the river and goes fishing every chance he gets. He says he eats a river trout every month.
“They have way more flavour than store-bought trout,” he says.
Hatcher brings the gutted trout into the Star’s test kitchen to cook. He removes its fins and belly fat before carving a fillet. To assess the fish’s health, he checks the fillet for blood spots and bruises. He finds none.
He sprinkles the fillet with sea salt and black pepper and sears it in olive oil for a few seconds in a cast iron pan. With the skin facing downwards, he transfers the pan into an oven preheated to 380 F. The fish bakes for 10 minutes and is served with a sauce made from melted butter, garlic, lemon juice, olive oil, and dashes of oregano and parsley.
“Don’t eat the skin,” he warns. “Toxins.”
I find the fillet tasteless and a little rubbery. At least the butter sauce redeems it. I chew slowly, deliberately.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself. I force a swallow. I think about toxins. I imagine this trout living its fishy life dodging plastic bags and sunken tires. I know the fish is OK, but I can’t shake the stigma. I am happier not knowing where my dinner came from.