I've written so much over the last decade it is difficult to decide what to include as samples. Most of the pieces listed here earned writing awards from the Outdoor Writers Of Canada's National Communication Awards, plus a few more of my favourites.
PADDLING
Paddling Wabakimi Provincial Park
ICE FISHING/HUMOUR
Probing The Depths of Ice Fishing
FISHING
Tournaments Net More Than Cash
Tales of Fly Fishing Mediocrity
HUNTING
FAMILY OUTDOORS
A Formula For Fun Family Fishing
TRIP REVIEW
PADDLING WABAKIMI PROVINCIAL PARK
With canoes lashed below the fuselage of two DeHaviland Beavers, we pair off and board the venerable bush planes. Over a light chop the weight of packs and passengers is transferred from floats to wings. With altitude the pilot throttles back and banks north. The community of Armstrong, the Canadian National Rail Line and capillaries of logging roads disappear into the distance. Twisting wetland creeks and ponds sprawl across a ragged canopy of dark green jackpine, peppered with island-studded lakes. Rocky shoals betrayed by light brown hues loom beneath a film of darkly stained water. Long black incisions cut through the rolling boreal landscape, punctuated by crystalline spray glistening from the sharp granite graduations of falls and rapids.
I gaze through opaque windows at the immense wilderness of Wabakimi Provincial Park. At 900,000 hectares it’s more than one-and-a-half times the size of Prince Edward Island. The park is sanctuary to woodland caribou, aboriginal settlements and pictographs, and land forms reflecting a rich glacial history. Most strongly reinforced from the air is the potential for paddlers. Wabakimi is etched from a great slab of bedrock cradling approximately 12,500 lakes. Adjoining river systems flow into the horizon, part of thousands of kilometres of wilderness canoe routes.
As we bear down on our destination, the pilots inspect the reef-strewn waters before landing. Within minutes we step from the floats into loaded canoes in a sheltered bay at the east end of Little Wabakimi Lake. After the pilots ensure we know where we are, the last vestige of civilization banks south over islands of wispy jackpine. The drone of aircraft is gradually displaced by the sound of rushing water as we head to the outlet of a small river system for the first of five days in Wabakimi.
Partner Mike Cotterill is a physician, Neil Simpson and Claude Camirand are both social workers. I figure we are covered in the event of physical or mental break down, but so far there is little to complain about. It’s mid-September and unseasonably warm temperatures see us digging amidst long underwear and fleece for sandals, shorts and t-shirts.
The river’s first section of fast-water delivers us to the swirling eddies of a deep pool. As a rabid angler I literally can’t resist passing a potential fishing hole without making a cast. The others follow suit and even my less zealous comrades are held captive by forearm-sized walleye. What starts as a sampling of the river’s fishery soon becomes a test of our ability to leave a good fishing spot. And the test continues as the river is squeezed between huge boulders and steep walls of smooth, gray granite. Bright sunlight penetrates the stained water but casting plastic-tipped jigs into fast-flowing narrows, current breaks and deep pool means stretching our hands around the backs of thick green and gold fish. Short portages usher us quickly past falls and rapids only to be detained by the inevitable walleye-swollen pool at their base.
But good fishing was expected. This huge chunk of roadless wilderness was a legendary fishing area long before it was a park. Today most visitors fly-in to one of seven main-base lodges or 40 outpost camps operating within the park. Sounds crowded but Wabakimi starts west of Lake Nipigon and stretches north to the Albany River, soaking up excess people in an expansive sponge of boreal fabric.
Most fly-in anglers using aluminum boats and outboards are content with the great fishing and pine-studded shorelines of Wabakimi’s sprawling boreal lakes. However, short portages mean paddlers reign over the less-traveled waters sequestered between major lakes and rivers. While September is a quiet time of year, the level of solitude is surprising, even on large outfitter lakes. Over five days we see one other canoe, the odd boat cache and once we hear an outboard motor in the distance. Absent are the sounds associated with logging, hydro development and mining which will never permeate the depths of Wabakimi.
In the late 1970’s logging companies were eyeing the wilderness north of Lake Nipigon. The Ministry of Natural Resources’ Parks Branch also recognized the land’s value, but as a park. Environmentalists agreed and their lobbying for the protection of what became known as the Ogoki-Albany wilderness put the area on the map for the general public. Area tourist outfitters came on side too, preferring a park to clear cuts and roads. However, the park that emerged in 1983 as Wabakimi was greatly reduced from the Ogoki-Albany model due to the exclusion of areas of high timber value.
At 155,000 ha, park advocates felt Wabakimi was far too small to adequately represent and protect the values and features of the region. In 1992 the Wabakimi Park Boundary Committee was established, culminating in the official expansion of Wabakimi in 1997 to almost six times it’s original size. Within the Ontario Provincial Park’s system Wabakimi is second only to 2.5-million-hectare Polar Bear Provincial Park. As one of the largest protected boreal forest reserves in the world, Wabakimi is large enough to function as a self-sustaining fire-driven ecosystem. The expansion encompasses more wetlands, glacial landforms and year-round habitat and calving sites for Wabakimi’s 300 woodland caribou. At one time caribou ranged as far south as Lake Nipissing, but have receded steadily north over the last century. Wabakimi’s elusive animals constitute one of Ontario’s few remaining herds living at the southern limit of their range. Immense size also ensures watershed integrity with most canoe routes starting and finishing within the park or continuing into adjoining Provincial waterway parks: the Brightsand River to the Southwest, Kopka River on the south east and the Albany River to the north.
For such a remote expanse, access is excellent. The abundance of lakes and wide stretches of river dispersed throughout mean float planes can drop off and/or pick up paddlers virtually anywhere. Less expensive options include road and rail. A 13 km gravel road from Armstrong to Little Caribou and Caribou Lakes is a well-established gateway to Wabakimi. The Canadian National Rail line runs across the south end of the park crossing a number of north-flowing rivers. One popular starting point is the small Native community of Collins, located between the Boiling Sands and Lookout Rivers. Many paddlers combine access modes beginning by rail and finishing at Caribou Lake, or rendezvous with a float plane at a pre-determined time and place.
Choosing a five-day trip through an area offering more than 2,000 km of canoe routes is tough. Fortunately help is available. We contacted one in a growing number of outfitters centred around Armstrong. The community of 600 offers everything from fly-in service to lodges and outpost camps to full canoe trip outfitting. Not only do outfitters provide the necessary canoe route maps and smooth out logistical problems through drop-offs and vehicle shuttles, they are familiar with the waterways. Though fully equipped, we needed advice on routes and presented the outfitter with a tall order: lake and river travel with some rapids, a few caribou, fewer people, and the potential for a meal of fish now and then. Considering our limited time it was decided float plane would be the best way to reach the core of Wabakimi. With the flight arranged we reported to the floatplane base with an armload of topographic maps. Beneath the wing of the Beaver the outfitter penciled in rapids, falls, portages, fishing holes and gave us a rough idea of the mileage we should log in order to reach our destination.
As day one draws to a close, we’re slightly behind schedule due to excessive angling. By the time we portage the last drop into Smoothrock Lake we’re looking for a place to camp along a narrow, island-dappled inlet. Although paddling against fading daylight, Neil Simpson can’t resist trolling a lure and we’re further delayed in trying to free a snag. When the snag starts to move we brace ourselves for battle. After 15 minutes of towing our canoe, a huge, tired pike surfaces. We pull into shore to land, photograph and release the great fish which Simpson says weighs more than his four year old daughter.
As its name implies Smoothrock Lake undulates with gently arcing mounds of bedrock. We set up camp within earshot of the falls. While it would be difficult to drive a tent peg into the solid granite and gneiss foundation, much of the forest floor is shrouded in a thick layer of moss affording luxury accommodation. Supper is prepared in a ravenous state over a crackling dry pine fire. Conversation ceases as we lighten the food pack in an inimitable ambiance of smoke and dancing flame.
Even after dark it’s still very hot and we slip into the cold water from a gently sloping rock ledge. While Neil and Mike linger in the cooling depths oblivious to danger, Claude and I are in and out quickly, prompted by thoughts of enormous pike plying the dark water.
The weather remains unseasonably hot over the next few days as we make our way from Smoothrock Lake to the Ogoki River and our final destination and pick-up point at Whitewater Lake. The terrain ranges from flat, sandy wetlands to low hills that occasionally erupt into steep promontories or shoreline cliff faces. The honk of huge flocks of geese competes with the sound of rushing water. The silent flight of bald eagles cast long shadows over bluffs of pine-topped granite. We hear the nasal laments of woodland caribou hiding on clusters of islands. One of the shy animals, a male with a huge rack, emerges from the forest on the opposite bank to watch as we scout a rapid of the Ogoki River.
Perhaps its the warm autumn weather but Wabakimi feels about as hospitable as wilderness can get. It seems a natural choice for the generations of native peoples who walked the shores and portage trails long before they bore the imprint of our hiking boots. While signs of past cultures are disappearing, teepee frame sites, indian burial grounds and habitation sites have been found within a mantle of encroaching wilderness. Pictograph sites occur throughout the park and provide the most vivid glimpse into the lives of Wabakimi’s original inhabitants.
With abundant wildlife including bear, moose and caribou, Wabakimi wouldn’t be a bad choice for living off the land. Although we don’t tackle any large ungulates, we’re able to augment our dwindling supplies with fresh walleye and pike. A small selection of leadhead jigs and soft plastic tails is all it takes to pluck fish from rocky points, shoals and narrow of most lakes. In rivers virtually every pool adjacent to fast-water coughs up chunky walleye.
The lake and river systems enveloped by Wabakimi are legendary in angling and paddling circles. Names like Ogoki, Smoothrock, Whitewater, Flindt and Allanwater resonate adventure. A long history of remote tourism and wilderness travel affirms Wabakimi as a resource worthy of protecting from the spectre of logging, mining or hydro development. Beside parks like Algonquin or Quetico, Wabakimi is remote and relatively unknown. But with world class canoe routes ranging from whitewater to tranquil lakes and rivers, Wabakimi will take it’s place as a top paddling destination.
The vast and rich area Northwest of Lake Nipigon is responsible for thousands of enduring outdoor memories and as Wabakimi Provincial Park she is destined to produce thousands more. I often drift back to a deep pool on a tributary of the Ogoki River. I’m filleting half a dozen pan-size fish while the sun sinks below the fragrant cedars that rim our campsite. Though cloaked in darkness the sound of a boiling rapid finds its part in a harmony of crackling fire and sizzling walleye. With arms as tired from reeling as much as paddling we nourish ourselves with the bounty of the land, a scoop of rice, and a healthy dose of respect and admiration on the side. It’s one of those meals impossible to duplicate, one I revisit in daydreams.
©James Smedley
Probing The Depths of Ice Fishing
I often wonder what my life would be like without angling. The activity I’ve heard described as ‘a jerk on one end waiting for a jerk on the other’ is an all-consuming passion that only grows come winter. Yet for the unfortunate majority who aren’t driven to angle, ice fishing rates even higher on the ridiculous scale.
For those who have no love of the sport, explaining our passion for ice fishing would be as fruitless as lecturing a dog on the benefits of eating in moderation. Similarly, my eyes glaze over when someone starts talking about improving their golf swing.
Our individual passions are difficult to explain. But I believe our desire to angle takes root from the days when we hunted and fished for our very survival. There is something deep within the human psyche that tells us to penetrate the wilds, seek out its beautiful creatures and eat them.
Brutal as it sounds, meat was the prime motivation of our ancestors. But fishing has changed. Although I often wear a musk-ox hide while ice fishing, the modern ice angler is not jigging a sharpened piece of bone from a sinew line. In our distinctly human way of doing things we’ve developed specialized equipment like jigging rods, snowmobiles and power augers. Our toys are cleverly disguised as tools and part of the fun of ice fishing is playing with all the gear that goes along with it.
Still, a lot of anglers insist that they fish as an economical means of feeding their family - to fulfil their time-honoured role as provider. But in most cases the cost of our fishing equipment could put a lot more meat on the table.
I love to eat fish, but I fish for more than meat. In fact, I enjoy releasing fish unharmed. As an outdoor writer/photographer, my success is not measured in the fish I catch but in the photographs of fish I bring home.
My inclination to photograph fish came early in life. It was on a family trip to the East Coast when I was ten years old that my Dad first gave me a camera to use. We saw a lot of the country, but the only photos I came home with were of piles of dead fish. Now, more than 20 years later, little has changed except now I make a bit of money from my photographs.
But they have to be good photographs which explains why fishing with me can be a different experience. The instructions begin well before we’re on the ice. "You’re going to shave before we go, right," and "Make sure to wear some bright colours."
Things get really intense after catching a fish. "Take that smoke out of your mouth, fix your hat, here put this red scarf on…" Then I pull out the camera. "Hold that fish out in front, turn it so the sun shines off its hide, wipe that snow off, dip it in the hole so the water drips off…"
My fishing partners are quickly acquainted with the difficulty of smiling when their fingers are about to crack and fall off from the cold. They also come to accept their role as a prop, simply a vehicle to display the fish, just like a runway model wearing a designer’s gown.
My wife realized this when she was pictured on the cover of a magazine holding a gorgeous brook trout. She worried that her hat looked a little goofy. I agreed, but assured her that no one will notice – they’ll all be looking at the fish. "You could go topless," I said "and as long as long as you’re holding a nice trout, no one would notice."
This made her feel much better.
Yes, it’s a sure thing. When we are passionate about something it will eventually be compared to sex. The inevitable question poised by the wives of winter anglers: "I think you like ice fishing better than sex."
The correct response is to laugh and say "Of course not dear." And try not to hesitate too long.
But most bone-headed anglers will think far too long and then demand clarification…"Do you mean fishing for perch or lake trout?"
Of course women love fishing too. Well, I should say women like to catch fish. In my experience it’s the fishing part they have no patience for; if the fish don’t bite after 12 or 13 hours out of the ice, they’re ready to pack it in!
Ice fishing can be hard on a relationship. The truly devoted angler just doesn’t bother with relationships at all. I know a few guys who simply have no time in their lives for females – unless they’re walleye or pouting brook trout.
Ice Fishing doesn’t rate as one on the top ten activities for meeting women. Lucky for me I spent enough time off ice to cultivate a relationship with a woman who tolerates my angling zeal. But as we all know, a relationship is something we must continually work on to keep it alive and fulfilling, especially if we want to maintain a rigorous angling schedule at the same time.
So for those early mornings when I creep out of bed before the sun, I write myself a list of things to do. It’s almost always the same. ‘Lunch, bait, tackle, coffee, kiss wife.’ This worked very well until my wife saw the list. "You have to write yourself a note?"
With the onset of New Year’s Eve, another season of note writing approaches. Yes, any angler worth their salt knows New Year’s day is the opening of trout season. This time of overlapping priorities presents a conflict between enjoying the New Year’s Eve party to the fullest, and rising with the sun to be on the ice bright and early opening day.
A good party can make even the most devoted angler forget about fishing. But at the stroke of midnight, held in the warm embrace of my gentle wife, I'm jolted by the reality that trout season is now open. I race home and slip into bed where I’m lulled to sleep by visions of brook trout.
Of course not all men are as obsessed with angling as I am, and I find communication with the unenlightened difficult. They say things like: "So, did you catch the game the other night?" I usually try and fake it and say something like: "Oh yeah, I liked when Michael Jordon scored that last goal."
Jaws drop and they look at me like I’m from some other world. And I guess I am.
And what would my world be like without ice fishing? Well, I could spend the winter watching the weather channel, wishing for summer. That would give me lots of time to watch professional sports on TV, maybe even visit a casino or just hang out at the mall…
As you can see, without ice fishing, my life would be a nightmare.
©James Smedley
A
FORMULA FOR FUN FAMILY FISHING
It's a warm summer morning and we're anchored against a slight breeze near a mid-lake hump of Three Finger Lake. When my seven-year-old Islay's slip float is sucked beneath the water she sets the hook with authority and calls for the net. I dip the rubber mesh under a 15-inch walleye, remove the barb-less hook and measure the green and gold creature while my wife Francine records the statistics. As I slide the fish back into the water I turn to see five-year-old Lillian leaning against a good walleye and bearing a look of determination rarely seen in this reluctant angler. Her catch is recorded and released and the procession of fish continues deep into the morning.
It's our first time at the
Marathon Rod and Gun Club Kid's Fishing Derby. The annual one-day event occurs
over the Ontario Family Fishing Weekend during National Fishing Week in early
July. This means licence-free fishing for Canadian residents over the weekend
and the perfect opportunity to introduce children to the sport of fishing. With
a staggering 187 children registered this year, the derby attracts a lot of
attention from family-focused anglers in and around the area.
The kid's tournament has been run off and on by the Marathon Rod and Gun Club
since the 1970's. Over the last decade it has become an established event run
by a dedicated group of volunteers led by Special Events Organiser Terry Ryan.
The Newfoundland native moved to Northern Ontario in 1989. He first got involved
in 1992 and has been the backbone of the derby ever since. Ryan spends a good
part of the year accumulating prizes from the more than 70 businesses that sponsor
the event. On derby day he pulls in like Santa Claus with a camper trailer loaded
to the roof. Ryan says every child gets a prize whether they catch a fish or
not. He waits till late afternoon to display the goods because he knows if he
didn't the children would circle the tables speculating on the items they might
choose rather than enjoying themselves on the lake.
In addition to prizes, a mere $5 per family registration fee includes lunch tickets and a personalised participation certificate per child. We are also given sheets to record the species, time of day, angling method and length for every fish caught. Not only does the record help us keep track of our daughters' catch it provides valuable information on the fishery.
Three Finger Lake is open to catch-and-release-only angling with barbless hooks through July and August. At less than two kilometres across the tiny lake is protected under strict regulation because it is used as a donor lake to establish walleye populations in other area waters. With a healthy population of lightly fished walleye there's a good chance at connecting with fish. This makes it a great place for fledgling anglers who might not be as excited about fishing as they are about catching.
The serious injection of youth and family makes this unlike any tournament I've ever fished. A glance around the diminutive lake reveals about 30 other boats ranging from 150 hp powerboats to 12-foot canoes. In the morning the focus is on fishing with thrashing walleye and squeals of delight carried across the glassy surface of the lake. As the hours wear on and the sun gets higher we see the less-dedicated anglers swimming from their boats, cruising around the lake and even being pulled around on tubes.
The Smedley boat manages to focus narrowly on fishing throughout the morning. We get on the water early and anchor near a small shoal. The girls cast out slip floats with leeches or worms and the action is immediate. Francine and I try and cast jigs, but we're too busy processing the catch of our children. By noon we've recorded about 20 fish, but the hot sun means the lure of the beach is quickly surpassing the lure of fishing.
As we approach the landing the shoreline and dock are lined with anglers and the beach is packed. The girls take their lunch tickets to the clubhouse where each child gets their choice of hot dog or hamburger, a bag of chips, a bag of candy and a pop. All that sugar is put to good use over the next few hours with the girls swimming, playing and making friends.
We manage to squeeze in another hour of fishing before the 4:00pm deadline. When we return to shore Terry Ryan has unpacked the trailer. The girls bolt to the Clubhouse to join the throngs milling around two rows of tables packed with literally hundreds of prizes from bicycles to fishing rods, to grab bags of toys and tackle. Before a riot ensues the distribution of prizes begins with Ryan drawing names. When the smoke clears every participant has approached the table twice and I doubt anyone is disappointed. There's even a volunteer walking around handing out packages of jigs like candy. I try and look as young as possible and score some jigs too.
If you have children with a budding passion for angling, mark this event on your calendar. It's worth the trip. Call 800 621 1029 for information on hotel accommodation in Marathon or camp right in town at Lion's Pen Lake Park 807 229 8216.
With the chance to catch fish, make friends and collect prizes, all for five bucks, the Marathon Rod and Gun Club Kid's Derby offers a fool proof formula for fun family fishing. Too bad fishing wasn't always that way.
© James Smedley
TOURNAMENTS NET MORE THAN CASH
I like competition and I love fishing, so it’s a quick thumbs up when Gord Ellis asks me to team up for a bass tournament. Ellis is just off a 4th place tournament finish and I know he’s aiming for the podium at the 3rd Annual Bassin’ For Bucks Tournament in Sioux Narrows. Although I immediately picture myself on stage in a monogrammed shirt waving a couple of heavy smallmouth, truth is I don’t know what to expect of my first crack at competitive angling.
One hundred teams will compete for more than $25,000 in cash. I’m optimistic and bring an empty brief case along, but I would learn that there is much more to gain from tournament fishing than money. Good thing too, cause our solidly mediocre performance would not net us any cabbage. However, I learn more during one tournament than I usually pick up in an entire season of recreational angling. And for an angler serious about honing his skills, the steep learning curve is a pretty valuable prize.
Tournaments provide a legitimate excuse to fish intensely for several days amidst a profusion of angling talent and technology. And in our case, plying the waters of fabled Lake of the Woods isn’t too hard to take either.
Our hosts in Sioux Narrows are Chris and Shirley Bell. Chris is a seasoned tournament angler and co-founder of Bassin’ For Bucks. Evening discussions with Bell provide a glimpse into the tournament scene. He says some teams arrive as many as 10 days before an event to "pre-fish" local waters. Apparently some of the more high-strung competitors are so wound up they can’t sleep the night before a tournament. Others are sick to their stomachs opening morning.
PRE-FISH
If it wasn’t for the tournament we might have stayed indoors. But instead we pre-fish for two days in high winds, waves and driving rain. We learn about bass behaviour under miserable conditions and identify areas and tactics that might produce bass during the tournament.
We start by tossing crankbaits along shoreline, each using a different lure. When Ellis connects with smally I’m tempted to switch to the same lure and join the fun. But pre-fishing is not about catching. It’s about research. Even if one angler finds a hot presentation, the other should continue to experiment with different lures in hope of finding another. Similarly, when we find an area with fish, we mark it on the map and leave. I want to stay and yank smallmouth, but under Ellis’ tutorage I learn that a common mistake is to "burn" fish by catching and releasing. Bass are best left in peace till tournament time.
With my position of second-in-command firmly established, we approach the tournament as an efficient team, unencumbered by the second-guessing that must plague other partners.
THE TOURNAMENT
Pre-fishing tells us bass are hitting crankbaits along rocky shoreline. We speed to our first spot in the wake of long bass boats, with power plants that dwarf our 60 hp. Luckily boats don’t catch fish and we quickly have our five fish over the 12-inch minimum in the live well. Shoreline produces only small fish so we move to rocky humps and shelves and begin replacing our original five with larger fish. When there is no obvious difference in size we use a balance beam to determine the larger bass in order to glean precious ounces.
Towards the end of the day a huge bass – clearly twice as big as any in our live well – smashes my crankbait, breaks water and spits the hook. I don’t vomit, but begin to feel the sharp edge of competitive angling drawing closer to my throat. At the end of the first day we finish in the middle of the fleet.
Luckily, the prize structure of Bassin’ For Bucks not only includes a grand aggregate, but cash prizes for the top five teams each day. All it will take is one great day to put us in the cabbage. Day two, we gamble and target largemouth bass. Never having caught one, I’m pleased to fill the box with small fish by casting over weed beds and along shoreline. While working a patch of coon tail, a massive bucket mouth surfaces to eyeball my crankbait, then returns to the depths. Disturbing.
Day three we switch back to smally and strain five fat bass within an hour. Throughout the day we manage to cull all of our original smallies for larger fish. With more than 13 pounds we crack the top 15 on the final day.
Though I return with an empty brief case, I know much more about bass than I did a few days ago. I learn that bass are fickle. Casting old faithful may consistently catch fish but occasionally pitching different presentations is the only way to find the lure-of-the-moment. Our top producer was a Rapala Fat Rap in a particular colour. It worked from pre-fishing to day three but the problem was we only had one. Motivated by fear of loosing the prize lure to a snag, I regularly experimented with others. Finally, early in day three, something clicked inside their bone-encased brains and the bronze backs started smashing a different coloured Fat Rap. Similarly, the top-water bite was off for the first four days but on the last day of the tournament surface poppers accounted for at least half of our smally.
Luck will always play a role in fishing, but the tournament’s top anglers weighed in big bags of bass consistently over the course of three days – a feat that can’t be achieved on luck alone. Obviously they were doing something we were not. I don’t know what it was but come September 8,9,10 I’ll be in Sioux Narrows for the 4th annual Bassin’ For Bucks Tournament to try to find out.
© James Smedley
The handle of the auger is just about level with the surface of the ice. I'm on my knees, putting my shoulder into the last few rotations before finally breaking through the solid mass. Thick ice is not the only reason I'm down on my knees; I'm hoping for deeper water.
It was under the glow of the rising sun that Dad and I guided our snow machines up a barely discernible trail. It led over swamps, along creek beds and up steep hills before a break in the jack pine revealed the undisturbed surface of the small inland lake.
That was half an hour ago, when we still had lucid visions of square tailed trout; visions now clouded by beads of sweat and a vast expanse of shallow water. We're working a likely looking spot: close to a narrows with a gently sloping shoreline on one side and a steep hillside on the other. But after a dozen holes we're unable to find water more than two or three feet deep. This last hole is no exception.
I don't mind fishing shallow water for brook trout, provided it's adjacent to deeper water. But after peppering a broad area with holes it's obvious we're at the proverbial 'shallow end' of the lake; no depth, no structure and, I fear, no fish. But precious minutes of the morning feed are ticking away and faced with the option of changing locations and wielding the hand auger again, we reluctantly decide to set our lines and give it a try.
Confidence plays a major role in the success and pleasure of fishing. And if we had more confidence in the flat-bottomed shallows stretching out beneath our feet, we might be enjoying ourselves instead of stewing about our location. But a shroud of discontent hangs in the air, growing thicker with every minute we stare at our inactive set lines. Not fifteen minutes go by before we're looking longingly towards a cluster of islands at the far end of the lake and formulating plans to move.
But obstructing our view of more promising waters are our lines which, despite our pessimism, suddenly start to move. Dad's gad takes a sharp dive into the hole then springs back up with a broken tip and telltale slack line long before he can even reach it.
Before he can re-rig the snapped 8 lb. test, I'm sprinting to set the hook into whatever creature just tripped my homemade shallow water rig.(see side bar/diagram) The spool is slowly turning as I grab the line and drive the barb to its bony destination. Over the shallow water the tugging is sharp and pronounced but despite her protests I pull 15 inches of speckled beauty into the light of day. While we're admiring the bluish halos and crimson dots of her glistening hide the willowy stick over Dad's hole is once again laid waste by a steam rolling brook trout.
Needing no further prompting Dad rigs his lines so they will free-spool with the inevitable next strike. And with our initial doubts rapidly waning we spend the afternoon being indoctrinated into the mysterious under world of the mud flat brook trout.
Most speckled trout anglers have experienced vast plateaus of shallow water. In summer our paddle blades sink deeply into the silt-strewn bottom as we make our way to more promising waters. We resist the temptation to wade the shallows because we'd likely disappear into unfathomable depths of 'loonshit' with only our hats left floating on the surface.
Despite the colloquialism, loons have little to do with it. The shallow water and soft, flat bottom are the result of accumulations of rotting vegetation, or detritus. The detritus layer consists of decaying aquatic plants as well as terrestrial vegetation like moss, wood, and leaves blown into a lake. These accumulations occur as under water plateaus near in-flowing or out-flowing creeks, at narrows or even humps right in the middle of a lake.
In summer, the shallow flats are not considered productive areas for angling, and for good reason. Specks spook easily in shallow water and the thick weed growth makes angling difficult. Although fish probably use the shallows in the spring and fall the water is often too warm through summer. Brook trout also avoid the shallows because birds of prey will pick them off the flats like fish sticks off a cookie sheet.
But a thick sheet of ice changes the situation. Not only is the vegetation of summer out of the way but anglers are less likely to spook wary trout when separated by a thick layer of ice. For trout, water temperature and airborne predators no longer restrict their movements. But specks don't hit the flats just to tickle their bellies along bottom - they are there to feed.
Thanks to decaying vegetation the winter mud flats are like a grocer's shelf of premium brook trout food.
The fungus and bacteria that work to break down plants
are food for microscopic animals called zooplankton - and zooplankton are food for the invertebrates that specks love to pack down their gullets.
Flat land cruisers comb the bottom for crustaceans like crayfish and fresh water shrimp, and molluscs like clams and snails. In winter the food selection of the detritus layer is bolstered by aquatic insects like hellgrammites, and caddis and mayfly nymphs who pass the season loafing along the bottom. Leeches and minnows are incidental side dishes and brookies will even dredge a reclining frog from its winter mud hole. Incidentally, a diet of molluscs, shellfish and crustaceans adds a rich flavour and renders speckled trout flesh a deep flame red.
Shoreline structure does not always reflect the bottom and anglers are often wracked with disappointment when they drill a hole off a plunging rock face and dredge up mud. Sinking countless holes over a vast expanse of shallow water can be the cause for gnashing of teeth because hot spots are usually found near interesting bottom structure. However, when working the flats we are not fishing a hot spot but more aptly described as a hot area. Anywhere over an under water plateau holds promise provided the water is deep enough for a brookie to wedge itself between the bottom and the ice.
Typically there is less than three or four feet of water over the flats and very little structure to work with. The brookies aren't stacked up anywhere because there just isn't room or reason to. A flat land brookie is not interested in hanging out, it's there to hunt.
Although some feel the sound of an ice auger or a snow machine over head sparks the curiosity of fish, I still think its important to keep movements quiet, especially over shallow water. When trout are aggressive they may tolerate or even investigate a commotion, but not when they're pensive and spooky. Given that aggressive fish will likely hit without the prompting of intriguing noises, silence and stealth is advised under all circumstances.
Live bait like worms, leeches or 2-4 inch minnows suspended close to bottom are always a good bet for brook trout. Eight to 10 lb. test cold weather monofilament and a #6 to #8 single hook weighted with split shot is a simple and effective rig.
Just about any proven live bait presentation will work over the mud flats provided water depth is taken into account. The short length of line required for shallow water means there is little stretch to absorb the protests of a well fed square tail. Shallow water demands a rig that will let fish take line. Tip-ups or jigging rod/reel combos with drags set loose let the fish run with the bait and make it easy to pay out line to a freight training speck. When jigging minnow or worm-tipped spoons, keep your drag fairly loose to absorb the impact of the strike.
If flat land brook trout could talk they'd tell anglers to continue to shun the shallow flats, and they'd do so between mouthfuls of snails, shrimp and hellgrammites. Yes, the trout are there, and they are there to feed.
What more do we need to know?
© James Smedley
A frost still clings to the broad blades of dry grass as I walk the edge of a tree-studded field. My cat-like steps and the bounding and sniffing of a meandering hound are the only sounds to break the morning silence.
In an instant the dog's limber frame stiffens into a rigid pose: front paw up, tail pointed straight back and vibrating with intensity. I spot the head of a grouse bobbing in a clump of alders. I shuffle my foot and the fowl explodes from the thicket only to fall to a lightning quick blast from my 20 gauge Baretta. Within seconds a panting hound drops the bird at my feet then dutifully turns her attention to the hunt.
It's usually about this time that the alarm goes off, stirring me from my sleep and from my dreams.
But my dreams are rooted in truth. When the leaves turn and the pungent smell of autumn permeates the cool air I spend a lot of time striking terror into the hearts of ruffed grouse. And the dog part? Well the dog is more dream than reality.
I have a dog, and she loves to hunt, but she hunts on her own terms. I'd like to have the disciplined bird dog of my dreams but sometimes we have to play with the hand we are dealt.
My dog came as a package deal when I married my wife Francine. She's a good girl, but she doesn't point or wade through cedar bogs to retrieve fowl - and neither does the dog. No, the dog is a plump, medium sized, brown eyed, soft haired, bark-is-much-worse-than-her-bite-type beast, complete with the suitably fierce name of 'Buffy'.
Although of no established breed we call her a 'squirrel hound' due to her diligent terrorizing of squirrel during the off season. She is simply a pet with no formal training and, although she still chases squirrel, when grouse season rolls around she focuses her wrath on bush chicken.
I'd be willing to bet that the majority of dogs hunting with their masters are just plain old pets. But in addition to being good companions, the family dog can help you bag more grouse.
In Northern Ontario, especially in lightly hunted areas, grouse are pretty tame. Being absolutely quiet in not only unnecessary, it's not always a good idea.
A dog ranging through the bush provides just enough noise to get the birds moving. The fact that many dogs will stray from the trail to bound through the brush means they stir up birds we might otherwise walk right past. We either hear them or see them strutting through the woods.
The only problem is that dogs usually see the grouse too. Like most dogs confronted with an animal smaller than themselves, Buffy chases the grouse at top speed until the inevitable occurs. She does not realize that by forcing the bird to fly she has ruined my chance to shoot the bird on the ground. But at ten years old she is set in her ways; training her to point and be still when she sees a grouse would be about as successful as training her not to eat a steak dinner.
But in most cases grouse do not fly that far. In their wisdom grouse equate the noise of a dog with that of a wolf or fox. They know all they have to do to escape the predator is fly up into a tree just out of reach. What they don't expect is a human with a firearm.
Although I've had great success simply by letting Buffy tree the bird for me, sometimes she ranges too far and the only evidence I have of grouse is the sound of distant flight. Other times, even when Buffy does work the woods close by, the fowl are skittish and fly too far to even bother looking for.
I remedy the situation by putting the dog on a leash. This also gives me the opportunity to shoot grouse on the wing. When we spot a grouse I prepare for the shot, let the snarling hound go and draw a bead on the airborne creature.
Although I've heard of dogs being gun shy I've never experienced it. Invariably, after the gun goes off Buffy, and any other dog I've hunted with, go on a frantic search to find the bird. It's amazing that a dog who sits in the corner and shakes for hours on end during a thunder storm is quite at ease with the blast of a shotgun.
Once a dog gets the bird in its jaw retrieving it can be a challenge. My friend Bob once had an Irish Setter who, with bird in mouth, would race back and forth through the bush. It was after the bird was shot that the real hunt began. The big red dog would come just close enough to tempt his master into lunging for the grouse. It was comical for the spectator but Bob was rarely amused. The setter didn't harm the bird, he just wanted to play for a while and would eventually let Bob catch him.
Buffy, on the other hand, wants to eat the grouse. Usually all she gets is a mouth full of feathers but left with a bird long enough I am sure she would devour the entire thing. I haven't tested the theory but instead satiate her voracious appetite by frying her up the heart, gizzard, and kidney as a treat.
Buffy's zeal for eating grouse is no surprise - she'll eat anything. But as a boy my family had a shepherd/husky mix named Kim who was more of a picky eater than most humans. I once tossed a few grouse in the back of the truck beside Kim without worry - she ate the heads, including the beak. Another time, when cleaning a bird, I chopped off the legs and set them down. Kim ate them bones and all. This from a dog who wouldn't eat cheese unless it was properly aged.
There must be something about eating meat that they helped catch; that wild, fresh taste strikes a chord with their canine taste buds. It seems that for dogs, as it is for many of us, hunting rouses some deep seated natural instincts.
Pulling the shotgun out of storage and seeing a dog's eyes light up only increases our fervor for the hunt Engaging in an activity with a beast who shares our enthusiasm is part of the appeal of taking your dog hunting, whether she's a pure bred bird dog or the family 'Heinz 57'.
Dogs make great companions. They'll share your lunch and they'll listen to your hunting stories. They never refute tall tales - they may roll their eyes but they keep their mouths shut.
As in past years I'll be walking the Northern Ontario woods with Buffy 'the squirrel hound' till the snow flies and beyond. She'll likely stir up a few birds I would have walked right past and I may miss a few because of her. But luckily I'm not that serious of a grouse hunter; a few grouse are always nice and the odd missed opportunity is no big deal. And besides, what the dog lacks in hunting skills she makes up for in enthusiasm - and it's great to have the company.
© James Smedley
It's about this time of year when it's almost impossible to stay indoors. Spring brings an explosion of new life to the north. The flowers and freshly cut lawns of town are pleasant but the season's allure rests squarely on the sounds, sights and smells of the forest. The desire to immerse ourselves in wilderness should never be denied - even after the arrival of a newborn.
While some parents simply give up the outdoors life they once enjoyed, my wife Francine and I decided to share the outdoors with our child - for her sake and ours. Introducing an infant to the wilderness means shorter outings, careful planning and a little more weight on your back.
Our daughter Islay had her first back pack ride at five weeks old when we took her cross country skiing. The following spring she logged countless miles on interior and coastal hiking trails without mishap. The notion that infants should be tightly bundled and kept indoors is far too restricting. Let them soak up fresh air and wilderness as soon as possible. A baby hardy enough to leave the hospital is hardy enough to be outdoors provided they are dressed and supported properly.
First thing you need is a high-quality frame pack designed to carry a child. Look for a double shoulder harness and chest pad with a waist strap to keep baby comfortable and well supported. Wide padded shoulder straps and a hip belt to transfer weight from your shoulders to your hips will keep you comfortable for the long haul. Prices range from $50.00 to over $200.00. But before you fork over the big cabbage check garage sales or used clothing stores first - you might get lucky.
During our first summer of parenthood a day hike with a picnic lunch was one of our favourite ways to get into the woods. The first thing we learned was how much longer it takes to get ready. Anticipating a child's needs outdoors means bringing snacks, extra clothing, kleenex, wipes, garbage bag and diapers. A handy zippered pocket under the pack's seat held these items plus fly repellent, sunscreen and a wide-brimmed sun hat.
Dressing children in the spring can be a challenge.
Fight the temptation to overdress. They should be dressed as warmly as you would dress yourself to stay comfortable - while inactive - on a given day. Remember the child will not be moving much.
Several layers of clothing are more efficient than one heavy layer. If a child protests while underway they may be too hot or too cold. To check their temperature feel the nape of their neck. It should be warm but not sweaty. Layers can be adjusted as a cool morning changes to a hot afternoon. A white flannel blanket draped over the top of the pack will keep them from the wind and sun. If crying continues they could be uncomfortable, hungry or in need of a change.
Choose a trail you are comfortable with. Avoid rugged terrain where there is a danger of slipping. Wiping out on the trail is never much fun but it can become much more serious with a baby strapped to your back.
It's typical for the youngster to fuss when first strapped into the back pack. But once underway they are lulled by a motion likely akin to floating around in the womb. In fact, the first few times we were out Francine checked Islay continuously because she was so quiet. Later we learned to translate the sound of steady breathing and contented grunting as signs that our daughter was alive and well.
As spring progressed Islay spent more and more time awake in the pack. By the end of the summer she had learned to walk. It usually didn't take too long for her to tire and choose the pack, but she would insist on walking at least part of the trail. We didn't set any land speed records that summer but hiking with children is not about getting from point A to point B, it's about what you do in between. The slower pace means absorbing more of the forest's plants, rocks and creatures, and sharing the experience with a creature of your own.
Even if the meal is pabulum, formula or breast milk, stopping for lunch is a great chance to get our offspring out of the pack and onto the good earth. If it's chilly build a small fire. If it's hot dip their feet in a stream. Tell them what kind of fish might be in the river. Show them the birds, squirrels, moose tracks or where a wolf might live. Point to the sky, the clouds, rivers and trees.
Think of it as discovering the outdoors all over again through a set of very young eyes. It's all new to them and absolutely amazing. They may start crying or fall asleep in the middle of our observations but they might just retain a lot more than we think.
Sharing our passion is an important first step to instilling a love of the outdoors in our children. It won't be long before our children are running the show, and we want to be sure the outdoors remains on their agenda.
© James Smedley
"Islay's got a fish," says my four-year-old daughter Lillian. Islay, two years her senior, is furiously reeling a small jigging rod. A tiny perch rockets out of the hole, stubbornly griping the worm in its teeth. But on seeing its peril the wise little fish releases its hold and arcs into a perfect swan dive back down the hole. Tears well up in their eyes as the five-inch trophy disappears with a flick of its tail. "It's okay, girls, we'll get another one," I say.
Sure enough we do. Francine and I are with our girls on a small lake reputed to have scads of small perch. We end up hooking a few, plus a little rainbow trout and a much larger brook trout whose exact dimensions will remain a mystery, forever.
It's a mild, sunny, mid-winter day and we're trying to mildly indoctrinate our girls with a zeal for ice fishing. Today it seems to be working. The girls are dividing their time between playing on the ice, molesting the minnows in the cooler, fooling with the fire and pulling up the occasional fish. The fact that Islay and Lillian are happy, comfortable and having fun outside makes the day a success.
Our ice fishing trips used to involve long snowmobile rides, breaking trail, travelling light, leaving early and returning late. It's something I still do when I get the chance, but ice fishing with young children calls for a different game plan all together. If you have children with a budding desire to ice fish, make it blossom with these simple rules.
GO WHERE THERE'S FISH
Experimental scouting trips are not good for children. The ideal scenario sees the instant gratification of catching lots of fish fast, a scenario Mom and Dad have nothing against either. While adults are conditioned to seek out large fish, children seem more concerned about numbers, even if they're small. Our girls love to catch tiny fish and are impartial toward larger specimens. The promise of small perch in this particular lake is pretty exciting and the possibility of large trout holds my interest too.
We're about a 1/2-hour snowmobile ride from our house. Just enough time for the girls to have a short snooze on the way. We're fortunate that our girls will sleep on a snowmobile. Long rides simply mean they wake up refreshed and ready to angle. However, every child is different. Be sure the ride, the walk or the snowshoe does not wear your young angler out before they start fishing.
An easily accessible lake close to home and full of fish is a tall order but you'd be surprised what some of the stocked trout lakes in the district offer. Stocking lists are available at Ministry of Natural Resources offices and area tackle stores. Many of the lakes stocked with brook trout, lake trout or splake are close to roads or snowmobile trails and hold promise for the family fishing trip.
My ideal ice fishing trip entails angling from sun up to sundown, so when fishing with children I must make an adjustment. Four or five hours is a good starting point. If the weather is fair, it's easier to keep children entertained ice fishing than open water angling; they are not confined to a boat and can use the ice as a platform for play and the surrounding woods to explore.
Fast and furious fishing action will keep most children occupied for hours but there are slow days and even slow periods on the best of days. The bottom line is the longer we keep our children comfortable and entertained the longer we will be able to fish.
COMFORT AND ENTERTAINMENT
The obvious part of the comfort equation is ensuring children are warm enough. In addition to dressing snugly from head to foot, we always bring extra mitts to replace the pair that inevitably become soaked in water or slush.
Comfort and entertainment are closely related. Standing on a sheet of ice waiting for fish to bite opens the barn door to cold and boredom; ice fishing longevity's worst nightmare. Today the fishing is slow so we keep our girls moving by tobogganing down a short hill along the shoreline, and collecting moss, branches, leaves, pinecones and firewood in the bush.
FOOD AND FIRE
A fire provides a central gathering point that is warm, comforting and entertaining. We bring a small metal "fire can" with vent holes along the bottom. It's easier and less messy than building a fire in the snow and a grill over top makes it easy to cook.
Today Francine has the full complement of sausage to grill, marsh mellows to roast and hot chocolate to drink. Getting the children involved in keeping the fire stoked and cooking food keeps their blood flowing, their minds occupied, and gives them a sense of belonging.
Past experience with melted nylon and Goretex tells us that leather mitts are the best option for children around a fire.
Back on the fishing front I do my best to involve the girls. Lillian and Islay choose where they want their holes drilled and I set up their lines with the bait of their choice. The presentations they choose often go against my better judgement but I keep it to myself because their lines, which I've come to regard as experimental, invariably end up catching fish.
Live bait is often a better option than artificial lures because fish will bite a worm or minnow without the angler having to jig the line. When angling with children we can't focus as narrowly on the fishing as we might like. Constant jigging, changing lures, and moving from hole to hole and place to place is not an option when we must also meet the demands of our children like playing tag, telling stories around the fire or pulling them around on a toboggan.
Of premier importance is to make it a fun trip. Trying to push my fishing fanaticism on my young daughters would surely prompt a rebellion. I know too many intense anglers whose children were pushed too hard, too young and now have no place in their lives for fishing. Even so, I have to constantly remind myself not the take fishing too seriously. It's one lesson I have a hard time learning but one my children are helping me to grasp.
As the afternoon wears on our girls are quite content with the three or four tiny perch and the 10-inch rainbow trout lying on the ice. We're ready to pack up when I get a strike on my jigging rod. I set the hook into what feels like a large fish. As I angle it closer to the hole I see a huge expanse of speckled hide flash by. I'm thinking that it's at least four pounds as Islay and Lillian arrive at the hole, wondering why I don't just pull it in. My rod is bent double with line peeling from my reel when Islay grabs the line.
"I'll show you how Dad" and before I can say or do anything she heaves straight up. The audible snap of the breaking line helps to mask my gasp of horror. Islay sees the blood leave my face and the tears welling up in my eyes.
She puts her hand on my shoulder "It's okay Dad, we'll catch another."
We don't, but once the rage, shock and disappointment pass, I realise the loss of the big trout is already part of a fond memory of a great family fishing trip. No trout can replace that.
-30-
© James Smedley
A gentle ripple swells through the mirror finish of the tiny bass lake as I shove off from the sandy shore. With long green reeds tapping against the gunwales, I wedge myself in amongst a small arsenal of fishing gear. I paddle towards a shallow weed-lined bay hunkered under a thick veil of mist. The sound of my own breathing is spooky against the still quiet of the morning - a perfect day to prospect for bronze.
My prospects start to sour when an hour's fishing fails to raise a single smallmouth. What makes it worse is the school of large bass in plain view, boldly finning the edge of a drop off. They watch with indifference as I work the contents of my tackle box past their puckered mouths. One thick slab even rolls its eyes as I pull a noisy buzz-bait over the school.
With every other possibility exhausted my eyes fall on the fly rod stashed at the bow of the canoe. I open a dented old fly box and peruse a selection of tiny poppers that were passed down from an angling relative. The hooks are rusted, feathers crushed, paint cracked and I'm not even sure what they're for. But with nothing to loose I rig up my fly rod and tie on a tiny brown plastic popper.
After a few sloppy false casts the popper comes to rest beside a few lily pads deep in a small inlet. I give the line a tug and a spray of water accompanies a deep gurgling sound. I give a few more tugs in quick succession then let the plug bob on the glassy water.
The sun is well over the tree tops now and I lean back and let my mind drift languidly into visions of rising smallmouth - when the water erupts with an explosion of bronze I nearly fall out of the canoe. I fumble with the rod, set the hook too late and lose the fish. But with my enthusiasm roused I put my daydreams on hold and re-work the territory I'd flogged all morning. Where earlier efforts produced guffaws from wary smallmouth, the tiny brown popper raises six fish - several topping three pounds.
I'm not a die-hard fly fisher. I like to use what works and sometimes a tiny top-water lure presented with a fly rod is the only way to entice 'bronzen' slabs. Before stumbling on to its prowess for smallies, my fly rod spent many trips sidelined in the bottom of the boat. Not anymore.
Poppers are no secret to bass anglers, but many don't realize that the size of a popper can mean the difference between an ignored bait and a savage strike. With spinning or bait casting outfits poppers are cast by virtue of their weight. Fly-fishers cast using the weight of the line rather than the weight of the lure so small, lightweight, low windage lures from two to five cm. are the norm. Smallmouth who don't feel like opening wide for large spin-cast poppers are often fooled by the subtle gurgle of a smaller surface lure.
Often called 'bass bugs' or 'popping bugs' a fly fisher's popper consists of a body of plastic, balsa or other buoyant material dressed up with eyes, fur and feathers. Some poppers look like something to eat, others don't. But when twitched or jerked most produce noise and bubble trails that represent the movement of a wounded minnow, frog, mouse, grasshopper or any edible creature flailing on the surface.
A popper's action varies with its body shape: a slender body with a pointed face slips quietly below the surface; a flat face creates a bit more of a disturbance; and a blunt body and cupped face produces a deep gurgle and kicks up a geyser of water with each twitch.
As tying flies is seen as an integral part of fly fishing, many make their own poppers - like Wawa's Eric DiCarlo. The one-time steelhead guide is no "trout snob" as he puts it, in fact, I suspect Eric would cast for lamprey eel if he thought they would take a fly.
DiCarlo started fly fishing bass almost 30 years ago in southern Ontario ponds and rivers. When he moved to Superior's North shore he concentrated his efforts on steelhead but says declining numbers in the early 1990's shifted his focus back to smallmouth bass. Now when DiCarlo stoops over his vice he is creating top-water creatures from mylar, high density foam and animal hair. As a novice fly tier I gravitate towards simple patterns and, with DiCarlo's guidance, learned to produce the simple and effective hair popper.
Using the hollow body hair of ungulates like deer and moose, the hair is hurled on a hook and clipped to a cylindrical shape with a flat face. The commotion caused by a twitched hair popper is generally more subdued than solid-bodied lures, but the beauty of the hair popper is that it functions well on two levels: hungry bass key in on the sound and sight of the gurgle when twitched, and the natural hair makes it an effective visual attractor even when sitting still. DiCarlo even clips some to oval shapes and adds hair legs to present bass with the silhouette of a frog or grasshopper.
On those quiet, calm mornings custom made for top-water play, try starting with the subtle allure of a hair popper before progressing to more aggressive presentations with hard-bodied lures.
Cast deep into bass territory and simply let the popper sit. Often big lazy smallies - who are hungry but don't feel like battling anything too formidable - will hit the hurled hair long after the ripples fade. Other tentative fish might respond to a stop-and-go retrieve waiting 30 seconds or longer between twitches. If this fails try a rhythmic popping, progressively shortening the time between tugs until your deer hair is kicking up as much fuss as possible.
Bass who need a little more convincing might respond to the pronounced gurgle and splash of hard-bodied poppers. Repeat the retrieval process starting with pointed-nosed divers and winding up with an aggressive presentation of a cup-faced popper. On choppy days noisy, hard-bodied poppers are most likely to illicit a response from smallmouth.
DiCarlo feels colour is not that crucial for surface lures but says the contrast of light and dark shades on one lure might draw the attention of a passing fish.
I've had my best luck with white, bone and brown lures likely because light colours represent the belly of a hapless minnow or frog.
Of course Mr. Smallmouth makes the final call on colour, lure and presentation, but once committed there is nothing cautious about the strike. Some hit with a big boil, some jump straight out of the water and others suck the popper under and dive. Wait a second or two then sharply raise your rod tip to set the hook. Sharp hooks are very important and bending barbs down also helps the hook to penetrate.
Throughout the summer the best top-water action is found over rocky shoals and broad shallow flats in less than ten feet of water. In early summer smallmouth might lurk the deep water adjacent to flats or off points where the bottom gradually drops. In clear water working these areas can bring bass to a top-water lure from as deep as 20 feet. However, as summer progresses bass will do most of their feeding in depths of less than ten feet provided suitable shallow water habitat exits.
Cover is crucial in the shallow haunts of the smallmouth. Look for stumps, weeds, lily pads, rock piles, submerged log piles and deadheads. Surface lures are particularly effective for working cover because we can see exactly where our bait is. Cast just beyond a suspected bass lair and work the lure across the shaded side. Bass are very opportunistic at times and strike only when we deliver the goods right to their door.
For a beginner, unimpeded casting from a boat is great practice. A six to eight-weight, eight or nine foot rod matched with a weight forward line and one-piece monofilament tippet is all that's needed to get the lure away from the boat and into the strike zone. As casts improve we can place the popper with precision right where we want it.
Once cast, point your rod tip directly at the popper. If right-handed use the index finger of the right hand to guide the line and jerk or 'strip' the line in with a swinging motion of the left hand. The popper will spray up water, make noise and produce a trail of bubbles with each yank.
This is active fishing physically and mentally. The constant casting and stripping is tiring, but watching the drama of hard-hitting top-water smallmouth unfold in front of our eyes is well worth the effort. Each gurgle of the lure is charged with anticipation; as the tiny popper works its way around a deadhead or cluster of lily pads we never know when it might be within the watchful gaze of a red-eyed smallmouth. And when the water erupts with a savage strike, only a dead man could remain calm.
© James Smedley
TALES OF FLY FISHING MEDIOCRITY
Some of my best flies are retired to the tops of trees, to the banks of rivers or the jowls of trout. And some of the biggest fish to have sized up my presentation are still in the water, never having felt the sting of my fly.
My excuse for the loss of flies, the apathy of fish and the impotency of my assault is the fact that I’m not a very good fly fisherman. False humility is the worst form of conceit so I’ll admit I can catch fish on a fly. Maybe even better than some who call themselves expert. But I’m keenly aware of my weaknesses, the fish that take advantage of them and the staggering amount of skill and knowledge I’ve yet to acquire.
The ability to admit inadequacy is the first step toward improvement and I’ll bet I’m not the only mediocre fly angler who can benefit through scrutinising the mistakes we commonly make.
CASTING
We never really appreciate the velocity of a bead head muddler till it hits us in the back of the head. It usually happens after a few great false casts when we let out just a bit too much line. Other times the fly simply does not return from our back cast, preferring to affix itself on some shoreline feature.
Such unfortunate circumstances are often the result of trying to cast too far. In going for that extra metre we exceed the limitations of our equipment, our casting ability or the physical bounds of the river.
The simple solution is to make shorter casts, within the parameters of the river, our equipment and skill level. Often fish are well within range of a short cast, and if they are not, we should reposition ourselves so they are.
ACCEPTING CRITICISM
It’s a good idea to fish with a partner so he or she can offer commentary on our casting. True, partners may not be concerned while we snag flies in tree-tops or our necks, but when our incompetence impacts their fishing, comments come faster than a darting streamer.
While casting dry flies with partner James Armstrong, I make a few sloppy casts, letting my line whip across the water, spooking a pod of rising brook trout. "Drop your back cast more than your front" he says. I immediately feel the hackle rise on the back of my neck.
As a boy learning to fly fish it was easy to accept constructive criticism because I knew nothing. But after the initial tutelage of my father followed by instruction from accomplished fly angler Eric DiCarlo, I am not prepared to take criticism from one who is only a few rungs above me on the mediocrity ladder. However, I manage to quell my fury, do as he suggests, and find that Armstrong’s advice helps to bring my casting position back up between the 10 o-clock and 2 o-clock position where it belongs.
KEEP OUR FLY IN THE WATER
There are moments when I have command of my fly rod and can send reams of line looping and floating effortlessly over my head. Add to this my striking resemblance to Brad Pitt and I glide easily into a scene from ‘A River Runs Through It’.
Basking in the aesthetics of fly fishing is fine, but after a time we should give our head a shake. The reason is simple: airborne flies have a better chance of snagging a gull than catching a fish; our fly must be in the water to work its magic.
Another snag that keeps my fly from the jaws of trout is prolonged stream side chin rubbing. The problem is I have a lot of flies. Some I have tied, some I have bought and others have been given to me. I probably have the optimum fly for every situation, but this is not always a good thing.
Once again with James Armstrong as partner, we happen upon the telltale ripple of a rising trout. I swiftly snip off my nymph and search my vest for the perfect lure. While I’m taking inventory of my dry flies the cagey Armstrong lobs the streamer already on his rod and hooks the 18-inch brook trout. My rage is manifested by gestures and mumbling.
Truth is I’m annoyed with myself, not Armstrong, wishing it was I who kept my fly in the water instead of trying to select the optimum bug. Had the tables been turned I would have been quite pleased with myself.
THE HOOK SET
I remember watching partner Gord Ellis deftly set the hook into a 20-inch brook trout with a cucumber-like coolness. We’re fishing big dry flies over a swift flow. The air is charged with a level of intensity that only comes with the presence of big, surface feeding brook trout. When one of them finally takes a poke at my Stimulator I reef on my line so hard and fast it flies back and hits me in the forehead. The forehead beating continues, this time with my fist, when it happens a second time.
Ellis tells me to mellow out and set the hook only after I feel the fish tug my line. This is easier said than done especially when we see the strike before we feel it. Waiting that split second between strike and hook set requires a level of control anglers high on trout have a hard time reaching. It may mean taking one less cup of coffee in the morning but when hook setting on rising fish it’s important to be ruthlessly calm and calculated.
EQUIPMENT
Acquiring fly fishing equipment is a slippery slope greased with rods and reels, clothing, literature, art and exotic fly tying materials. Although browsing through fishing shops is practically the only type of shopping I enjoy, accumulating expensive gear is not the formula for success.
The interaction between fish and fly is where the rubber meets the road, and that has little do with where we bought our materials or the brand of vest we are wearing. One of my best flies was tied on a home made vise with the hair of my in-law’s dog, and he’s not even a pure bred.
On the other hand it’s still important to use equipment that’s up to the task. I have a box of ancient but gorgeous flies passed down from a great uncle. I foolishly continue to use them from time to time. Occasionally I hook and land a fish with one of the old and brittle relics but usually one of two things happens: it unravels after a couple of casts or I hook a fish and the hook snaps early on in the struggle. The box is now earmarked for the display case.
WAVERING DEDICATION
If our goal is to catch fish on a fly then don’t bring spin casting equipment. When I do go to the river with both, the spinning outfit usually jumps into my hands after only a superficial effort with the fly rod.
However, when I visit the river with only my fly gear I continue to fish long after I would have switched to spinning. Eventually I make a good cast, in the right place, with an acceptable fly. The hook set is good, the fight is on and the mediocre fly angler inches closer to expert.
© James Smedley
The anglers are restless. At least those whose nights are fraught with visions of open water pike, bass and walleye. This transitional period from ice to open water fishing is a painful time, a purgatory where anglers wallow in the no man’s land between seasons. This regrettable state of being leaves anglers dangerously vulnerable to other seasonal activities like yard work and spring cleaning. But like a super hero, cape flapping in the cool spring breeze, Captain steelhead comes to the rescue. He is followed by brook trout, lake trout and splake who keep us tangling with fish right through to the opening of walleye.
Of course salvation by trout is well known to trout anglers. We watch for steelhead in Superior and Huron tributaries through April. And when the ice implodes into inland lakes we launch the boat or canoe to ply their waters for ice-out brook trout, lakers and splake. Trout fishing can be peppered with the challenges of early spring weather, but for those who drum their fingers on the table waiting for the walleye opener, the discovery of spring trout is like a bridge over trouble water.
STEELHEAD
Although the same fish, steelhead can be distinguished from rainbow trout by the fact they spend most of their time in big water wearing a steely chrome hide. Fish that remain in rivers or are landlocked in inland lakes are referred to as rainbow trout and sport the classic spotted skin with a swath of red down their sides. The rainbow trout is native only to the Pacific Ocean and we owe their presence in the Great Lakes to planting in the late 1800’s. Spring is one of the few times steelhead leave the Great Lakes. Rising water temperatures and lengthening daylight hours trigger their return to the rivers in which they spawn. Watch for steelhead nosing up Superior tributaries like the Stokely, Chippewa, or Pancake. Look for Huron fish in the St. Mary’s River rapids, the Garden or Thessalon Rivers. Depending on the year, this usually occurs within the first weeks of April and continues well into May.
Be prepared for cold mornings with insulated waders, lots of layers and a pair of fingerless gloves. Steelhead congregate in pools at the base of falls or rapids. They lurk behind current breaks like boulders and ridges within rapids and deep runs. The simplest way to connect is by casting hardware. One quarter to half-ounce bright coloured flashy spoons like Little Cleos and Blue Fox Pixies worked across holding areas should turn heads. Diving minnow baits like the Berkley Frenzy are efficient at dredging steely from the heads and tails of pools, but often spring steelhead demand a more subtle presentation of bait. We can buy roe, or better yet get our hands on some Chinook or Coho spawn in the fall, cure it, freeze it, and roll it into dime-sized roe bags come spring.
The natural delivery of a drifting egg-cluster is the most effective method of hooking spring steelhead. A common way of doing this is bottom bouncing with a three-way swivel rig. It consists of a sharp #6 or 8 fine wire hook like a Mustad Ultra Point, connected to the swivel with a 12 to 16-inch leader of 4 to 8-pound test fluorocarbon line like Berkley Vanish. Attach a 4-inch length of line to the swivel’s second eye to load with lead in the form of split shot, a pencil weight or bell sinker. Attach the main line to the third eye of the swivel and cast across the current. Adjust the amount of lead so the rig is constantly in contact with bottom. The feel of our rig bouncing over rock and gravel is telegraphed through our rod. It’s tough to distinguish between the feel of bottom and the tug of a steelhead. Discerning between the two takes practice but often these aggressive fish set the hook themselves and proceed to make our drags sing like a young soprano.
In many instances boulders, angular rocks and submerged wood make bottom bouncing a nightmare. We spend more time tying new rigs than we do fishing. Using a main line slightly stronger than our leader means we won’t loose the whole rig each time we snag. But when hang-ups are abundant, float fishing is the answer. An effective float fishing set up starts at the business end with a sharp hook followed by a 16-inch leader of 4 to 8-pound-test fluorocarbon, tied to a main line of 8 to 10-pound test. The main line is weighted with wingless split shot, starting tiny and graduating to larger sizes as we reach the balsa float. Specialized centre-pin float reels and 10 to 15 foot rods are optimum, but an 8-10 foot rod and spinning reel will suffice. The length of line under the tapered oval float should equal or slightly exceed the depth of the pool we’re fishing. Cast upstream and across and let the current sweep our float downstream. Applying very slight tension to the line will tilt the float back towards us. This causes the spawn bag to surge forward, ahead of the split-shot-weighted mainline, resulting in a natural presentation to uncle steelhead. When the float disappears it’s either bottom or a fish. The difference is quickly apparent.
There are infinite subtleties to float fishing and bottom bouncing for steelhead. It’s a diversion that will easily keep us busy till the ice melts from area lakes, drawing our focus inland.
BROOK TROUT, LAKE TROUT, SPLAKE
Cold water is the great equalizer. While each species will probe the depths in search of temperatures within their comfort zone through summer, at ice-out all three will be warming their hides in water less than 10 feet deep. Lake trout, brookies and splake hit a huge variety of lures. Try spoons like the EGB Blinker, Williams Wabler and Little Cleo. Replacing the treble hook with a six-inch leader and a single hook pierced through a minnow or night crawler makes a seductive combination. So do #2 to 4 Blue Fox or Mepps spinners tipped with a worm. Effective colours overlap but splake and lakers seem to appreciate a splash of green on their lures while brook trout are partial to a bit of red or yellow on a dark background. The attraction of gold and silver seems universal.
Shore fishing can be successful but a boat or canoe allows us to troll, putting the entire lake at our disposal. This means pulling a lure little more than a cast’s-length behind our craft through areas that hold promise. In early spring trout will hold near surface over deep water, but the most likely haunts are where shallow water meets bottom. This points to mid lakes shoals, reefs jutting out from points and tight to the entire shoreline of a lake. We’ll get the occasional snag trolling close to shoreline features like submerged trees, rock piles, beaver houses and inflowing creeks, but we’ll also intercept trout. Trolling is an excellent search pattern but when we find fish holding tight to a particular feature we can stop and focus our seduction there.
If windy, an anchor is useful in securing us within range. Casting spoons, spinners and bait is deadly but one of the most effective ways to scour cover is with 2 to 4-inch jerk baits like the Rapala Husky Jerk. Buoyancy neutral jerk baits neither sink nor float. They surge forward and dive when retrieved with a series of short pulls. Between pulls they hover just below surface like a wounded minnow catching its breath before another pull from the angler simulates another attempt to flea. Trout rise from thick cover to inhale what they perceive to be an easy meal.
As the season progresses warming waters drive lake trout to the depths. Brook trout and splake hunker down in the recesses of inland lakes and steelhead are long gone from rivers. But from April through to early June a small window is open to the best trout fishing of the season. Not a bad way to bridge the gap between ice fishing and the mainstream summer fishery.
© James Smedley
It’s the bad fishing days that make the good ones so good
Without knowing sadness it’s difficult to appreciate joy. That’s why it’s possible to put a positive spin on getting skunked. If the fishing were always good it would eventually loose its appeal. I’ll admit it might take awhile but after 40 years or so of catching lots of big fish every time we angled I suspect the perpetual success would wear thin. That’s why it’s always good to log a fish-less day or two, because it’s the bad days fishing that make the good days so great.
Recently I was fortunate enough to experience day on the water without a hint of fish. Within this example of a fish-less outing we can find all the components of a thorough skunking.
Stage One - Inception
Sunday evening – There’s a perpetual need to angle that churns within my core. At times it lies dormant, other times it asserts itself to become an all-consuming passion until the act of not fishing is unbearable. It’s a friend’s tales of a good catch of large brook trout at a favourite lake that rouses the beast and fans the burning desire to angle into a raging flame.
Stage Two – Initiation
Although work in the office
is piling up, and chores around the house ever present, I wake the next morning
at 5:30 with one thing on my mind. I look out the window to a red sky and a
cold north east wind. The poor brook trout weather prompts a fit of responsibility
and I decide to crawl back in bed for an hour before spending the day in my
office. The bed is warm and comfortable and, although secure I’ve made the right
decision, my brain is wracked from the task and I can’t sleep. When my wife
rouses from her dreams and mumbles “go fishing,” it’s more than I can take and
I spring out of bed like a gazelle. I gather my angling gear and head out against
my better judgement. As I drive down the highway under an overcast sky I marvel
at how easily my better judgement is pushed to the side.
I turn onto a bush road and bump along till a major washout spells the end of
the line. I park and prepare to portage canoe and gear in about a kilometre
and a half. I take off my rain jacket and stuff it under a strap of my pack.
By the time I reach the lake a light rain is tickling the surface of the water.
I reach for my jacket but its disturbing absence means it has fallen from my
pack somewhere between the lake and the truck. I trudge back and find it within
sight of the vehicle.
I’ve already covered 4.5 kilometres and although I jogged most of the way for my jacket, I’ve worn a big hole into the precious morning hours. But despite early setbacks, chilly air and rain I slide into my little cedar canvas canoe to proceed with the skunking.
Stage Three - Great Expectations
8:10 am – Though wet and cold I reason the weather might actually be good for trout. There are some big ones here and light rain and Northeast wind might be just the combination to turn them on. My optimism is buoyed by the perfect habitat of looming rock shoals and structure-rich clusters of islands. The smell of cedars and the sound of water trickling against wood and canvas accompany the anticipation of a jarring hit from one of the trophy specks that swim these waters.
After my hurried and unplanned hike back to the truck I start my paddle hot and sweaty. However, the wet and unseasonably cool temperature mean I’ve soon put on all the extra clothing I brought and I’m still a bit chilled. I find myself having to paddle a little harder just to stay warm. But the most chilling thing: after working my way around half the lake, along some gorgeous shoreline, I haven’t had so much as a bite.
Stage Four – Getting Serious
9:45 am - Sometimes fish are eager and vulnerable, other times they will only hit a specific presentation. By now it’s obvious the trout are wary and I start to focus narrowly on the task at hand. No more paddling around and listening to the loons, watching the sky for birds of prey and hoping for a trout to make the scene complete. Now calls for serious angling with the sharpest weapons at my disposal.
Still high on a cresting wave of optimism I show no mercy, putting all my favourite lures through their paces. I even break out the live bait, working proven presentations tight to shoreline cover like fallen trees and beaver houses. I cast into inlets and bays and expertly skirt the edges of rocky shoals. I scour the sharp drops, work the flats and search the gradual slopes that usually hold trout.
Stage five – Getting Funky
11:00 am – Having failed to unlock the key to trout I turn to bizarre presentations. Lures that earlier would have inspired laughter now find their way to the end of my line. I run the gamut from surface poppers to soft plastic lizards. All are seen as the key to unlocking the jaws of uncooperative trout, until they are all, one by one, roundly ignored. .
The total lifelessness at the end of the rod means I start casting closer to shoals and shoreline just to experience the momentary thrill of getting snagged. I loose a few expensive crankbaits, stuck in rocks or submerged trees to remain a curiosity to passing trout for years to come.
Stage Six – Auto Pilot
1:30 pm - Basically I’ve run out of ideas yet I’m still unable to accept that the fish are not biting, so I clip on a favourite spoon and just troll around the lake making the odd cast over likely areas. While brook trout can be eager, vulnerable fish, they can also shut off like a switch. This is especially true of lakes with big brook trout. Perhaps that's why they are big, because they do not bite consistently or often. It's a scenario that happens in the trout game but one we never really hope for.
My well of hope is virtually unfathomable and I’m convinced that the afternoon bite will be hot. But it is not and after more than seven hours on the lake, trying every trick in my bag, I get a sneaking suspicion that the bite is off.
Stage Seven – Resignation
4:00pm - Part of me thinks
how foolish it is to leave just before the evening feeding frenzy but the very
real possibility of a fish-less evening compounded on a barren morning and bleak
afternoon might be a little too much to take. I decide to leave, averting my
eyes from the lake so, if a fish is so bold as to ridicule me by rising in the
calming waters, I won’t see it.
I trudge back to the truck, load up and head home. If I had a tail it would
be between my legs but as I drive I get philosophical about the skunking. After
some serious chin rubbing I decide that in the end, it was a good day on the
water. Not only did I get some fresh air and exercise, but after feeling nothing
at the end of my line for seven hours, the next time I get a bite or actually
catch a fish, it will be that much sweeter.
Yes it was a valuable skunking, a good day on the water, and a great day to have behind me.
©
James Smedley
Paddlers flock to the lakes, rivers and portage trails in the spring but by the time October rolls around most packs and paddles are hung up for the year. The autumn phase of the forest is arguably the most beautiful, but we stay away. Why? Because the weather does not always correspond.
Fall weather is notoriously unpredictable and varied. Temperatures range from below zero to the mid twenties. Thunder storms give way to flurries. Packing to meet the autumn elements is a challenge. But as Paul Rosso and I found out, packing everything from sunscreen to wool underwear is no big deal. And taking what the weather dishes out is part of the charm of a fall camping/canoeing trip.
We chose a well travelled canoe route. The fall colours were at their peak, but it was deserted.
Staying warm and dry is the key to comfort in the outdoors. This was not a problem on the warm sunny day we left the truck for the portage trail. The only moisture we experienced was the sweat we worked up hauling packs stuffed with warm cloths, sleeping bags and rain gear.
By the time we slid the canoe in the water a breeze had come up. Brown and yellow leaves blew from the trees. They churned through the air with each gust then came to rest on the dark surface of the cedar-rimmed lake. A full breath of air caught the pungent smell of fall.
It was unseasonable warm but dipping my hand in the water said autumn. As the waves built at the far end of the lake, we hugged the shore line. Risks we might take in the summer prove significantly more dangerous in the fall because of cold water.
That night under a starry sky around a small campfire I couldn't understand why there were not more people out doing the same thing. The solitude of the evening was punctuated by the mournful nasal grunt of a distant cow moose.
Some time during the night it clouded over and by morning rain was beating against the fly of the tent. We used the rain as an excuse to sleep in. When we finally got up for breakfast it was still pouring.
Fall is a time of transition; when nature tries to tie up loose ends before moving on to the next season. It was becoming obvious that mother nature was trying to catch up on all the precipitation she did not deliver during the long dry summer.
But we were well prepared. The pouring rain was merely inconvenient. It meant that all food preparation had to be done under the shelter of a small tarp rigged between two tree. It meant that our packs had to stay in the vestibule of the tent. It meant rolling off our thermorest mattresses meant lying on the wet tent floor. It meant living in rubber boots and rain gear for the entire trip. But meeting the challenge is part of the fun - and considering the alternative there is not much of a choice.
Attitude is important but the right gear is crucial to maintaining a positive attitude. For instance we used a large water proof pack for our food. We hung it from a tree - away from this year's lean and hungry bears - and soggy food was never a concern.
After breakfast we packed a lunch, some warm clothes, and explored several interconnecting lakes in the vicinity known to hold brook trout. The season was closed so this would be a scouting trip, to determine the best routes for next spring's speck fishing. Autumn is a great time to move through the woods. Many of the leaves were at our feet and it was easy to find trails where they existed, and where there were no trails, we found the easiest route through the woods.
Even with today's high tech equipment there is still room for the lowly garbage bag. Crossing the lakes between portages, the downpour would actually fill the bottom inch of the canoe with water. We packed all our gear in garbage bags within heavy nylon packs and even the semi-submerged stayed dry.
We returned to the campsite just before dark, and again cowered under the tarp. Paul's expertise was put to the test but he got a fire going and we grilled pork chops through the incessant rain.
We warmed our blood with an amusing little vintage of home made wine while a rumbling to the south heralded the arrival of an electrical storm. I remembered a friend who was struck by lightning washing a pot at lake side. We elected to just wipe the dishes and packed them away for the night.
Rain squalls accompanied and pummelled down on our fire in waves. The bed of hardwood coals was no match and we gave up on fanning the failing fire and hit the sack. I remember thinking that any forest fires left smouldering from the summer must be dead out now. The rain peppered down on the tent relentlessly through the night. I actually considered wearing my life jacket to bed.
At six a.m. the rain had stopped and with the gentle breeze the tent was actually dry. But by seven a.m. it started again. We slept in again in the vain hope the rain would stop.
But we had to get back. My wife was cooking a prime rib dinner for 5 pm and we had several lakes and trails between us and the truck. After the last of a loaf of bread, an apple and a cup of coffee we stuffed a soggy tent and tarp into its bag and headed back on the lake.
The weather alternated from driving wind and rain, to a light sprinkling and heavy mist. Of course we were used to days of continuous moisture and all we noticed were the flocks of honking geese, swollen rivulets choked with yellow leaves and the bow of the canoe cutting through cold, dark water.
I thought about the beef and a hot shower more than once but at the same time I was sad to leave the pale greens, reds and yellows of a forest in transition. It was hard to leave because we knew this would be the last canoe trip of the season.
This was the year of rain. It never did get cold. Our warm, dry clothes remained on standby as we portaged and paddled. But we made a pledge to repeat the same trip next year. And with any luck we'll have snow flurries.
You never know what to expect in the fall. The only sure thing: great scenery, few people, the aroma of fall and not a mosquito to be seen. And no matter what the weather dishes out, if you are prepared, it will never be a problem.
© James Smedley
From the fight it’s hard to tell if I’ve hooked a pike or a walleye. But when the chartreuse spinner of my worm harness emerges from the stained water, what feels like a substantial fish turns out to be two: a walleye on the front hook and a pike on the back. I’ve never hooked two fish at a time before but at Wanzatika I’m not surprised. The lake is loaded.
The Wanzatika Lake Outpost Camp is one of six owned by Hearst Air Service Ltd. It takes less than a half hour to fly the 60 miles north east from the town of Hearst. A low ceiling means owner and 30-year-veteran bush pilot Georges Veilleux skims over the swamps, ponds and meandering creeks of the flat northern boreal forest. We cross a wide, slow stretch of the Missinaibi River. Veilleux banks hard to follow her flow north where the dark waters are funneled through a rocky gorge to spill over a series of cataracts, including the famous Thunder House Falls.
The Beaver float plane touches down on less turbulent waters at Wanzatika Lake. My wife Francine and I carry our gear to the cabin while our link to civilization disappears with the drone of the departing aircraft. It’s our first trip away from our two young children and the tranquillity is a bit of a shock. Coupled with the silence is the bewildering freedom to do what we like. We mill around the cabin. On one wall are the angling archives of past guests, scrawled on everything from paper plates to driftwood, recording catches of hundreds of pike and walleye. Consumed with the need to verify the fish tales, our next move becomes clear.
The first few walleye come quickly along the rocky shoreline in front of the cabin. With the presence of fish confirmed we opt for an afternoon cruise to scope out the lake. The graph reveals a maximum depth of 25 feet with most of the lake around 15 or shallower. At roughly three miles long and one wide the lake is small enough to navigate in a few hours - provided you don’t fish. We make it about a quarter way around before being seduced by a thick weed bed. With bright sunlight and calm water we cast jigs into breaks in the weeds to pluck chunky midday walleye from less than eight feet of water.
Just about every bay is thick with cabbage. We anchor over another bed just a cast away from the cabin. Francine dunks a jig and worm into weedless pockets under the boat while I suspend a jig and leach under a slip float. It’s a relaxing way to fish and accounts for numerous walleye to 22 inches and perch to 14 inches. Back at the dock I pull out my box of top-water toys and pull buzz baits, stick baits and poppers over shoreline shallows. Savage strikes from pike to four pounds adds some spice to the late afternoon.