Getting Hooked

“Keep watching the pilot, keep your eyes on the pilot”, I kept telling myself as our tiny air plane lurched up and down over the trees below. I figured there was no way he could keep merrily munching on his peanut butter sandwich if our lives were in any real jeopardy…right? Luckily, the thought of him scarfing down “a last meal” never crossed my mind.

  The noise inside the aircraft was deafening. There was no use trying to talk to the other passengers, so I scanned them to see their reactions. Over my left shoulder was a 60 year old man with a large Tilley style hat. His eyes wide with what I perceived as fear, or at the very least, regret. He gave me a look that said “what the hell are we doing”? In the back of the plane was a fellow dressed in full camouflage fatigues, with brown shoulder length hair, a few days of scruff on his face and a bandanna around his neck. His arms and legs were stretched wide, spanning the width of the fuselage, in an attempt to brace the plane against any further movements. Behind him was all the gear we packed to get us through the upcoming week. It was held in place with a cargo net, which I had no doubt would be totally useless in preventing the contents from crashing into our heads if we were to go down. He had the same look as the other guy but he did muster up a slight smile. I gave him the obligatory nod and then glanced up to the only other passenger, who was sitting next to the pilot. His long hair hung over the map in his hand as he studied it intensely. He would glance down at the map and then out the window, in an attempt to track our progress. He looked more relaxed than the pilot. Maybe it’s smoother in the cockpit?

 The plane, a De Havilland Otter, had split personalities. On the outside, its fresh shiny paint made it look new. She hid her age quite well, until you boarded. Scanning the inside revealed that there was no attempt by the owner to hide the more than 50 years of service she already had under her belt. The walls were bare metal with tiny folding seats running up each side of the fuselage. Each had an old seatbelt that reminded me of my dad’s car when I was a kid. There were a few notes written with marker on the wall. Not graffiti, but reminders… “close this after shutdown” and “this side only”.

 The day before, we had left Oakville Ontario in two pickup trucks around 4 in morning. We drove virtually nonstop for 14 hours to reach our destination, a little town in northern Ontario called Nakina. A few more kilometers down a dirt road brought us to a lake which served as the base camp for our outfitter. When we arrived it looked deserted. There were a few float planes tethered to docks and not much else. It was eerily quiet as we walked around the storage sheds and a very simple “office building”.

  Just then, a door crashed open and a short, stocky man came stumbling out. The bottle in his hand was not the only clue to his intoxication. He was staggering and swearing but he seemed friendly enough. “How does it look for flying tomorrow?” my father asked him. He scratched the scruff on his face, looked up at the sky for a moment and then said, “it looks pretty fucking good to me” and then burst into laughter. Then he commented that his cigar tasted like an old *&^@, and made his way into a shed. Not wanting to pick his brain any more, we made our way to the cabin we had rented for the night.

 It was then I realized that somehow I left my sleeping bag at home. I knew exactly where it was. Dreams of the lonely bag sitting by itself in my front hallway, haunted me that night. It was mid June, so I didn’t have to fear frost bite, but I knew I stood a good chance of having some cold sleeps. My dad was good enough to borrow a few blankets from the Nakina cabin, which we gave back upon our return. Either time, we did not see the owner of the cabins, or any other sign of life. The doors were kept unlocked and we just helped ourselves. To this day I’m not sure how my brother paid for them, but I’m sure he did.

Pass Me A Unit

Weeks earlier, we were instructed to be at the dock with all our equipment at 7am to board the plane. That was one appointment for which we wouldn’t be late. The morning was cool and clear and there were already a few groups of fishermen at the dock when we arrived. They were pacing and chatting with controlled anticipation. The largest group of guys and girls had just driven all night from Ohio. They had already unloaded their gear and now were busily unloading cases of beer. It was a site to behold; numerous stacks of two-fours, each four feet high resembling a mini Stonehenge. The beer just kept on coming like clowns out of a Volks Wagon bug. As the last case emerged from the pick-up truck and was placed on the dock, a pilot came over and asked the group how they planned on getting “all that” to the outpost cabin. “Ahh…in the plane”, one guy replied with a question as much as an answer. “Well, you’ll have to leave your girls or your fishing gear, because you’re way overweight” the pilot responded. As I stared at the blank looks on their faces I pondered how glad I was not to be faced with that dilemma! After much consultation, they had no other choice but to hire a second plane, whose sole purpose was to transport its passengers of beer. At a cost of $900 for the flight, that would be the most expensive beer they would ever drink…but it’s better than running out when you’re a 100 km bush-whack from a beer store.

 Even with the second plane, they didn’t have room for all their cases. That’s when Stan and Sean sprang into action. You see, after seeing such a display of ale, they were becoming increasing nervous that we grossly underestimated our own beer supply. Suddenly, it now seemed that two cases per guy wouldn’t cut it. What happens if it’s hot, or we spill one? The Ohio group gladly accepted our offer to buy some of their extra cases so they could put the money toward the beer flight. All I recall is a blur 20 dollar bills flashing and cases being tossed around like sacks of potatoes. 

Once the commerce was complete, we began to chat. They were a good group of guys and we swapped stories. They told us about one lodge that they visited that wouldn’t allow them to bring in their own beer, thus forcing them to buy from the lodge. They said, the lodge sold the beer by the unit and it cost $5 per unit. When they asked how much beer was in a unit they were informed that a unit was 1 can of beer! They were selling beer for $5 a can! From that day on, when fishing, we refer to a can of beer as a unit.

What If He Is Our Pilot?

As we watched their beer take off into the sky, a loud bang caught our attention.  A door on one of the sheds flew open and a small stocky man stumbled out.  We recognized him immediately as the drunkard from the night before.  As he made his way toward the group, we joked that he’s probably a pilot.  We stood in silence as he walked past us and climbed into the pilot’s seat of a floating Cesena.  The little plane bobbed side to side as he shouted profanities and instructions to the student help.  “Holy shit, that guy has to still be hammered”, Sean remarked.  We all laughed. “Holy shit, what if he’s our pilot”, was his next remark.  We all stopped laughing.  Luckily the plane was too small for our group and two 60 year old Americans happily jumped in. A puff of dark exhaust spewed out of the plane’s noise, hung in the air for just a moment and then quickly got sucked into the propeller as it picked up RPM’s.  The pilot didn’t taxi as long as the other planes and quickly accelerated.  I don’t know if the wind picked up or if indeed it was the pilot’s shaky hand, but as the plane reached the tree tops its left wing suddenly dipped looking like a kite when a kid yanks on its string.  The right wing of course moved up violently as if being pushed from below. The pilot over corrected the movement and plane tipped in the other direction.  I didn’t want to witness a tragedy that day and luckily we didn’t, he eventually got it settled down and disappeared into the horizon.  I was becoming a little apprehensive about boarding our plane.

First Cast

Our pilot screwed the lid back on his bottle of milk, wiped his mouth with his hand and started to throttle down.  The engine became quieter and the nose of our plane started to dip toward Aba Lake. Outside the window the trees whizzed by faster and faster.  Landing on a river provides a different sensation than on a lake because you get a true sense of your speed since the river banks are out each side window and are pretty close to the plane.

The pontoons eased into the water with a spray of white and I cocked my neck in order to peer through the porthole type window to get the first glimpse of the outpost cabin.  Tall, thin Poplar trees flanked the sloping land down to the water.  A swath had been partially cleared from the cabin to the shore which was carpeted with wild grass.  The cabin was four particle board walls, a sloped roof and a small window over looking the lake.   Even from my vantage point in the plane I could see that the entire building was sloping towards the lake.

The dock creaked with every step and water splashed up between the boards, staining the grey, sun bleached wood, a dark brown.  The pilot started handing us our gear and we ran it to the shore.  The previous day, my dad proudly showed off a neat mesh box that my mom had purchased from the dollar store.  When not in use, it folded up flat, but when stuffed with clothes it took a box like shape.  Stan managed to get all his clothes into this bright orange bag-box, thereby saving the weight of an actual duffle bag or back pack.  I headed down the dock as he was making his way up. He had the bag-box in his hand and held it over the lake to make room for me to pass as he made his way by.  Before I reached the plane, there was a tearing sound and when I looked back, the only thing in his hand was a small piece of orange mesh and his bag-box was floating in the lake.  “Shit, that’s all my clothes for the week”, he yelled.  I felt guilty for laughing but they would dry.

Buried Treasure

Before we flew out, our outfitter informed us that some of the people traveling up and down the river by boat often swing by his outpost cabins and help themselves to his customer’s gas and beer. “It was bitch of a problem”, he growled, “nothing I can do about it”. The Albany is one of Canada’s most historic water ways. Stretching 980km’s in length, it is Ontario’s longest river. Throughout the centuries, it served as the equivalent to today’s roads. It was the main connection to hunting and fishing grounds and neighboring villages. I find it fascinating that the Albany, is still some aboriginal people’s main source of transportation.  Sean said, “I just don’t feel comfortable leaving this much beer unattended”, and with that he strode off into the bush. About 15 minutes later he called for us to check out what he had done. He was proudly standing above a large hole dug into the mossy ground. He didn’t have to explain to us what it was for. The beer was placed in the hole and then covered with a tarp and then brush…just like the pirates did it! The nice thing about it was the earth kept the units at a very drinkable temperature. It is important to note we have never had any issue with anyone taking our units on any of our trips. However, on one of our trips on a quiet and dark night, Stan did have some units go missing but that was the year Stan and Sean brought along the same brand of beer…but that’s another story.

There was no time to unpack. We scrambled to get our reels attached to our rods and tied on our favourite lures. In less than an hour we had eaten a few sandwiches, placed our gear in the cabin and were heading out into open water. None of us knew what to expect. I’m sure the other guys had the same thoughts running through their heads as I did. Would the fish be biting everything we threw at them, turning the water into a frothing bonanza of walleye and pike? Were we going to see monster pike sucking birds off tree branches and chomping on toes dangled over the gunwale? Or would the water be “shut down”…skunked…conned into a five thousand dollar sight seeing tour? Only a fisherman knows the feeling of fishing water they have never fished before. It provides the excitement of the unknown and hundreds of acres of watery opportunity. That is why many of us carry fishing rods in our cars, just in case we come to a new lake on our travels. None of us can stand at a lake without wanting to cast into it. Now, combine that with the knowledge you are standing at a lake not ravaged by over-fishing, pollution, cottages, boats or jet skis. I’ve often thought about what it would have been like to fish in Ontario’s lakes hundreds of years ago, and this is the closest I would ever get.

Nobody spoke as we killed the motors and drifted towards the shore directly across from our cabin. The silence was only broken by the sound of splashing water as our lures landed. One cast, then another and another. Still no one spoke. I could hear myself breathing as I gently placed a finger on the line waiting to feel it tighten and send that instant adrenaline rush directly to my heart. “Fish on”, Chris yelled from the other boat. That didn’t take long! The thrashing fish made the sunlight on the water sparkle bright enough to hurt my eyes. A few minutes later the first pike was landed, photographed and released. It was a good fish, in the 8 to 10 pound range.

After that, things were quiet for quite some time, until I finally felt the resistance I was waiting for. I cast a non-jointed Rapala towards the shore and pulled it in front of a large boulder submerged in about 6 feet of water. It was a good Walleye about 2.5lbs. It was my biggest Walleye to date, because I had only caught two or three before. We decided to cover more shore line by using a technique we soon dubbed, “carpet bombing”.

It consisted of motoring parallel to the shoreline at a fairly quick pace and casting as close to land as possible, with a fast retrieve. The boat in the front would have unspoiled shoreline and the second boat would get the leftovers. So, when the front boat had a fish on, they were obliged to stop and let the second boat leap frog past. The numbers started to pile up. Every few casts someone would hook a pike and get leap frogged. It didn’t take long for us to realize that having more than one hook on your lure was unnecessary. It costs valuable minutes getting the fish off and it also increases the chances of injuring the fish. The next thing we discovered is that fancy lures were not required. The pike would hit anything, so it made sense to use spoons. They are cheap, have a great swimming action, can catch walleye and pike and are easy to retrieve. By the end of the trip all we were using was spoons for pike and plastic twisters for walleye.

We made our way to where the Albany River cut through the east end of Aba lake. The Albany is a big river, easily half a kilometer wide in some parts. I was surprised to see how fast it was flowing. Even in the smooth parts, the water still boiled periodically where the fast moving current would deflect off a large bolder underneath and be forced to the surface. Our only option was to head west, up current, because there is a large set of rapids where the river flows out of the lake. The current pushed the boats side to side as we motored full throttle. It felt like air plane turbulence. After ten minutes we came to a large bay on the north shore, which looked like a classic pike spawning area. The carpet bomb produced at least a dozen fish in less than an hour. Chris and Sean tried casting and trolling in the middle of the bay and that proved to be successful as well.

Frenchman’s
Chris had read about a famous fishing hole on the Albany called Frenchman’s Rapids. On the second day we packed a lunch and made the 2 hour trip up the river to the bottom of the rapids. The previous day had provided us with the best fishing of our lives, but Frenchman’s made the trip unreal. We made our way to a large island at the bottom of the rapids that divided the river into two equal parts. There was a beautiful deep eddy on the north side of the island. Sean didn’t have time to cut the motor before Chris had his first walleye hooked. Stan and I drifted in behind them. Then Sean yelled and he was on. Before that one was landed Chris had another one. Sean needed a break and as he was lighting a cigarette, his rod started bouncing. He quickly grabbed it and landed a beautiful walleye. He was catching fish without even trying! We weren’t having the same success in our boat and the frustration started to grow. Stan and I were using the same lures and fishing in the same spots but were being badly out produced. We were making a simple, but crucial mistake. We weren’t getting the jig down to the bottom where the fish were. Once we realized we wouldn’t get a hit unless we were feeling the metal head of the jig bouncing off the bottom, our fortunes turned and we started catching walleye almost every cast. Once in a while we would hook onto a pike that was swimming around the eddy feeding on the eye.

Each boat had a GRS radio so we could communicate if we were out of sight. Every time we caught a fish, when we couldn’t see the other boat, we would pick up the radio and say “fish on”. This allowed us to tell which boat found a good spot and the other boat would soon show up. After a while, there were so many fish it became a nuisance to grab the radio every time. This led to our next tradition. Each radio has a call button that makes the other person’s radio ring like a telephone. It became easier to hit that button instead of saying fish on. Every time a radio beeped a little tune, it meant the other boat had a fish on. It was funny how often the radios were beeping back and forth. Stan and I headed to a tiny bay on the main land about 20 yards from the island. As soon as my spoon hit the water I saw a large pike shoot out from the shore and grab it. While I was fighting that fish, Stan casted into the same spot and another pike grabbed his spoon. We caught 3 more pike in the same spot before heading up river and into the actual rapids.
Pool Of Death
As we left the island behind, the water started moving faster and the rapids quickly turned into class II and class III. I had the 10 horsepower motor full throttle but we were going only half the speed as before. Large standing waves splashed over the gunwale as I tried to navigate around the spots where I assumed rocks were lurking. After half a kilometer the river made a 90 degree right turn. I quickly turned the boat to the left and drifted into a calm pool that was almost a perfect circle. I needed a break from the white water action so I cut the motor and we glided quietly into the middle of the cove. Cedar trees lined its edge and there were old logs half on the bank and half in the water. The fish-finder read 17 feet deep just a few meters from shore. It was one of those places that you just knew had fish. I cast a 5 inch white twister tail into the logs and immediately a 3 pound pike hit it. The water was so calm you could see the fish rocketing out of the wood debris. My dad caught a pike on his first cast. My second cast produced an even larger pike and so did my dad’s second cast. We were laughing at the amount fish this little pocket held. The pike must have been sitting under the logs facing into the middle of the pool, just waiting to strike anything unlucky enough to venture into the middle. I had to get the pliers out to unhook my third pike. After a little dental surgery I released it and then threw the twister over the side of the boat so I could get a sip of my unit. As soon as the lure hit the water beside the boat, a pike came up and grabbed it. I quickly grabbed the rod before it was pulled in, set the hook and landed a hammer handle. That was the first time I caught a fish with no hands and without casting. We also jigged up some walleye from the middle of the pool. We named that spot the Pool of Death and it produced fish every day.

A Close Call
With such success, it was a unanimous decision to return to French Man’s on day three. This time Chris and I were in the same boat and we decided to fish some of the faster moving water above the island. Trying to keep the jig in contact with the bottom became a challenge in such a fast current. All my concentration was on the lure and not on navigating, so I didn’t notice that we drifted out into the main channel where the rapids were the largest. The shore suddenly appeared behind Chris, which meant the boat had turned side ways. Before I could say a word we were heading down river and at the mercy of the current. We both instinctively crounched lower and grabbed onto the gunwales as a large standing wave hit us in the side. As the water poured in, our gear slid off the seats and crashed onto the floor. The entire port side of the boat was only inches from the water as I threw my rod down and reached for the motor. That is when I learned lesson number three…always keep your motor running when fishing rapids. I grabbed the pull-cord and gave a surprisingly weak pull that failed to start the motor. By that time, we had spun completely around and were heading down stream backwards. I had two options, run to the front of the boat, so the back end didn’t get swamped when we hit the next wave, or start the motor and turn the boat around. I gave the motor another pull with everything I had. It fired up just as the next wave hit us. The motor spewed white smoke as I gave it full throttle. The stern of the boat dipped and water poured over the transom but I managed to turn the boat around. As we drifted down stream, in my mind I played out what could have happened. At the very least we could have sunk a boat, lost our equipment and damaged a motor. We all know what the worse case scenario could have been. The distance we were from a hospital hit me hard.

Near the end of the trip we were carpet bombing a shore that enclosed a large spawning bay. That was where Sean hooked onto the big pike of the trip, on his home made bucktail. It was a spectacular fight and the pike weighed close to 20 pounds. Strange thing was it had a green mouth; I am not sure what was up with that.

The whole trip felt like a battle against time. The fishing was so great we didn’t want to stop for a second. Even though we fished for 12 hours per day, the trip was slipping through our fingers and the end was constantly bearing down on us. We squeezed as much fishing as we could into the four days, but before we knew it the otter appeared over the trees, coming to take us home. There were a few misty eyes looking down at Aba lake as we arched our way south. It was four days of fishing that changed our lives. A once in a life time trip had instantly become an annual tradition.

Lessons From Trip One
1) Always bring enough beer
2) No need for fancy lures
3) A four day trip is too short
4) Never shut off your motor when fishing rapids
5) Don’t dangle your toes in the Pool of Death

Back To Aba-June 2005

Back To Aba
As the fog and rain closed in on us, the plane had to fly lower and lower to maintain visibility. Before I knew it we were skimming the top of the trees so fast they were almost a blur. Wisps of clouds hung down from the grey ceiling like ghosts. The forest was lush and green in contrast to the grey and dusty day. Then it occurred to me, what if the clouds keep descending…man…I thought our first flight into Aba was bad!

We pretty much booked our return trip to Aba Lake before we departed from our first one. We arrived the next year in mid June, 2005. Once again we arrived in the evening the day before our flight. This time staying in a cabin that was owned by a native woman. A large RV belonging to an American was parked outside and the sounds of a party were emanating from somewhere in its interior, but we never saw anyone in it. Luckily it departed shortly after our arrival. “I read about a spot we can drive to, not too far from here, and I want to take a few casts…anyone want to go?” asked Chris. “Sure” I said, despite feeling too tired after the 14 hour drive, but I knew I had to squeeze as much fishing in as possible. I am certainly glad I said yes.
Fish On A Fish
We drove about twenty minutes down a dirt road until it crossed a small wooden bridge. The area was called Twin Lakes and was a small river connecting two lakes. To my surprise there was a group of about five guys fishing it already. Not really obeying etiquette we walked right onto the middle of the bridge which was about four feet above the water, and dropped our jigs down. The black flies and mosquitoes were so thick I had to breathe with my mouth closed to avoid inhaling them. It didn’t take long to catch a few walleye and I was already glad with my decision to tag along. I hooked onto my second walleye and as I looked down into the tea coloured water I saw an enormous pike inhale the fish I had hooked. The fight was on. My line cut the water leaving a wake behind as the pike swam all over that little river, forcing the other guys to patiently lift their lines and respect the battle that ensued. The whole time I was just waiting for my line to break. It was 8 pound test with no leader. Every now and then I could get a glimpse of the pike and each time the walleye was farther and farther down its throat. This was bringing my line closer and closer to its sharp teeth. We had no net, but I was confident with Chris’ abilities as he scrambled down the river bank in anticipation of the grand landing. The fish started to tire and I pulled it towards Chris. Sure enough he successfully grabbed it. By that time the walleye was hidden deep in the fish’s mouth. The pike wasn’t too long but it sure was fat. We had a scale in the truck and the pike weighed in at 22 pounds. What we didn’t have was a camera. “What are you going to do with that”, asked one of the guys with a thick French Canadian accent. “Why let it go of course”, I replied. “Oh, no need to do that, I’ll take it to eat”, he offered. “No, she’s too big to keep…but would you mind taking a picture for me and sending it to me by email?” I asked. Now, it doesn’t surprise me that the picture never arrived. I should have at least given him some beer to make him feel a little more obliged to send it. Silly mistake…taking a cast without a camera.

A Quick Stop
Having four solid days of experience from the previous year on the Albany, we felt like old pros as we made our way up river to French Mans Rapids. The cold morning air felt sharp on my face and made my eyes water as the 15 horsepower motor screamed full throttle. Chris, with his hair flowing out from under his toque, sat in the front of my boat on a kitchen chair with his feet stretched out on the seat in front of him. He crossed his arms to insulate him from the cold wind but kept looking around at the scenery surrounding us. In the bow of the boat behind us, Stan mirrored Chris’ image, but with a little less flowing hair. We inched ahead of the other guys and I noticed two white objects floating in the water ahead of us. I stayed to the left of them and realized they were plastic javex bottles tied to ropes. ‘Funny, I don’t remember any rocks being marked last year’, I thought to myself as we buzzed by. As Sean and Stan approached the bottles, Sean kept the throttle pinned and decided to go in between them since they were at least 25 meters apart. Just as they drew even with the bottles all hell broke loose. The motor suddenly lurched in Sean’s hand and with a startling high pitched scream the propeller popped out of the water, spraying exhaust and foam into the boat. The boat came to a grinding halt and Stan’s forward momentum propelled him off his seat and flung him head first into the front of the boat. Instinctively he unfolded his arms and grabbed the gunwales preventing his head from hitting the bow. Their equipment followed suit and flew forward crashing all over the floor. Sean slid off his seat but kept hold of the tiller, managing to throttle down after a few seconds. The motor died and they floated there in stunned silence trying to figure out just what the hell just happened. Sean kneeled on his seat and peered over the transom at the propeller, and almost instantly figured it out. He sat back down, lit a cigarette and didn’t start the motor again until it was finished. “What took you guys so long?” I yelled out to the S’s as they finally joined us at French Man’s. I could see the adrenaline in Sean’s face as he replied, “you know those two white bottles floating in the river…they were marking a huge fish net that was floating right below the surface. Our keel got hung up on it and stopped us like a jet landing on an aircraft carrier. It scared the crap out of us. But luckily we didn’t get hurt and we didn’t damage the net”. “Wow. Were there any fish in the net?” “I don’t know we didn’t check”.

Aba Stats:
The week of fishing was good, but not as good as the prior year. Thus, illustrating that timing the post spawn feed was very important, but it’s a total crap shoot since the trips are booked a year in advance.

Weekly Fish Talley (taken from bits of paper I could find so it’s not a complete total) All trips afterwards, we kept detailed records.
Sunday
Stan 7 w(walleye) 3 p (pike) Colin 25 w 4 p Chris 17w 7p Sean 15w 5p
Monday
Chris 40w Colin 14w Sean 18w 11p Stan 15w 12 p
Tuesday
Sean 25w 25p Colin 25w 25p Stan n/a Chris n/a
Wednesday
Colin 7w Stan 14w 10p Sean 12w 12p Chris 14w 6p
Thursday
Colin 10w 14p Stan 18w 13p Chris 19w 5p
Friday (the day we flew out)
Chris 2p Colin 1p

Lessons trip 2
Time of year matters
Always bring a camera
Watch for nets

Chief Crack-A-Unit and the Bear--Cam Lake and Little Missinaibi Lake June 4 to 11 2006

“Bad news”, said the voice on the other end of my phone as I looked out upon the snow drifts in my back yard. “Our outfitter just called me and there is a bear issue with the camp we booked”, Chris said. “A husband and wife were in the Cam Lake outpost and two nuisance bears trapped them in the cabin for two days. They had to be flown out early. Andy just checked out the cabin and the bears have pretty much torn the place apart. He doesn’t want us to go. But I think we could if we take a gun to protect ourselves”. I instantly had a bad feeling about that last sentence, and it wasn’t the bears that concerned me.

The next day Chris called and said “we can cancel our trip to Little Missinaibi and book a guy out of Chapleau who would fly us to two lakes during the week; but I personally would like to do Miss. It is a historic waterway with pictographs and should be pretty cool”. “OK, let’s go for Miss”, I replied, “but what about the gun”? “I asked a guy at work who hunts and there is no way he would lend us a gun”, replied Chris. "Alright, well I have a flare gun, so I will bring that instead, it'll just piss the bear off and make him eat us quicker", I joked.

It turned out Sean was a lot more apprehensive about the bears than I would have thought. “Here’s my bear bell, bear firecrackers, bear spray and buck knife”, he said on the dock as we waited to for the float plane. “Here’s my flare gun, my bear spray and my knife” I countered. “I brought two air horns”, Stan chipped in. And Chris remained silent…he didn’t bring any bear equipment. Moments later the pilot walked right past us and boarded the plane without acknowledging our presence. He was an old grumpy bastard and I figured he would kick us out of the plane if we upset him, whether we were on the ground or not.

Bear Bait It was a beautiful sunny day and the flight was going along quite uneventfully when all of a sudden the plane rotated almost 90 degrees. I looked out the window and instead of seeing blue skies I was staring at the water. It was a very odd sensation. We instantly started looking around at each other and I noticed the pilot was sticking his head out his window. I realized he was scouting the lake before he landed. I am pretty sure he was being an a-hole though and didn’t need to crank the plane so abruptly. Once the lake passed his inspection, we touched down and taxied to the dock. As we approached, it wasn’t the horrible condition of the cabin that caught our attention but a strange object that was piled on the dock. It was black and crumpled, and looked like a slumped-over person. “What the hell is that?” yelled Sean. “Geezus, it’s a pile of garbage, and its been eaten by a bear!” The black garbage bag’s innards were pulled out and strewn all over the dock and grass. “That son of a bitch bear-baited our cabin”, someone yelled. The idea of keeping a clean camp, so not to attract bears, was instantly dashed.

When the owner cleaned up the camp prior to our arrival, somehow he failed to load the garbage onto the plane. A bear, or bears, subsequently sniffed it out and devoured most of it. The first thing we did after exiting the plane was inspect the scene of the crime. “Take a look at this”, Chris said as he held up an empty 20 litre gas can. It had large chew marks and teeth holes fully puncturing it. “I can’t believe a bear ate a gas can”, I said. “Oh yeah, bears are attracted to the petroleum odour and drink the gas”, the pilot grumbled as he started unloading the gear.

I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach as we hiked up to the cabin, which looked like it may have had a family of hillbillies living in it. The forest was creeping towards the cabin site in a slow but successful attempt to reclaim the land. It was small and had a metal roof covered porch spanning the front. Perfect for leaning back in a chair and putting your feet on the rails while you chewed tobacco and caressed your shotgun (22 in this case). The entire cabin was sinking into the ground and leaning to one side. The roof was rusted tin and the walls were built out of particle board. Inside, there were no interior rooms, just a wide open space with bunks along one wall. The fridge had been torn apart by a bear and was being held together by vast quantities of duct tape. There were claw marks on the ceiling and the window where the bear entered had been boarded up. The mattress’ on the bunks were old, dirty and littered with mouse crap. The first thing we did was carry them outside and literally bang the shit out of them.

“Come check out the outhouse”, Sean yelled. The bear had eaten that too. The bottom half of the back wall was torn off and wide open, leaving our buttocks exposed to the woodland creatures during our daily business. Pulled from the outhouse and dragged into the woods was a pack of wet-wipes. The plastic box was chewed and tissues were strewn ten feet into the woods like some sort of disemboweled prey. (pictures coming shortly)

Earlier that day, we had left Oakville at 2:40 am, choosing to do the trip without having to stop over night. We arrived at Hawk Junction at 11:40am without making any major stops. Whenever I get up at a strange hour, it messes up my system and my stomach had been a little quezy all day. By now it was 4 pm and I walked out onto the dilapidated dock of our new home. I pumped some water into my Nalgene bottle and took a huge swig, in hopes it would settle my stomach. As I was drinking I turned back towards the cabin and couldn't help but notice a huge beaver lodge built right into the side of the dock. “God damn it”, I yelled to no one. Basic camping 101 tells you not to drink water near a beaver lodge, for risk of ingesting parasites from beaver feces that cause “beaver fever”. I was practically pumping the water right out of its living room. And to make matters worse, I was using my wife’s old water filter and had not bothered to change the 15 year old filter cartage. The psychological battle I would wage that night against my stomach was epic. I did not want to venture out of the cabin in the middle of the night and sit half naked in a torn apart outhouse. I managed to fight off the pain and eventually fall asleep. Sean, however, would not be so lucky.

By 4:30 pm that afternoon we had started our carpet bomb of Cam Lake, choosing to not do the hike into Little Miss until the next day. In three hours we tallied the following
Colin 15 p (pike)
Stan 9 p
Chris 10 p
Sean 12 p

None of them were of notable size, but it was a good warm up.

Gut Rot
Running on such little sleep we hit the sack fairly early. I had a top bunk which had a few windows allowing the fresh breeze to lull me to sleep. Hours had gone by and then…BANG!! A loud noise shook me out of my slumber. BANG! It sounded again. I sat up in the bunk and almost hit my head on the ceiling. “What the hell, is going on?” I yelled. I could see a dark image moving around the cabin. I tried to adjust my eyes and focus on what I was seeing but it was too dark. BANG! One more time. Bear? In the cabin? No, it was Sean, and he was banging a paddle against the porch of the cabin. “My stomach is messed, I have to take a shit”. It was 3 am and I knew for certain he must have had to really go, and I bet it was one of the most stressful dumps of his life. He was making the loud noises to scare away any bears that may have been prowling around. For good measure he set off a few fire crackers. I don’t remember too much after that. I do remember feeling sorry for him. But he made it back safe and sound, and did not have to repeat the procedure again that week.

The next day was sunny and warm (23C) and we hiked to Little Miss bright and early…well not too early. We spent time hooking up the motors and cleaning out the neglected boats. The fishing was slow so we lunched at a very scenic waterfall and took a swim in the rapids.

Stan caught a nice pike in the churning water, and Chris and Sean got a few walleye. After that we headed up a small river channel towards Elbow Lake. The channel was deep but the width of the river was just a tad wider than our boats. We weaved our way around hair-pin turns not knowing what lay beyond the next bend. The surrounding area was a marsh. I stood up and could see the heads of Sean and Stan, standing in their boat. It appeared that their heads were magically floating over the tall reeds. Before long we came to a beaver damn that had water flowing over the middle down into a small waterfall. After scouting it, there appeared to be no other option than to charge it with full power to get the bow high in the air, while the other guys waited on the damn to help the boat over. It worked like a charm and before long we had both boats over and were once again heading up river. The really fun part was on the return trip, when we would charge the damn as fast as possible and then tip up the motor seconds before impact. The boat’s bow would push its way through the small opening and then suspend in air. At that point, the passenger who was sitting well back towards the stern would run up to the bow causing the boat to pivot like a see-saw. The momentum would then carry us down the waterfall and back onto the smooth water. We could do all that without even killing the motor.

It was exciting finally arriving at Elbow Lake. There is nothing like a new lake, yet to be fished. The pike we caught in Elbow were bigger than Cam and LM, so far. Before we left the lake, the pullcord on Sean’s Merc snapped and got sucked into the recoil. He had to keep the motor running until we got back to the boat cache. There was no one to complain to about the condition of the camp or equipment because the owner was in Thunder Bay.

Monday
Colin 5w 10 p 5lbsP,7.5lbsP
Stan 3w 5p 8.5lbsP
Chris 7w 10p 3lbsP
Sean 1w 6p 8lbsP


I slowly climbed out of my bunk Tuesday morning, trying not to fall. It was quiet and Chris and Sean were still sleeping. I walked outside to see Stan puttering around the fire pit. “How’d you sleep”? asked Stan. “Not bad, you?”, I replied. He stood up , with his back to the woods and said, “Good, the beds aren’t too bad….” “Dad”! I interrupted loudly, cutting him off mid sentence. A large black bear was standing right behind him. (more to come, stay tuned)