Moosebunk

That there was mighty poetic... clever too, keeps the mods off ya.

KUGLUKTUK. http://atlas.nrcan.gc.ca/site/english/lear...ies/kugluk.html The flight path was a little different for the return. The plane needs so much extra fuel on board for safety so, that meant we couldn't fly direct but instead were required to make a gas-stop along the way. I was actually happy with this, for it meant we were going to fly the coastline half of the way until we reached the northern town of Kugluktuk. The sites were spectacular. The hour long tour flew us over a number of hunt and fish camps owned by the Inuit of the area. The closer to Kugluktuk the more human presence we would see, until finally the town was in view. At port in the bay by town was a Canadian Coastguard ship, stupidly I never thought to take a pic. When we pulled up to the dock the fuel truck was quick to meet us, although, the pilot said there was time to check out the place, so we did. Kugluktuk could also be called Coppermine seeings as how it's located at the mouth of this historic river of exploration times. Walking the streets it reminded me very much of Attawapiskat except that instead of being built on clay everything is instead placed on rock. A little further up the road we saw a familiar sign, "Northern Store." I thought I'd check the prices and see if they were comparable to my old home back in northern Ontario. OUCH!!! You go to the store for these seven items and that will be 75.81 plus tax. And yeah, those cases of Pepsi are 12 packs. You see, to these Kugluktuk people and many like them in the other northern communities, you tamper with their Native Rights to fish and hunt for sustinence on their home lands, you starve them. Much of the northern Inuit and Aboriginals outside of the public metro eye need to harvest, continue to harvest, and only try to supplement with foods from the store like this. And the hunt is what will also keep them healthy, diabetes and obesity free. Impose rules on the southern Bands traditional harvest rights; as they live cheap, susidized and without true need to live off the land anymore, what plan will come next for others. This really is what I would call food for thought, and sadly, if the prices were even par with Toronto that could only kill, just the same as dying starved. Now another harsh cost is fuel too, and this will limit the hunts. On my way out the door I got a chuckle from this notice on the public bulletin board. "Or just plain ole stolen." And that was Kugluktuk as I briefly saw it. The town was sort of busy with people buzzing around on 4-wheelers. Living a decade in the north I could see this place being an interesting life experience. Pretty cool spot to visit on the arctic ocean. After leaving Kugluktuk Bren had a good nap on the flight while I oddly became nauseated. Shimano Lee was feeling the same way. The ride was a little turbulent but their was a smell of fuel in the plane that didn't air out. I opened my eyes a few times and luckily saw a moose and caribou on route but the rest of the time I was fighting the "chundah from down undah." We landed accident free though. Back at Great Bear Larry was quick to get us out into the boat for fresh air and a short afternoon fish before dinner. Bren whupped me out on the glass calm waters, catching six lakers to my two. Seems her nap paid off. I went to bed early and exhausted that night but with a real good feeling for the next day. FALCON ISLAND http://www.dfo-mpo.gc.ca/zone/underwater_s...t-touladi_e.htm The Shimano boys showed up early at our cabin door bearing gifts and a spooled Tekota for me to use as my back-up Abu bit the bullet. Two great doods for sure we all took little time to talk because the lakers were calling. Larry was waiting in the boat by the dock. We three took off down the Dease stopping to fish a shallow shoal off a point at what they call Jimmy D's Rock. Larry began to explain the name of this spot when my line was struck hard by a fish. So far so good, the new Shimano garb seemed lucky already. A rock solid big laker reward. The morn was pretty grey and damp but I kind of welcomed that. It wasn't like any other day we had laker fished yet, and so my belief was I might have been bang on with my last nights preminition for this day. Larry kept us moving, not staying long on Jimmy D we zipped over to Falcon Island and set the lines for a short troll. Bren was nodding off and I had to give her the odd nudge, I didn't want to see my gear just slip out of her hands. She was borderline asleep again when something woke her up for good. The rod buckled right over and Larry gave a quick acceleration to help set the hook. In neutral now, the boat slowed to a stop before Bren could even move the fish. I watched keenly when Bren said "it's heavy" and Larry replied, "good fish." What a freakin' dog. The laker tugged hard to stay on bottom, testing Bren and the 20 pound mono line. During the week though she had much improved with the outfit I had given to her to use, and I imagine the hooked laker knew it was up against an opponent as equally defined as itself. One simple mistake and the barbless hook could pop. Bren kept stress on the fish and slowly gained line, counting down on the reel counter as the fish came up. When Larry was close enough he quickly scooped the big girl into the net. Bren with her definite personal best laker. It was a looooong fish although somewhat anorexic. Big enough on an empty stomach for sure, Larry and I kind of wondered what it would have weighed had it eaten a ten pound laker before being caught. Regardless of that thought, it still would have been the same strong big grey that gave Bren one of the best fish fights of her life. I couldn't believe my girl, first the 21 pound arctic char, now the 27 pound laker. She was killing me in the big fish department, and in numbers on the lakers too. Her trout was just a monster for sure. Larry was not one bit surprised by Bren's fishing. He has been a guide all over the place since 1964 and has now spent the last 15 years with Plummer's, remaining their most experienced. "Women always out-fish the men," he remarked. "The topic has come up countless times amongst guides, all agree it's the truth, but we can only guess as to why." He had me interested. "Way I see it is their more patient and often have their lines in the water longer." Larry was certainly onto something. I had already switched lures a couple times that morning while Bren was still using one of the same two spoons she chose as favorites on her first day. Same thing with the arctic char, she picked the pretty spoon she liked first thing, and didn't stop casting it for six hours before finally bagging the one big fish that really counted. Not many guys I fish with would stick to three lures in four days of fishing. I had gone through the box of spoons I had, probably twice by now. ( Bren's two choices, the firetiger Husky and the weeks best spoon the hammered pink/silver/yellow Husky. I had a fair share of fish come on the 5 of D's and the hammered chartreuse/copper Husky's ) After Bren's fish the light rains lifted and we stopped for our first shorelunch. Falcon Island was a beautiful choice and I could see why it was one of Larry's favorite stops. Quick exploration of the hills and cliffs, Bren found some early blueberries as well as some new, plump, berry we weren't too sure about. Bren took one over to Larry and asked what they were. "Bake apples," he told her. "Bake apples?" Turns out their also called cloud berries and they're totally edible. Bren got to picking some more for dessert and in no time filled the bowl. Larry said that where he's from in Nova Scotia it would take some time to find and pick as many as Bren plucked within minutes. Very abundant treat here on Falcon, I took a taste and could see how they might have been good for some people, very much like a mushy apple-raspberry I had just the one, then remembered I don't eat fruit. Peregrine falcon overhead I walked to the top of the hill and snapped a couple pictures of the big northern landscape. Bren picking, me pic'ing, I spied on Larry a minute preparing lunch. The ole' fella still young with life he wasn't much for cameras. I liked Larry alot, he had a tonne of character. Bren quite liked him too. For lunch was Hawaiian trout and Potatoes O'Brian. I had never tried either but was skeptical of the laker as I have often found them pretty greasy. This wasn't the case with this fish, maybe a little grease but otherwise the best laker I have ever eaten. The potato recipe; or variations of, has already been implemented into my shorelunch repetoire. The sun came out in the afternoon and Larry had us deep down the Dease Arm fishing near old Fort Henry. The region rich in history, Larry pointed out two locations that would have likely been visited by every major explorer seeking the North-west Passage. His stories and knowledge of the areas history only complimented the fact we were pounding lake trout off the deep backside of this saddle which joined two peninsulas. In a couple short hours Bren and I caught 21 more laketrout, dropping a few as well. On one pass off the point my rod buckled right to the cork and the boat stopped dead. The heaviest fish I had felt all week, I reeled on it and it moved a few feet towards shoreline before making two massive headshakes and spitting my lure out. I sunk in my chair. Gazing at the shoreline I stared at Jimmy D's logstick. It became quickly apparent why of all the places in the world, someone before me chose this exact spot to leave his mark in time. "That's fishing," Larry reminded me. "The lodge had one guest return here 11 years in a row until he finally caught a trout over 20 pounds. But, I remember three women coming here as well, all wealthy coffee brokers. One of them had never fished a day in her life, and she had only just dropped a lure overboard and within two seconds had a giant fish take it. When she reeled it in the guide weighed it in the boat and it had beaten the world record. Thing was, when she submitted the claim for the record it was rejected because the fish hadn't been weighed on shore but in a boat. Can't be done that way." To claim the world record with IGFA there's a tonne of red tape and particulars that need to be followed. It's at the point where it's not even really worth it in some cases. Larry's convinced Great Bear has beaten the current world record lake trout a number of times and it also holds most of the grayling records as well. The Tree River holds the top 10 biggest char too, and the week before our arrival a man reportedly caught two fish that both could have taken the record. Alas, sportfishing has gone catch and release and although many would love to take a record fish, most if they ever caught such a thing would probably have a hard time convincing their new-age sensitive psyches to kill it. Some places like Great Bear and the Tree don't even give the choice anyways. Many anglers come to Plummer's with high expectations. Record chasers that come weeks end may only catch but a few fish while they spent their entire time in pursuit of the big one, their dream. Larry's seen many folks come and go who were seemingly disappointed with their trip. "Why put that stress on yourself, you're on vacation and paying good money to come all this way up here," says Larry. "A few guides, the new guys especially with sonars and GPS, get anglers all hyped up to catch the big one. It's easy to tell at supper time how the day went for their boats. If everyone's talking around the table it was a good day, if they're eating fast and quiet like soldiers in a mess-hall army barracks, the day wasn't good." With 25 guides on site and a lifetime of experience it's easy to take Larry's word for it. I was happy for the reminder, we had talked about it as well early in the week. I had just lost the big fish but had a spectacular day catching great numbers of beautiful lakers, one at 20 and Bren's beauty as well at 27 pounds. The whole day top to bottom was full of wonder. LOUTTIT LANE. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arctic_grayling Fisheries studies noted the largest biomass of lake trout existed on the Dease Arm of Great Bear. Surveys also indicated of the lakes trout populace, 3% of the fish were 20 pounds and over. Commercial fishing has never been permitted on the lake because of the huge amount of time it takes for these fish to grow and regenerate potential numbers lost. The lake trout of Great Bear have few choices for a meal, they are grayling, sculpin, ciscoes, whitefish, ninespines, pike and other lakers. Today we were hoping for a different meal, so we started the day trying to search out laker food, arctic grayling. "They're a summer fish, pretty fussy," Larry warned. "They move in schools and if you find them at the right time you can catch hundreds." Bren and I didn't need hundreds, we needed only three to feed us for shorelunch, but we each needed one to say we had caught a grayling before. Things started slow. We drifted the shoreline casting #3 spinners on ultralight spinning gear and hadn't seen a fish until Bren's rod just about near snapped, appeared she'd hooked a red. Indeed Bren had, and a good battle on 6lb test ensued before she could land a red of about 6-7 pounds. A few casts laters she got hit again. This time, a small but insane little fish gave a brief tussle before coming over the gunnel. Bren's first and what would turn out to be the largest grayling of the trip. We fished a solid two hours before finally catching three grayling. Bren took one more, and I enjoyed a red laker of my own before finally getting my first and only grayling. I was happy to boat the fish both for the meal and the new specie, but enough of these runts I thought, let's get fishing lakers. All week we'd been pulling spoons for trout. Most people chose this method but still a smaller percentage like the Flatfish instead. For comforts sake, considering you hold your rod while trolling and set the hook, I hadn't yet tried any of the tiring lures. This morning I had planned too, and so I gave Bren the Tekota to try out on a different rod, and I borrowed the outfit she'd been using all week which I had yet to try. Four boats were in the same narrows that we had fished on day one. Larry commented that the fishing must be slow, as, many guides were on the move all morning searching for active fish. We started at a distance from the others, dropping Flatfish on a shoreline troll in 30 feet of water. Only ten minutes had passed when my lure got smoked out over 60 feet. Larry says, "this is a guides moment," referring to the fact he knew I had a big fish and the net was coming out for it for sure. A big laker just wouldn't come up, staying down and forcing to sound. Other boats must have been watching on, envious during the poor action hours. "Big lakers do that, they just stay down, sometimes forever," Larry smiled. Well, it didn't take forever, not that long really at all. Horsing with heavy gear eventually the reel gained line from 110 feet back to zero. My big laker was in the boat. We no sooner returned the fish and reset for the troll when Bren hit a fish too. Not nearly as big for a change. Still though, Larry I think was in the moment in front of his other compadres. Grayling on the menu we stopped on this shoreline point for a quick meal. Bren took one last look at her catch before consuming it. The grayling were delicious. Much like a whitefish but with a hint more oils and just a tinge of color to the flesh. Larry is so tired of eating lake trout he won't do it anymore, so the grayling for him made a nice treat too. The afternoon was a slower fish but Bren and I still managed six more lakers each. I was doing most of the catching early on... ... but later while trolling along an unnamed shoreline we called Louttit Lane, Bren picked up more fish for herself. Before dinner back at the lodge Bren was schooling some of the fellas at the pool table; I didn’t even know she really played. One of the British men asks, "where did you learn to play billiards like that?" "The arcade," Bren replied. I couldn’t help but love her. She ran table while I took plenty time to look at and read all the great pictures on the walls. George Bush, Wayne Gretzky, Al Lindner... many people; and many, many fish, decorated Chummy Plummer's creation. It was beyond midweek now and Bren and I had given no thought to bumping our guide Larry for another. There simply are not enough synonyms for the word interesting in the thesaraus that could sum up what Larry is like. At 69 years old, he talked of this maybe being his last year guiding with Plummer's. I would think that sad. On the wall were five artists renditions summarizing Plummer's people, history, waters and fish. There sketched in fine ink was our guide... ... it read. A veteran guide of 31 years, Larry Willett from Enfield Nova Scotia, has spent his life in the bush. He is one of the very few people who have seen the phenomenon of schooling lake trout bursting the surface. He and his sports once caught 38 lakers in an hour. "If you take a guy to a place where the environment wraps around him, the inner ego lets go and he can become a part of the land," says Willett. NARAKAYS http://www.scapamalt.com/index.aspx Jamie the night before had helped me out with a good swash of my favorite whiskey. On this morning, not even the table placemat funnies could help with my weee headache. The lodge at breakfast was buzzing with anglers preparing to take fly-outs to many of the lake hot-spots. The weeks fishing being slower than normal, a number of guys had yet to catch the big fish they were looking for, whatever sizes those may have personally been. Being last chance now, anyone with money to burn and a yearning for a lake trouticus-maximus, was dishing out the dollar bills in hopes to buy a fish. I think Bren and I were the only ones contently broke enough to pass up the opportunity. The map indicated some of the cool areas you could go to though, and a separate bulletin listed the prices and gave a description of what each site was all about. If I ever return I'd certainly prepare for one or two of these interesting looking options. Ya see, on the map we'd been fishing out of the main lodge, every time heading northeast to the bottom of the Dease Arm. Today the weather was calm and cool, and because of that we had told Larry it was time to try our luck heading west, towards the big open lake. We had the world to ourselves when we left the dock. A half hour ride skimmed us along to a spot called Caribou Point, a natural funnel of death for migrating caribou to be taken by hunters. We dropped the Flatfish for a change and trolled for some time without a hit. At one point I got smoked by something that instantly let go, but that was all for our action until we switched up to spoons and Larry took us to a very confined hole surrounded by shallow flats. Now inside this space I caught the first fish of the day, a small laker and a red. I realized then I had not taken a single picture of any of the reds we had caught all week, this one being our lunch for the day I figured it should be remembered. Larry wanted to show us this place called Paradise Cove. The scenic shorelunch spot he stated was always a hit with the ladies. A cluster of islands called the Narakays sheltered Paradise and also held great numbers of fish amidst it's many channels. We were away from Caribou Point and there in no time. The Narakays might just be the tallest islands on Great Bear. One in particular rises up 450 feet off the water. When we arrived we set off on a shoreline troll in Paradise and I almost immediately hooked a red. The fish quickly released we began fishing again until Bren says, "you see the fish?" She was sighting lakers along the calm watered rocky shoreline and once Larry and I started looking as well, passing by we spotted dozens and dozens of trout in the 5 to 15 pound range especially. It was mind-blowing. We stopped the troll and began casting. With our ultralights we tried frantically to get one of the many fish to bite. Cast after cast we worked the shoreline deeper into the cove before finally stopping, convinced they wouldn't take. My belly almost always grumbling I urged we stop for lunch, hopefully giving the fish some time to turn on the feed too. When Larry beached the boat Bren and I got it on our heads to hike (and climb) up the tallest peak of the Narakays. Hungry and thirsty I almost gave it a second thought but Bren seemed already excited about the quest so she sort of convinced me by beginning to leave my butt behind. Destination, the top of that, or the morgue. As we zig-zagged up the hillside the view just got better and better, until... ... finally we reached the top. Atop the Narakay we let out a few big "HELLOOOOO-S" into the arctic air, calling out to Larry and the rest of the planet. Larry on the ground could see us perfectly and said later how he wished he had had a camera to get a shot of us. Looking down we could see him too, and in this pic the boat is just a speck on the beach inside Paradise Cove. Energy replenished by another superb lake trout meal and beer, our trio set sail again around the Narakays in search of biting reds. The fish hadn't moved, but unfortunately they had not become any hungrier either. With the sun high and lake flat, the light penetrated deep into the water giving us visibility to 30 feet or so. Hundreds and hundreds of lake trout swam beneath our boat while we quietly trolled over them with wide eyes staring into the aquarium. We tried, we really tried to hook these fish, except only seven were caught, six of them joyously by Bren with her ultralight. After a couple hours we could see either a nasty storm or heavy fog coming our way from the distance. To play it safe we moved off the Narakays and closer to home base. On route back, Bren and I both landed a couple more fish, me a smaller red, but her a nice grey and the final laker of the trip. With the exception of my char numbers Bren really put a hurt on me over the week. She took big grayling, big laker and big char, and I am sure quietly and respectively she enjoyed every bit of that. In fact, Bren and I are both competetive in nature and all week long we kept accurate count of our fish, the totals were, Bren - 44 lakers, 1 char and 2 grayling, Drew - 30 lakers, 7 char and 1 grayling. 47 to 38 in favor of the only person I could never mind losing too. On a week that some others were calling slow fishing though, Bren and I released nearly 90 fish during our short six fishing days. I could not complain in the least. I finished my Scapa back at the lodge, I guess drowning my sorrow for having to leave come following morning. Great Bear Lake and the Tree really took a hold of me, as well as the great lodge, guests and staff at Plummers. Noon next day we boarded a bus to shuttle us around to the airstrip. As we pulled away I saw Larry sitting alone in lucky #7 waiting for his new arrivals. I wished we had got a better goodbye actually, I hope the place does see him back. Beside the plane, owner Chummy Plummer and the manager Shane shook my hand when boarding, and I gave thanks. This trip wasn't nearly as much about fishing as it was about love, life, dreams and friends. Chummy's vision, Larry's character, Trevor's passion, Brenda's support, and my fulfillment, all amongst some great company sharing the same space and time. There was no guessing that years ago the char on the cabin wall would lead my life here, but I am so very happy it did. I can see it being tough to ever better the Arctic and Great Bear. Thanks for coming Bren.

Wouldn't expect anyone to read all of this fishing report. Our arctic trip was probably the best I have ever taken though, and so to do it any kind of justice I needed to make it the best piece I feel I could have written online, maybe anywhere. Enjoy. For Larry Willett. Mounted over the cabin’s fireplace rested two large brook trout, one of seven and the other eight pounds. John had told me they were caught on the same day many years ago, as he pointed out the window to the lake. They were fascinating to look at, painted in their full spawn colors, probably the best looking fish that swims. To John there was no better catch, and this was the reason he lived to fish each summer from that lake cabin in the Dumoine Hills, where these brilliant fish would readily take the fly. During one summer visit back to that cabin a third fish appeared above the other two over the fireplace, a giant speckle even more brilliantly red and colorful. I asked John about the weight of the large speck to which he answered eleven pounds, except that it wasn’t a speckle at all, but instead an arctic char which one of the cabin members had caught while in northern Quebec. I could never get that char out of my head. I love the specks but something about the char called out to me. “Arctic char,” who knows, maybe it came from the same place within that told me to go north a decade ago. A char much like the rugged wilderness where the concrete ends and the big blue and pure air skies begin. A fish so elite, it chooses to swim only where all others would seek a warm bath before a hypothermic death. Reading about char over the years, Ungava became the pinnacle for me, and so finally last year I made plans with my wife to visit an outfitter in the Nunavik region. Over the winter I prepared by tying flies and searching out everything online I could find about Ungava’s char, I even spoke with a local friend here in Moosonee who had worked for the same camp I contacted. Early April came, and after making a number of unanswered attempts over the winter to touch base with our outfitter (Pyramid Mountain Camps) by phone and email, I was forced to give up on them. Things worked out perfectly though, for our vacation dates matched an availability to fish with Plummer’s Lodge at Great Bear Lake and my loving parents had agreed to watch our girls. A consolation prize Plummer's was not, for if there was ever a destination in my mind which could equal and likely even surpass my dreamy Ungava expectations, it would be having access through Plummer’s to the world record holding char river, the Tree. Immediately we booked, on the condition that I would be requiring some extra time at the Tree for char fishing. They promised to accommodate and I vowed nothing but death would keep me from seeing them in August. YELLOWKNIFE. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yellowknife,_...est_Territories Conveniently Bren was attending a wedding in Calgary August 7th, so it was just an easy jaunt for her up to Edmonton to join me on the way through from Ottawa to Yellowknife the day after. Our itinerary insured a six hour layover in Oiler fan city to be certain Air Canada would not blow up the plane, crush my luggage, accidentally sever off one of my appendages, or poison me with their $6.00 Quiznos fart-makers. Luckily, me and the belongings nearly made it across the continent unscathed, except for some got rot compliments the roast beef sandwich. Come the evening flight with First Air we had a little over an hour travel to Yellowknife. Hot towels were followed with complimentary wine, the best airline meal ever and great service. Flying over Great Slave Lake the skies were lit up over this massive arctic waterbody. When we touched down I found my old highschool buddy Dan and his lovely fiancé Sue waiting for us in the terminal. The real treat in Yellowknife was receiving a first class tour of this intriguing northern city by two locals whom could point out and explain every little detail. I love the north, and it was apparent to me that after Dan and I lost touch 14 years ago, that he moved north as well, over time embracing the same feeling. Yellowknife has life, and on tour to sites such as Pilot Point, Old Town (the Rock) and a drive around the lake which peeks at the Prospectors Trail and shorelines of Great Slave and other small area lakes, we stopped in for a quick beer at the busiest local bar, The Golden Range. We didn’t stay long in this jam-packed sweat lodge of drunken-dom, as the day in Yellowknife had reached 31C and the buildings there were built to keep out cold and hold heat in. View from our hotel room at The Explorer Inn Pilot's Point, atop The Rock. With the 5:00am wake-up call I had back in Ottawa 22 hours earlier; to what with the time change was now 1:00am Yellowknife time, from Dan and Sue's back deck of their new home, Bren and I said goodnight after a couple drinks. What a great evening. PLUMMER'S http://www.canadianarcticfishing.ca/ Plummer’s charters with First Air a 737 to fly anglers to its own gravel airstrip on the Dease Arm of Great Bear Lake. At take-off next morning nearly 100 seats were occupied on the flight which would take us all above the 67th parallel and into the arctic circle. On route I pulled out my Plummer’s Arctic Lodge Information Handbook and started to make any notes of interest. The handbook writes about all three of Plummer’s advertised angler destinations on the lake. The lodges one can choose to visit are noted in the book. There’s the main lodge, Great Bear in the Dease Arm (northeast) of the lake which offers good all around laker and grayling fishing and the only fly-in access to the Tree River for world record arctic char. Another site named Neiland Bay boasts to be the best pike fishing and is a “lake trout hot spot.” The last available lodge is Trophy, and the name eludes to its lake trout fishing. See Great Bear Lake is the fourth largest lake in North America, the largest lake entirely within Canada and the seventh largest lake in the world. It’s massive with five main arms kind of giving the waterbody a shape like an X but with a tally-whacker dangling from the south. Plummer’s pretty much has a lodge on four of the five arms of the lake except in the southwest arm where the small town called Deline (del-in-ay) is located. Much of the land surrounding Great Bear is governed by the Sahtu and Dene Bands, as well as caribou, grizzly, muskox, moose, wolf and much more regional wildlife. It’s heaven on earth, and a land where there is good chance you could be the first to ever step on ground which has remained to this day what it has been since the beginning of its time. Lake trout are one thing. Some guys go to Great Bear Lake expecting huge fish, but for once in my case, I told myself I would be happy with a laker over just a "measly" 20 pounds. The fishing was more about the char and the Tree River, and the trip was just as much about Bren’s enjoyment as my own. This was her first big fishing trip with me and I prayed she would have a good time; and that usually means steady fishing action, … and yeah, I prayed for just one char too. It seemed I must have only blinked because we were soon on the ground looking off into the distance at our home away from home for the week. They took care of the bags. Bren and I simply followed a couple fellas-in-the-know right into the main lodge where we could buy our fishing licenses and get our room assignment. Once we did finally get settled into our cabin it was only a few minutes before we hear a "helloooo" from the front door. Bren and I stepped outside on the walk to meet a tall, aging fella, smoking a big cigar. "Hi, my name's Larry and I'll be your guide... or, at least until ya bump me midweek." I thought his comment a little peculiar and asked, "whatta ya mean ti'll we bump ya? "Well, that's just what some people do. You might get tired of me and want to try someone else." Pondering his words he gave me a sinking suspicion we would either not like him for some reason, or, he had little confidence. "Anyway," Larry continued, "When you're ready to go fishing I'll be down by the docks waiting in boat #7." I was jonzing to head out for a little anglination on the ole Grand Lac de L'Ours. When Larry pulled up dockside I said aloud, "Lunker Larry and Lucky Number Seven," which the lunker part Larry confessed to be amusing and he gave a brief chuckle. Loaded up it was 2:00pm and we were soon off in search of beaucoup de lac truite. Fishing started slow in a busy part of the lake where alot of guides were taking arriving anglers. Being later in the day Larry mentioned we wouldn't stray far, but seeings how he could sense our (likely just my) eagerness to get on fish, he changed his mind and we did take off on a half hour ride down into a narrows. Flatlining Husky Jr's, Bren's choice of the firetiger spoon almost immediately put her on a fish. When she began to let out line Larry told her to put the lure back 75 feet, and Bren for the rest of our time fishing lakers with Larry never trolled a spoon with anything more or less than that exact 75. The fish she managed to catch came with some difficulty for she was not at all used-to a bigger line-counter reel and stout musky rod. It was great having this area of the lake to ourselves but even better seeing Bren enjoy catching her first lake trout. Shortly after on a 5 of Diamonds Husky Jr I pegged a laker too. I asked Bren for the count. Larry laughed, "I can tell you take your fishing pretty serious." "Ummm, yeah Larry, I like to catch fish," I grinned. We only ended up with a short two hour fish. The first bite took awhile before we eventually arrived at the narrows. When it was quitting time Bren and I had gone even keel at seven lakers each. All the trout were greys not reds, and the average size was about what is posted here in the pics. Catching lakers on the surface in early August was a pretty cool thing, the rods never went in a holder either and it was fun setting the hooks ourselves. At dinner we met a number of anglers. The Ministers from the States, John, Don and the two Bills, all super nice fellas. The British Connection of Nicholas (the only friendly one of the four) and a contest trip winner Peter, whom Bren dubbed the flirt. The Germans, whom started quiet with people but turned out to be awesome, worldly traveled doods. Team Shimano and BassPro, and with the exception of Lee and Jackie I forgot the other two's names. They were quite trophy hungry Torontonians but took plenty time to relax and socialize, and it was funny that Lee first introduced himself by asking if I was Moosebunk. Great guys all of them. There was also Lyn and Jamie from Oshawa, the father and son duo whom by midweek we befriended and really enjoyed their company. Jamie shares a love for scotch, travel and fishing so it was quite easy to hit it off with him. His dad seemed to adore Bren and I think the feeling was mutual. And later in the week we talked with Chummy Plummer himself as well as his personal friends Ken and Jerry whom receive a free pass each summer to come and go as they please. Bren and I had finished a delicious steak dinner when the lodge manager Shane approached me and said, "you two are headed for the Tree first thing in the morning. No problem if you'd like to stay two nights. Pack your bags" This was music to my ears, exactly how I wanted it to go down, I was pumped. TREE RIVER. http://www.dfo-mpo.gc.ca/zone/underwater_s...har-omble_e.htm Larry popped into the tackle shop the next morning. Bren and I were in line to buy our Nunavut fishing licenses, as we were about to board a turbo Otter float plane for a two hour flight which would take us out of the Northwest territories and into the neighbouring province. Before we could escape with a couple extra spoons and jigs for the arctic char, Larry kindly took a moment to draw out a map of the river and highlight some of the fish holding pools; as he remembered them. I took a seat in the cockpit with our pilot Gary and off we went. In the air the land gradually changed from rocky and sparsely treed tundra to absolute barren and scarred rocky ground with many lakes and the odd lush, green grass, river valley. During flight we were in and out of the clouds until we finally dropped down on approach to the Tree. This little micro-continent was like a tropical oasis amidst some of the most harsh and isolated barrens of the world. This the home of the planets biggest arctic char. The camp soon came into view. (looking upriver) On the ground we met our Tree guide Trevor. A fisheries biologist from Campbell River BC, he was taking his two weeks summer vacation to enjoy some guiding on his favorite river. Right away Bren and I got the sense he was as eager to fish on his first day at camp as we were. Alot of full moons had passed to arrive here, there was really no point in watching another pass us by. Unfortunately, we were forced to thoroughly enjoy some French Onion soup then an arctic char and rice brunch before we could get hiking. I chose to use the same gear I had been trolling the lakers with. An 8 1/2 foot medium salmon/steelhead casting rod with a new Accurist spooled up with 17lb P-Line. Bren required a spinning outfit so she had my 7 foot Frontier with a Symetre spooling 30lb Power Pro. The lures of choice for char are spoons like Pixies, Cleos and Devledogs in the one ounce range, otherwise white hair or twister tail jigs of about the same weight. The upper river from camp has 2 1/2 miles of fishable and hikeable waters. Three major sets of rapids all in the class 5 and 6 range, power current through this narrow stretch leaving a number of small tight eddies, and the odd bigger slack water pool. The char can only swim so far and usually spawn at a pool below a waterfall 25 feet high which our guide Trevor refers to in fisheries talk as "a definite barrier to migration." Reportedly only a small number of fish have ever been seen able to actually jump that height. Amazing if true. Walking tight slopes and slippery hills Bren and I had casted a few spots over the course of a couple hours, when finally it happened. I hooked and landed this awesome and gorgeous red male char. Trev helping with the shoreline net job. Mission accomplished. Could close the book now if I wanted too after achieving what I set out for. Thing was, we moved upriver a little more and I managed to quickly hook and land a second smaller fish. This was awesome. This char in the water pic might as well have been painted by van Gogh. Not as red as the other, still a colorful healthy male specimen for sure. Bren and I had expected to be cold considering just four miles downriver from the camp was Coronation Gulf of the Arctic Ocean. We were both considerably layered and carrying a fair bit of gear for what turned out to be a five mile hike up and down hills and along rocky river shorelines. Both of us were overheating as the temp reached about 25C and we had long-johns, pants and waders on, as well as two pairs of socks and a number of shirts. The only reprieve was when along the way we dipped our cups in the river and drank the pure, frigid, Tree water. I caught a couple of small lakers, and on route also watched the peregrine falcons glide along the cliffs surely keeping an eye out for one of the many ptarmigan that pecked in the fields. Sik-siks (a sort of Prarie dog) were abundant as well, often popping their heads out of their holes to watch us go by. And finally the end of the road for anglers, the falls. Atop of this, the river goes for miles and miles, eventually joining up with the two large lakes which form the headwaters. Bren had been fishing hard all day, probably harder than me. Trev had been great with her, staying close and sometimes helping her out with snags. The Tree was a tough fish in that manner. Many of the eddies needed to be quite accurately cast into because they were so narrow. The way the river would cut at the seams was like a rocky ledge of which the lure had to get into the deep side, get down quick in the current and char's face, then somehow pop up from the depths and jump over the shallow step without getting caught up on the rocks. I had jigged walleye in a number of river places just like this over the years, but still, it was a challenge, for Bren it was totally new. Funny thing was, she had no quit in her and just accepted the likely 100 times she got snagged. She always managed to somehow pop off, most times on her own, sometimes with Trevor's help. After six hours of fishing she still had the same lure on she chose at the beginning of the day, and she still had the same determination to catch her first char. The last pool on the way back to camp it happened for her. "I got a fish," she says with her reserved quiet excitement. And a helluva fish it was too, for when it breached the surface and thrashed we caught sight of a large char. It was one of the bigger pools and Bren had plenty room to play. It may as well have been a fresh river chinook that instead of using it's power on the runs, used up it's energy dogging, thrashing and taking short but very hard bursts. But the fish at home in his river tired quickly of the confines of the pool and drove fast to the current. Trev and I went after it downriver with the net, hoping it would cut out of the rushing stream and tight to shore in a narrow eddy. The fish did this, but we couldn't quite reach it safely with the net. Bren was still trying to hold the fish from all the way back at the pool. The drop from where she was to where the fish was now put her line directly across a small rocky peninsula jutting out from the river bank. I was a little panicked. I could not see her lose this fish, but the braided line was actually rubbing the rocks right at my feet as I stood between her and the fish on the point. I went to Bren who was concentrating hard on keeping the line tight and her single barbless hook firmly embedded in the fishes yap. I grabbed her shoulders and began walking her down the slippery stoned river bank to her char. She kept the rod tip high, the pressure on, and reeled up as we neared the fish. Bren can't swim, and in a few spots had she lost her step there could have been consequence. I watched her footing but peered often at the line still occassionally rubbing the rocks ahead of her, the closer we got, the less frequent our worry. As she finally arrived on the peninsula Bren was able to steer the tired fish closer to the shore in front of her. Trevor acted quick and saved the day. In this very moment Bren joined a pretty elite group of people in this world, she caught a 21 pound arctic char. And the cool thing was, we had been so oblivious in the chaos we didn't even notice the three other anglers who had come along and watched the whole thing go down. My girl rocks. A happy but tired expression, and then the release... It wasn't even supper yet and already I felt as though we had done so much. Heck, it had probably been a couple years since bushwhacking for brookies that I'd walked five miles in an afternoon. Before reaching camp Bren and I stopped for this hillside picture, compliments of Trevor. If I lived on the Tree all summer I could certainly lose some of that belly hiking for char everyday. The Shimano and BassPro doods were in camp with us, as well as the German's, a father and son team from Iowa, and two old jewish fellas from out of New York. Dinner time, Lee from Shimano talked about the numbers of fish he, Mercer, Big Jim and others had two years prior. Seemed he was disappointed with the slow fishing this time around. Me, I was content with my two char for the day and Bren's one tanker for her. The conversation made me think of Jim though, who I spoke with before the trip. I wondered how he's making out with his cancer treatments and thought how great it would have been if he could have been with the Shimano guys this time around to fish the Tree with Bren and I too. While some of the camp went back out fishing after dinner to persue a fish as big as Bren's, I grabbed a bottle of wine for the two of us and had one of the guides, Chance, take us out to the arctic ocean to see the sunset. We thought we'd have the boat to ourselves but last minute the German's jumped aboard with us. Away we went on the river for some sight seeing then, stopping along the way to explore the coastal tundra. On route to a grave site where a woman had created some sort of lethal love triangle for a couple or horndog knuckleheads. The kinds of things that just grow on rocks. Ryolite... second hardest to Granite. Quite shapely ya feel like Q-Bert jumping around on blocks. Anyone remember Q-Bert for Atari??? This years graffitti will be next years hyroglyphics. In this puddle grows cottongrass. The Inuit use the tops of the plant as wicks for their oil lamps, stuffing for mattresses, or even clumps of it in kids undies for diapers. Young caribou that feed on the grass grow fast and healthy and snowgeese eat the plant during their migration. It started to rain a little once we reached the sea, but Bren found some company that talks more than she does, and so she didn't want to leave but instead hear more about life in the north. Looking out to Coronation Gulf on the Arctic Ocean at the mouth of the Tree River, Nunavut. We took the boat right out onto the ocean to dip our hands and sip the mildly saline waters. The waves were calm, as they often are at the top of the world where there is little tide. We looked north and saw Santa in the distance sitting on the Pole, then turned and rode back to camp. A fog rolled in overnight and the winds switched from the south to the north. Fishing the lower part of the river by boat with our guide Trevor, during the morning we moved no fish while our teeth chattered away. We had dried our clothes of the sweat by the oil stove in our cabin, now we wore far too few layers on a morning that seemingly must have been about 5C. To make it worse was the damp and rain. Upon sitting down at camp for lunch it was reported that only one char had been caught during the morning. One of the BassPro lads had brought up a centre-pin and 9 foot noodle and he had some success drifting a microjig. The weather being so sour, after the meal strangely Bren and I were the only two anglers in camp willing to brave the cold and rain by beginning a hike back upriver to where we had gone the day before. Our guide was happy with that, but one new eager guide named Rob said to Trev on the way out, "why do you have to get the hardcores?" Instead of spoons I decided on white 3/8 ounce jigheads and 4-inch white twistertails, actually it may have been Trevor's suggestion to do so. The switch paid off, for after a long and direct two-mile hike over very slippery wet hillsides and soaked fields, the first eddy I cast to coughed up a mediumish male char. These fish are made for the profile-macro-setting shots. Just stunning. Larry back at Great Bear Lodge, before we left for the Tree told us to expect about two char a day, so far we were on par with that. We were slowly retreating back towards camp working all the spots to ourselves that afternoon, when the second fish of the day took a well placed jig on the cheek while swimming around in the tailout of the President's Pool. It was a strong fish and when we finally got it to shore I saw why. This char was the first of it's kind for this trip. I had caught my first "she," and we all know a good woman will kick-yer-arse when need be. Bren thought she would join in for a pic. Poor girl was still fish-less for the day. In fact, on the Tree Bren only ever managed the one big fish for her efforts. Just in case Ole' George reads the Moosebunk reports, I thought I'd thank him for leaving a char in the pool for me, and let him know his honey hole still holds the odd beauty. Trev had been watching me while Bren was on break. I could see the odd red swirling throughout the pool and I had been trying to place the perfect cast on this one for some time. "Drew. Try to hit your cast right there," as he pointed to a small dark hole in the shallows a full cast length away. "Hit that," he explained, "then let your jig swing slow right across the very top of that drop off of the tailout." I put it right there like he said, and on the swing spotted a large red flash to chase the jig. I repeated with a cast just off the mark, but on the third attempt put the lure right on the fish. SWWWIICCCK, the rod tip came up and then bent over to the butt. It was mine. It tried to pull but I pulled harder. Soon enough it was in my grasp. This was my big char at 36.5 (L) by 21.5 (G) inches. A char into 18 pounds, and the same weight as my first char the day before which had been a half an inch shorter. I was quite happy with this brute, as I had been with them all. Imagine catching a steroidal brookie of 18 pounds............ wait a minute, I don't have too, hehehe. Was the last fish of the day. Returning to camp, drying out and warming up before dinner was much needed. Around the site the gaggle-flock-whatever of ptarmigan were out cruising for whatever gaggle-flocking-ptarmigan cruise for. Bren and I hit the shower and I no sooner got the soap all lathered up and shampoo suds bubbling on the nogging when the hot water turned icy cold, then right off. What is it about the arctic that makes it so frizickin' cold and harsh all the time, eh? Regardless, I loved the challenges, even simple unexpected twists like the shower. Early risers, I was stoked to get in one more quick fish before 11:00am when the first plane would arrive to pick us up. Thing about that though was, a big hill / little steep mountain of about 200 feet high maybe, lay beside the camp and I wanted some pics of the Tree from it's top. Trev being the good sport and Bren always begging me to exercise more, both were game to make the climb. I have to admit, my cardio blows-goats. I obviously made it though... one coronary event later. This was the shot I wanted. We got about an hour and a half for fiznishin. Trev parked the boat on some rocky island and after reading the water and moving around a little, I watched three fresh char move into the pool. I picked a fish then dropped the jig on his face. Booooyah!!! Charzi-licious This large male may have not been my biggest on the Tree but it sure as shynola was the sexiest male I caught. I was gay over this fella with his manly kipe and ultra-neon-red skin. This arctic char was so fiery red that gazing upon it's glow too long could have melted my retinas and premanently charred my brain. Well, I had one blistered and broken big left toe to show for my time hiking like 12 miles on the Tree over the couple days. Never do that again for seven char... NOT!!! This place was awesome. The Tree, a real arctic oasis imagined by some god of splendor then created to warm souls from the bitter stone and ice which have always protected it. I've set myself up to fish some great places in the last few years but this Tree River takes the cake. Absolutely the ultimate for fish and scenery. When the plane came though, I was ready to get a change of clothes, some big lodge comforts and to take it a little easier on a laker troll. But first we had to get back...............

Fat Terry, nice dood.

Karma might dictate that tomorrow you should buy a lotto ticket. Rough outing. Big motors suck too.

1 speck over 22 inches. The lake has a bunch of Regs not like other places. It's a testament to the fisheries preservation. The doods we thought were poaching chucked a couple fish into a cooler that I didn't think were 22. We could see them pretty well. Thanks for the replies folks. Ron, it would have been cool to meet ya had you made it this year. Same could have been said for Spiel. Maybe down the road.

I've caught them all. Muhahahaha, except really only one muskie... and actually no steelhead... or pike, walleye or bass either. Heck... I caught a panfish once I think. Anyways, I think trout. Landed them both ways Chris and the boat is equally as hard if not harder if there's a good chop on the water. Also with shore fish you can often beach them, or have someone get in behind them with a net (like we did in BC), but in a boat there's little room to walk with a long rod backwards, there's often more clutter and people in a confined space to contend with and, the netman needs to be on the ball cause boatside losses from a missed net attempt are probably as frequent as shoreline. Ontario salmon are so often so spent by the time they come for shoreline catches I'd definitely have to say boat if we're talking this province only. Ohhhhhhh wait a minute... forgot about all the other lines and bodies lining the Ganny. Landing fish on the shore over someone elses shoulder can be tough too.

Day 1. A Plan and the Red-Eye Punk-Rock Express. A decade ago my buddy Pat stood at the Beardmore launch for Lake Nipigon looking out at 14 foot rollers crashing the eastern shoreline. Having driven with tinny in tow from Ottawa I could only imagine the defeated feeling when his dreams of catching mammoth lake trout and specks came to a sudden halt. Over the years his hope to return must have festered inside, for when Pat and I first shared a ride together on a Niagara fishing trip about 20 months ago, he spoke excitedly of a desire to travel back to Nipigon. I told him, "let me think about it and maybe clear a few things," and so once my wedding was done and Arctic plans solidified, last fall I called Patty up and said, "let's do it." Sunday August 17th my feet were barely on the ground back in Ottawa . The week before I had lived my dream trip in Arctic Canada exploring and fishing char in the wilds of remote, now I had six hours to kiss the girls, get the laundry done and repack for a 10:00pm pick-up by Pat at my folks place. Too excited to tire, the late hour finally came and he arrived. Pat's a great angler who's easy going, young at heart, and totally committed to making the trip happen, I was lucky to just have to jump on board for another awesome fishing experience with the guy. We set off through the Bogie backroads to meet Highway 11 around Renfrew, and it was around this point I realized "we" missed grabbing a rod tube back at my place. On route I became acquainted with our third man in, Rich. An infectiously energetic and eager angler, Rich, Pat and I yammered on about the big plans for Nipigon, until one point around Rolphton when all my tripping from the week before caught up with me and I had to crash in the backseat awhile. Was a good thing for Rich, for Pat drove through the night and needed someone to stay up with him. Around Blind River I came to when we pulled into a Timmies. From the highway I thought the town was a hole, and some of the locals seemed a wee bit freakish. Coffee on board, I took a turn driving for awhile as we made our way around Georgian Bay to Sault Ste. Marie. Pat let me change up the tunes from his all night punk-rock fest to my more random tastes. In Wawa I found a rod and a full belly. Along the shores of Superior the drive was beautiful. Rolling hills overlooking the greatest of Great Lakes were enough to keep everyone's energy level up. Finally, after 22 hours of driving; and the last hour of it dodging piles of bear scat on the road, we arrived at our launch to Lake Nipigon , and this time the waves were manageable. Taking little time to pack the boat, we set out onto the water and were quick to find an amazing campsite which became home-base for the week. A steak dinner before bed, and so far, so good. Day 2. Warm, Muddy Waters. Big south winds were building. The night before was northwest but now there was a switch. Surface temps on the water were a balmy 69 F and the lake was in a good state of chop-suey. We hit the water and found the fishing tough. Crazy mudlines in places separated the clear from the odd murked-out expanse, and after picking up a few pike and losing a brook trout during the morning, we deemed working harder might be in our plans. The boys after lunch made a tour to town for a few supplies while I hung a huge tarp around the campsite kitchen for a wind break, then puttered about a sheltered part of the lake in my float tube. When Pat and Rich returned they had news of meeting a local who has regularily fished the lake for 35 years. Word had it, the surface temps were driving the trout deep making things seasonally more difficult, and even the pike were a little on the slow bite. I didn't like hearing that, but what could ya do except crack another pint and enjoy the scenery around us. Day 3. Wonders Never Cease To Amaze. I roused before sunrise to this... A glass lake we three set off on a laker troll with high hopes, yet as hours passed just looking at a sonar stacked with non-biting fish we soon switched gears to casting for pike and specks. By lunch our boat had caught a whitefish and small pike. Cooking up a feast at camp I managed the stove, Rich the beer, and Pat drifted off shore within ear shot of us. From the Lund we hear shouts of excitement from Pat, "THERE'S DOZENS OF FISH HERE!!! HUNDREDS MAYBE!!!" Pat was talking about specks. In about 18 hours the lake temps had now dropped from 69 F down to 54 F. Schools of specks were appearing on the shallow shoals and shorelines around our camp. After the meal we tried tempting these fish to bite but they all had lock-jaw. The whole thing was just an awesome site though. We had never seen brookies behave, school, or show up like this anywhere in such great numbers. Crazy winds grew over the afternoon limiting our adventurous spirit. Boat control was tough with the bow mount so we wised up and began anchoring more often. Catching fish remained difficult but we three were convinced it was only a matter of time now before all the visible specks turned on to feed. After a delicious bear chili supper Patty had preprepared, we anchored off the shoal near camp and had our first speck pound a lure. Rich was the lucky recipient, and while the speck fought we all marveled over it's ferocity and strength. These guys can really match smallies if they chose to. And Rich wasn't done... he was quick to get another. IT WAS SOOO ON. In our short hour long window of evening biting brookies we three gave a bunch of slimey handshakes and high fives while the camera rolled. The trip had pretty much been made in those moments alone. Patty's fish were next up as he bagged a couple bigguns but unfortunately lost a speck we figured may have gone seven pounds. It just tore line from his reel before snapping off. Again, specks with total attitude. Just trying to hold onto these fish and keep them straight proved difficult. Pat's caught some big fish in his lifetime and felt that these trout may have been the hardest to handle he's ever experienced. I had to have one of my own. Rich and Pat had each got a couple and I was still fish-less. I spent more time retying than anything else, as this rock bottom was a little less forgiving than I'm used to. All worked out OK, for before we packed up for the night my first Nipigon speck came over the gunnel. Our third day seemed truly unimaginable, but it was totally real. Day 4. Tearing Shiznit Up Now. The boys outfished me the night before and on this morning I came out to anglinate the roof off the mutha. Rich keeps a hot hand pretty much at all times though. He had a great weeks fishing for sure. In the rising sun on this day he wouldn't let me get too far ahead in the count so he bagged his first too. Then my turn again... We had drifted off the shoreline out over a long shoal. The brookies had all but disappeared but we kept searching after them with small baits. Thing was, the next fish I hooked wasn't much of a usual small bait eater. A crazy and adrenaline filled fight on the lighter gear Pat scooped up this trophy in the net and we had something a little more slimey in the boat to take pics of. Seconds after it's release, Rich was right there to tighten the lead by bagging his own pike of even bigger proportions. We were on cloud-dang-nine on this morning. Nice esox Rich ya little nutbar. Water surface temps were continuing to drop. Much of what we measured now was 41 to 43 F. An absolutely, unreal, temperature drop of near 30 degrees occurred in about 36 hours. Fish that had finally been turned on the day before, were now actually acting a little lethargic in the plummetting cold. The winds continued to pound on us. They were unforgiving, especially in the afternoons. Pat and I made a trip into Nipigon for a few supplies instead of fishing. From there I was able to get in touch with Dan and my girls back home. Guidofisherman had pm'd Dan already so he knew we were around, but it was important for me to speak with my daughters as I'd been away from them for two weeks. Arriving back at camp we were hungry and decided on another steak dinner. Patty had done a "kick-donkey" job on the wind-proofed fire pit and stove. And as our tasty treats cooked.... The evening provided another great fish. First off Rich was on fire again and he nabbed two back to back fish. One ended up being our biggest of the trip. Drifting by a point Rich cast to either one of my follows (we thought) or, up tight to a fish kind of behind a boulder... and... "THWACK." A 23 1/2" speck is something to shake your head about. Nipigon brookies are the best fo-shnizzle. The specks on Lake Nip for us likely averaged around the 20" mark. Very few were caught below 18" and many were measured or eyeballed to be in about the 20 to 23" range. For speck lovers, it's heaven. Patty had suffered on this day so far having not caught a fish. Before heading back to camp though he made sure to get on the board. He wasn't done either. We had just landed ashore and while I was rooting in the cooler Pat remarks how he just saw a fish rise right off the point in front of camp. He grabbed his rod quick and on the third cast was into a fish. Rich went for the net, I went for the camera. A well oiled trio-machine Pat engineered the perfect shore catch. After the release he took two more casts and caught a second identical brookie. Nice job for Pat, he ended a slow day on a real high note, and this shore pic is definitely one of my favorites. We settled in for a good night around the fire. Day 5. Guest Appearances. Morning rain, continual pounding winds and cool air made waking a chore. A little too much fun the night before made that chore even harder. The early day was kind of a blur but I can remember Rich picking up a whitey and a speck during a choppy fish. By mid day upon returning to camp, spirits were a little blown out by the gnarly gusting winds still out of the south. Much of our area had still not even really been explored in the four fish days on the lake, the waves keeping us limited to protected bays and shorelines. To make matters worse, other boats were showing up on the scene and we also received a few neighbours in the adjacent campsite. Patty and Rich went over to say hello but quickly came back saying the grandfather, father and son trio had one bad apple... the father. Guess he was unimpressed to see a few lads out of Ottawa on his precious "Great Lake." Dood said they were fishing for pike... it became quickly apparent he was full of it. The gramp was friendly enough though they said, loved to talk about his bass-netting days on Georgian Bay. That afternoon Rich and Pat braved the big waves and set out for lakers. I stuck around camp in the float tube trying some flys for specks. After a hopeless effort in the high sun I went back to camp. Gramps had been by a few times and while I had been out floating around I kept an eye on him while he nosed through our stuff on his visits. I wasn't impressed. In fact, I was in a bad mood most of the day already anyways. I was heating up some water for a quick wash and the old timer happened by for like the fourth time in a little over an hour. "Heating up some water for supper," he says, while sticking his nose in things again. "Nope" I replied, "I'm just about to take a wash." "Well, I'll just have a seat right here," he reckons, as he begins to get comfortable in my lawn chair... I made my next comment very clear and direct... "I said fella, I'm just about to take a wash!" "Well, I'll just be on my way," he says. That was the last we saw of the old man in camp. One laker came out of several trolling efforts on this entire trip. Patty's boat, Patty's dream, Patty's biggest chance to make this trip happen, it was only befitting he was first up in the rotation for the laker fish. Turns out, that was all he needed. When the boys arrived back at camp I got an immediate sense something was up. First words out of Patty's mouth... "How big was your biggest laker in the arctic?" I told him. Then he ousted me by an inch and a half. My ego wasn't bruised but 5 minutes, and when Patty showed me his bohemuth on the camera and his face was lit up biggest I'd ever seen... well, it was only deserving. This was his fish of the trip and one he'd waited a long time for. Congrats again dood. Spaghetti dinner consumed and beer supply dwindling, we were bumming around camp watching a boatload charter of poachers keep some trout off the shoal in front of camp when Dan finally arrived with his uber active pup Abby. Our nuts took a cracking while Abby sniffed us out, and it was all cool meeting local OFC Nipaddict legend and speck-enthusiast Dan. Immediately we could tell Dan was one passionate angler and kind fella, whose softspokenedness complimented his love for the outdoors and particualrily Nipigon. Tired from work and travel Dan took the evening fish off to enjoy some campfire beers and R&R, while Pat, Rich and I took to the fish on. End of a late night though, my total for the day was a first skunk, though I can without a doubt say the Lund might have taken it's best fish of the trip. Day 6. Murphy's Rebel. Pat and Rich were up and out early for lakers. Surprise, surprise the winds were blowing hard again. Dan and I were planned to take off and beat some specks out from under their rocks along the shorelines. We were getting a great start on that... Dan in our short hour and a half caught two beauty troots over 22 inches, the second one a 23 1/2'er. Seemed to me the local lad had his fish of choice right dialed in. Shooting the breeze while trolling a calm piece of water out of the wind and waves, off in the distance I spot a float plane circling and dropping over our camp. Could only be one fella on this windy day, and after a weee bit of campsite confusion Wayne is on the lake and shuttling over to our place. Wayne cutting my fishing day short could have almost been an unforgivable thing if not for the fact that he is one heckuva a genuine, fun and nice fella. To have flown from Temagami and suffered an overnight bad weather grounding in Marathon, making his usual 5 hour flight a 27 hour ordeal, showed all of us the kind of dedication he has for fish and cause. His energy was well timed too. Through the afternoon Pat and Rich went to town while Dan and Wayne got out for some specks, Wayne getting his first. I had to meet the boys at the dock and missed any chance to fish for the rest of the day. Was a great evening though, as while we enjoyed a few drinks after supper, Wayne, Dan and I kept the convo going and enjoyed some lively skies. Pat and Rich returned later on. Was a tough day for those two as they both suffered the same fate as me the day before... their first skunking. Getting that monkey off the back would only prove good karma in the end though. Day 7. The JigFly. Winds were howling out of the northwest but we were still protected in some places. When we finally saw the big lake; and I mean the real big part of the lake, I wanted nothing of it. No one did, it was suicide kicking out there. Dan, Wayne and I went one way, Rich and Pat the other. Didn't take long for our boat to get on fish... thing was, they weren't the intended species. For a short time we couldn't keep pike off the line... well Wayne and I anyways. After awhile, I picked up a speck which Dan got a shot of on his camera, but then Dan bested that with a big trout. That's all this guy can catch really. Does nothing different that I could see, but just seems to have the horseshoe for bigger fish. This one was another true Nipigon beauty. Dan, you make it seem so easy man, and thanks for all your help. After a solid morning fish for our boat, that afternoon we said goodbye to Dan. Patty took off for a lone fish on the lake, while Rich, Wayne and I enjoyed some sun around camp. After supper with Wayne we weren't sure if we needed to head out far as the lake was finally seeing some reprieve from the winds, but as it turned out the bite was on right around camp so the four of us did some trolling and casting for specks nearby. It was a smart choice, we picked up three nice troots for our efforts. By the campfire we warmed from the chilling night air, while I polished off the Scapa and stargazed with the lads. Another perfect Nipigon day. Day 8. Cabbage & Ice. The insomniac Patty's wake-up call actually came late for once at 7:00am. Through the night the ice cubes in his rye glass didn't even melt and we were all stiff and blue when creeping out from our tents. Finally no wind, Wayne and the Rebel were scheduled for an early departure off the lake, and as we trolled out from camp for lakers our buddy dipped his wings on the buzz-over to say goodbye. The air warmed quick, and after another no-laker attempt we were off to explore new waters where the specks swim. Didn't take long for Pat to pluck a fish. We had decided to go in rotation while on the troll. Bad karma as it turned out for me as I dropped two specks in a row and then later a high 40 inch pike. Was a brutal beginning. While working the shoreline we found the odd cabbage bed. When there we switched tackle and beat the weeds senseless for pike. It worked. We all managed a few fish and quite enjoyed the different fishing from what we'd been handed all week due to the winds limiting our chances to sight fish and stay on spots. Here's a fish of Pat's... a classic Pat shot for those who know 'em. By afternoon I had nothing left in the tank. I had been fishing 14 out of the last 18 days and had travelled from Ottawa to Edmonton to Yellowknife to the Arctic and back in the first nine days, then Ottawa to Nipigon to this tired point on the latter nine. The boys went out and beat up on a few more pike while I took a leisurely float tube for specks then a twenty minute ciesta. When we headed out after supper Pat was quick to learn the boat was having starter troubles. Nipigon isn't the place for that sort of thing to happen and it worried us of any risks. We stuck close by camp and did our best to catch a few more specks, not convinced of what plans may lay ahead. When drifting over a school Pat shouts out, "they're right under the boat... Ohhh, got one!" I made a quick cast to where he pointed and had a speck engulf my bait too. Double header. All was a little chaotic for the moment with Patty and I dancing around each other in the boat, but in the end it all worked out perfect. Over a few pints back at camp we decided to call the trip a day earlier than expected. It was funny how the week went from wanting to target one specie, to the next, to the next, then back to the other again. Nipigon's pike, speckled trout and lakers are all world class really, and something to get excited about and target. We packed up a little that night with absolutely no regrets from the week or sadness to have to leave early. Patty completed what he called the "trifecta," having caught big fish in all three categories, Rich got trophy pike and brookies, and I received a real healthy dose of the specks I wanted most from Nipigon. The fishing could not have been scripted any better. A big thanks Patty for the plan and Dan for the help. Nipigon will be seeing us again in the future for sure. What a very special fishery and beautiful place it is.

Read it backwards but thing was, forward or reverse the end was all the same. Great BassK. Congrats to ya and good fishing dood.

You've outdone yourself Dave. Pics are too awesome bud. Great snaps of some real cool plant-life most people just trample over on their way through. Looking forward to the next one.

Great seeing/meeting ya Dan and thanks for everything. We boys certainly enjoyed the visits from you and Wayne. Just in the door here and will have a report up over the weekend.

Thanks TG and gang. Was a pleasant surprise when I arrived home to see the issue waiting. Esox's art director Dave does an amazing job every time I submit him any photos. He's a real talent and it's cool being associated with such a great bunch there. Only troubles with Kev is finding him from time to time and hearing how he's doing.

Well, well, well. Great I caught a few moments to pop in while on holidays here in the valley. Dan, all is still a go. I have to catch my flight to the arctic tomorrow but shall return next weekend to hit the road out to your neck of the woods. Seems my jigflies might be a little heavy but I can't wait dood. Have your numbers, will call ya soon. BTW.... reports like yours give me a full day long stiffy. Way to "keep it up." Soopah-nice troots dood.

I thought it was rated 18A. Who took ya Rich??? lol. j/k

For walleye I use jigs mostly. Sometimes other stuff. For pike I use spoons mostly. Sometimes other stuff. For the troot use jigs mostly. Sometimes " stuff. I think Jigger you somewhat solved your own way out of any future frustration. PM's. I too have found many people very helpful in that way. But, best gained knowledge is often achieved on the water.

Glad you could squeak this report in before I leave Mike. Too bad about destination 1. I can only imagine the big clearing at that spot before the launch being full of tents and summer campers, must have been packed. Everyone has 21 days but I'm sure the place gets it's fair share of squatters and no one gets pushed to move along. Looks like a few folks from New Post erected a real tent too. September there were no bugs and no people there. I swear I recognize where you were in pics 1,3,4 and 5. The sidetrips I found often start out OK, but then end up 4-wheeler narrow. Did one 18-point turn with the Silverado to get out of one jam, and had to make about 2 dozen attempts to angle cross a bride not wide enough for a truck. Bill McCord. That was the name of the MNR guy whom I spoke with and faxed me up the stocking lists. Talk about A1 CO's for the Cochrane district. Too bad the fishing wasn't better, but truth is... I think it'll only make Cliff want to get back there that much more. Good show fellas. I'll have to view the vids at home later.

Wait... "burried spedometer?" Probably only the Lumina as it was set around 180. The Z24 was 220. The Renegade 220 or 240 I think.

Is there we all admit to breaking the law. Don't tell my folks this.... My pops Z24... had a V6, was a standard, got it to 195km/hr with my then daredevil girlfriend egging me on. Took that car a long ways to climb to that speed and I remember that steering being good and touchy. It was before they repaved the stretch between Perth and Balderson though. Ma's Lumina. It must have had a limiter for around 180km/hr. Me and some teenage buds got chased back from Ottawa to Perth by a few tough guy RMC boys we kind of P'd off. (total misunderstanding) They weren't so tough when they met my dad with Betsy (his crowbar) but we were still chicken shats and wondering what the hizell my pops was thinking calling 3 of them on when he hunted them down at the local Mac's Milk. A Chev Silverado got it up to around 180-185km/hr, that's it. Long straight stretch outside of Cochrane. Had the Renegade reach 187km/hr on very hard pack, pretty much ice. That's a bit of a rush, could've maybe kept climbing a little but there was a corner ahead and I was a scaredy cat.

Good start dude. Keeping having fun out there.

Welcome aboard Mark. Plenty of other freak floatfishers here too, lol. But, ya do chase the eyes so I guess we can give ya a trial here at the site.

I bought some of these probably near 15 years ago. I never caught a fish with 'em. Handed one to a buddy one time and he caught one fish with it right away. lol. They're still garbage.

Good summer so far Jen. Lots of fishing, lots of family. Thanks for the report.

I had a Dodge once. It blew up... no kidding. For about 4 years I drove a Windstar for work. I was a teenager and it was the work vehicle. I actually kinda respected the thing for not crapping out from the abuse I gave it. This thread has got me thinking I'll need a Lada or an Isuzu, cause every other truck in here has been covered with something negative.

Vehicles suck. Anyway... ( I just closed the other site I was at but it was a govmnt site and I just googled "gas mileage trucks") I was just looking at the gas mileage for the big trucks of 2008. The site listed city and hwy numbers. (averages I guess) The scores for 4wd in and around the 1500 class showed from best to worst (and I thought this surprising) 1. Silverado 2. Sierra 3. Tundra ties F150 4. Ram 5. Mazda B4000 6. Nissan Titan My buddy told me his Titan was a real pig on gas. Guess he wasn't kidding.

It's not a good system. Trade it in for a $2000 Parabody. This coming from Hercules. Not me.