LET ME TELL YOU about the Niagara River. For one thing, technically it is not a river. It is, by definition, a thoroughfare — a connective waterway linking Lake Erie to Lake Ontario. But to most people, including me, it's a river. Above Niagara Falls the serene stretch serving as the actual border between USA and Ontario, Canada, appears to be more akin to a placid lake than a river. In this section the substantive current is disguised within a broad stroke of serenity. But after the massive flow drops over the world's most famous gigantic waterfall and then meets up with the discharge from two hydropower facilities near Lewiston, New York, the river takes on a more sinister demeanor. There, the water swirls like the cauldrons of Hades. In fact, the vortices, undercurrents, and swells of this tremendous body of roaring liquid bring to mind an image of Satan's toilet — as imposing to the eye as it is downright frightening. It should be of no surprise, then, that this place is located in the close proximity of the historical landmark called Devil's Hole. To a fly angler, this gargantuan torrent presents a huge, if not scary, temptation.

For many months after the onset of autumnal splendor, the lower Niagara, as it is commonly called once the great flow descends the falls, gets an enticing run of steelhead. These are the migratory rainbow trout that have grown very big while cruising the water of Lake Ontario. For the average angler, though, there is a problem. Finding a place to fish on the lower Niagara is extremely difficult — and even dangerous — especially for those looking to hook one of these beauties on a fly rod. There are a couple places along the American and Canadian shore that are reasonably accessible, but others aren't recommended for the mere mortal. "Big Pants" run is one of them, and the idea to name this location as such came after several years of consideration.

A day on the Niagara usually starts with a stop at the local Dunkin' Donuts. But ever since the American Medical Association made the ultimate declaration that obesity had become a national epidemic, I can't say that gulping a sugared "old fashioned" was done anymore without guilt. The proclamation was good news for diet programs, but bad news for doughnut shops. Though many of us are affected by this health alert, I constantly find myself asking what's the point of a good fishing trip if you can't stop at a Krispy Kreme or two along the way.

Apparently, though, statistics don't lie, and as I was downing the last bite of a peanut stick one day before heading to the river, I got to thinking about the implication of this edict for today's young folks. Ever since video games and the Internet have replaced sandlot ballgames and a walk to a local river with a fishing rod, they say children today just aren't active as they used to be. This may be true for some kids, but all I know is that the older teen I observed a few weeks earlier in Denver cruising down the edge of twelve cement stairs on his skateboard seemed to be in great shape, and the stunt was definitely breath-taking.

In my day, as the old cliche goes, kids weren't quite so bold. Occasionally, a few of us would ride our bikes down a smooth country road with "no hands" gripping the bar. In wintertime these same foolhardy souls would build a pile of snow at the base of a dinky hill and dare to soar over it on a two-runner sled with the speed of a slow motion replay. But the most brazen my cronies and I would ever get in our lives of reckless abandon was to sneak up behind Peggy McMahon, tug her pigtails, and then run for nearest cover. The fact that she was the daughter of a plumber with hands like vise grips added substantially to the risk. Still, that danger didn't quite compare to the feats of today's kids, which include activities like riding a mountain bike down a sheer rocky incline or catching air while snowboarding a snowy slope at sixty miles per hour.

I have to say, however, the most impressive aspect of these born-again Evel Knievels is not the daring of their everyday stunts. It's not the metal hanging from various holes drilled in their bodies, the colorful riot of hair, or even the tattoos painted on sundry parts of their anatomy. For me, it is the size of their pants. They are very big. You know the type: hanging so low on the hip and ballooning so huge below the knees, one has to wonder why a gust of wind doesn't lift these guys into the sky like a kite. But such are the uniforms of the audacious extreme crowd of the XXX generation — the badge of distinction that sets them apart from those of us who have chosen to live more wimpy existences. The pants command respect. Thus it is with great respect that I marvel at the accomplishments of these youngsters who seem to defy laws of nature and shun the call of doughnuts while pushing the boundaries of what any reasonable person would think is possible. It is also with great tribute that my brother and I have named this section of the Niagara "Big Pants" to honor the "no fear" element of today's youth who snub conventional limitations for the sake of a thrill.

The hazards associated with getting to places like Big Pants are manifold, and they are compounded at certain times of the year when there is rain, or snow, or ice. There are washed out paths, high precipices that drop straight to the river, slippery slopes, mudslides, and rolling rocks. Climbing down to the water often requires the use of a rope tied to a small tree. Along the shoreline, angular rocks covered with a slippery green slime make each and every step a challenge. Great volumes of water push to the bank, and when the visibility is clear enough, the drop into the depths of nothingness is quite apparent about two feet out.
Falling into the ravaging maelstrom would be certain death. In the winter, since the water averages only thirty-two degrees, death would just be more instant. But if one is lucky enough to latch onto a steelhead sitting tight to the rocky drop off, not yielding to the siren-like allure of chasing the fish into the nether regions further down river is essential to maintaining good health. Big Pants is extreme fishing at its best.

Since living in Montana prevents me from fishing the Niagara regularly, I do take advantage of the opportunity whenever I get the chance. Last March, for instance, bamboo business took me back to Western New York during a particularly good time for steelhead. It had been a mild winter, and my brother reported that the fish were quite active and unusually frisky for this time of year. Since this is the kind of tip that a serious angler doesn't take lightly, I couldn't wait to get to the lower Niagara.

The north wind chiseled through my high tech garb as I got out of the pick-up that March morning. Filled with the carbs only doughnuts can provide and stoked with several cups of caffeine, I observed the roaring river from a high perch. The chill factor off water still in the mid thirty-degree range compounded the initial sting. Given the harsh conditions, it would have made very good sense to consider one of the closer accesses along the river. Trying to out-last the elements for even an hour or two would be difficult. But the decision to fish Big Pants was made while pulling up my waders in full consideration of the body heat that the mere act of getting there would generate. During the process of tying up the laces on my wading shoes, an elderly woman approached the tailgate of my pick-up. Chubby in a cherubic sort of way, she was taking a stroll with her rather silly looking four-legged companion.

Without getting into any of the wearisome details, it seems that I have a propensity for attracting an odd array of individuals willing to bare the essence of their very souls at the mere acknowledgement of hello. I'd like to say it had something to do with obtaining paranormal powers after sticking my finger in a light socket at one point in the past, but there really is no plausible rationale for this magnetism. The diminutive being of rotund features tethered to her squish-faced, pop-eyed dog was definitely no exception. Within seconds of a brief hello she was talking about the Bible, the devil, and something to the effect that everything in the world these days is "going to hell in a hand basket." Trying to be polite, I agreed with what she was saying, although her thick Slavic accent made it difficult to know exactly what I was agreeing to. But that didn't stop her proselytizing about God's plans for those of us who dared to stray off life's straight and narrow path. She was a kindly lady who could have been anyone's grandmother, and I continued to nod along at her barrage of comments. Using sex-education as a demonstration of her allegations that our schools are today's version of the devil's workshop, she ranted about the ultimate conspiracy: "Vy, dey evint teach da boyz how to put condems on der vieners!" At that point I excused myself, though I was hoping that it didn't seem I was siding with Beelzebub. Although the call of the river overwhelmed any desire to respond to her preaching, it never occurred, either, that this chance encounter could possibly have been an omen of things to come.

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Jerry Kustich worked at R. L. Winston Rods for 22 years and is now starting a new bamboo rod business with his former rod-building team. He is also author of At the River's Edge (West River Publishing, 2002), and co-author with his brother Rick of Fly Fishing for Great Lakes Steelhead (West River Publishing, 1999). Article copyright © 2004-2006 Jerry Kustich.