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Annual spring trip out west to Nipigon is in the books. Won't be a late summer trip happening this year. My buddy Stevie and I tackled some all new water for us, putting miles and miles in the boat. It was great. Something very satisfying about researching and then exploring, while catching fish along the way. A total mixed bag of weather fronts kept fishing interesting but we pegged some real quality brutes this year, in great numbers too. It's a read as always, loaded with plenty pictures. You might like it given the chance... check out the link here! http://bunksoutdoorangle.com/nipigons-no-ragrets/ Enjoy the summer OFC'ers! Bunk.

The girls finishing up school, seeing a window in the work schedule and my gar season nearing a close, it was decided a second solo northern roady was in order. Different ideas rolling around in mind, I always seemed to brake my thoughts right back to the Nipigon. This was the result... MISSION FISHIN'. Blue sky, open road and a destination, kissing the girls in their beds before pulling from the driveway early morn I was on my way... with Esso!!! So, has anyone ever noticed how many rivers along the route from Ottawa to Thunder Bay start with the letter "M"? Well if you are wondering, there's the Mississippi, Madawaska, Mattawa, Marten, Montreal, Mabitibi, Mattagami and Missinaibi to accurately name most. And see with all these particular "M's" it's not only that first letter the flows have in common, they're all actually big waters too. And so just as a matter of peculiar question, that "M" theme may also be for "monsters," because monsters is really what much of these rivers along this route lead to. And it is monsters which I had in mind. A more focused fix in truth, a need for some walleye and pike. Yes, the rivers and lakes of Northern Ontario could have provided a thousand different choices for this fishy combo had their been the time, means and people to plan ahead and maybe book a flight to some super loaded puddle within the wilds, but that wasn't the reality for this June tour. Knowing there would be a window in work sometime nearing the end of the girl's school year and a gnarly spring garly season, left much to last minute the dates just worked out the way they did, and where better to find monster fish of any specie really, than the Nipigon... I'd be forging ahead into a late spring in the north, forewarned that the blackflies and mosquitoes were in full swarm and the temps were still sucking blood near corpse cold freezing at nights. And standing there now on route, early morn in an aisle of the North Bay Walmart, in one hand was a My Little Pony doll and in the other a Disney Princess. See, the road would only lead as far as Mattice on day one, as it was expected I attend the Birthday Party of one cute little darling child, Neve, the daughter of legendary Agent, Stevie Zebco. A toy, some cake munchin' and my best behaviour were required this day, and in return I would be granted safety and shelter overnight. It was a fair trade. Enduring that abomination which is the condition of the road between Kapuskasing and Hearst, arriving shaken, battered and bruised to the foreign tune of "Bonne Fete," the rivets in my trailered Lund were thankfully found to all still be intact, and the smiles on friend's and their children's faces proved I was now at rest in this happy place. Entering the home and joining the party I proudly presented my doll gift to Neve... only to learn that it was not hers, but instead baby Emma's Birthday on this fine day of celebration. After the crowds cleared and the children were put to bed Amelie and I sat quietly enjoying a drink in each other's company. Stevie Z was nowhere to be found. Talking of him I sensed there was some sadness, before finally a teary Amelie confessed that shortly after their third child was born, the Agent, the Medic, our beloved Stevie Z suddenly went missing. He was not in action at the time, nor was he off on some foreign Fishin' Mission or even required to save lives, he simply just up and vanished into the sunset one evening. That first clue being that he was last seen headed east into the said sunset, I vowed to Amelie that I would find him and see him home again. One mosquito I thought I'd managed to kill like twenty times through the night, tormented my sleep through to the early morning. Early hours my stiff back, dry mouth and heavy arse disengaged from the mattress and I once more hit the trail. Furnace Face, Tool, AC/DC, Primus, The Hip. The Cult, The Band, The The, Bob Marley, Paul Simon and even some Floyd kept me adrift on the long straight road which is the 11 North. These drives whether all in one shot or broken up into pieces don't really bother me all that much. Sometimes I sleep for hours on tour, especially between New Liskeard and Cochrane or Hearst to Longlac, but sometimes along with the music I do find other things which keep me going. www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nmsspk73O0I The extra-large Timmies gut rotter had my bladder and bowels roadside within about an hour and a half outside of Hearst. The Klotz Lake pit-stop is the most scenic pull over spot to loosen the noose and lay a deuce, I was so relieved to stretch it all out and lighten the load. Circle checking the truck and trailer before departure I had noticed when pulling in earlier there was a lone bum asleep on one of the nearby picnic tables. A second glance his way now and it appeared this beggar might just be wearing my plaid shirt? Peer in the backseat of the truck and sure enough, my plaid shirt was gone. Well, the balls on this here hobo I thought. He may have needed that shirt more than me but theft ain't cool at all, and besides, I would have certainly sold it to him for cash or certain favors. Angry I stomped over his way to get my clothing back until suddenly recognizing the man... IT WAS THE AGENT STEVIE ZEBCO!!! I had found him. Hugs and happiness we were together again. Sobering him up, dusting him off, and finding and fueling his Nissan nearby, Stevie confessed all that had gone wrong since we last shared a real Fishin' Mission together. "Ohhhh Bunk," he cried, "things were going so perfectly until I had three too many children. After that many there was just so much responsibility, no freedom. I felt smothered, lost, hopeless, tired, you gotta understand Bunk?" "I don't Stevie," I answered him. "I don't at all understand. Yes, the children are our hearts, our love, our joy, our little miracles, but we have wives too, and they are supposed to nurture and take care of all that sorta stuff for us. We are men, we have serious Fishin' Missions that constantly call us away so get your act together man! (slap) Get that head on straight!!! (slap) The world needs awesome anglers like us. Needs us to catch the baddest fish in the toughest places. The kids will survive ti'll you get home and you my brother, you will walk a path in this life not only for your family, but for yourself too. You can do it! Be the Agent you were born to be." Stevie came around. We still had about four hours to go and that time I figured would surely help set him right. Although this was supposed to be my solo mission the man needed my help. Some monster big fish, a little alcohol, some of my delish home cooking and fresh air, all together this would put the Agent back in the Stevie Z... I most certainly hoped. It's where I drank my first beer... It's where I found Jesus... It's where wrecked my first car... ... and I tore this bridge all to pieces. That somewhere I turned the corner in my soul... Down this Red Dirt Road. And there I was at Onaman River Resort. Fishing trips are like experiments. If I put it together or come up with the plan, then I guess I'm the Scientist. Mixing ingredients X-Y-Z with Q-R-S and a little bit of A & B the Scientist controls the variables, hoping to create a magical potion or some other sort of concoction. When it's fishing, that perfect mixture often combines big fish, enjoyment in the work finding them, and finally some relaxation. A highly fun and effective although dangerously potent ingredient to add to fishing is the Agent Stevie Zebco. Together we tend to erupt to the highest heights quick, then make a real mess to clean up. Door to door was 1275 kilometers. Round trip this is close to 500 kilometers less driving than my usual tours west. Upon arrival the owners father Wilf came out to greet us. The Resort was at full capacity and Rob had told his dad I may or may not even show up on this day. Walking the grounds with Wilf we hummed and hawed a little about where to maybe find some space to set up our campsite, before settling on a quiet spot off on our own. Rob was out that day on a charter and we'd certainly catch up later. By 3:30pm Stevie and I had eaten our lunches, pegged our tents and launched the Lund in the river. It was a gnarly windy day on Nipigon limiting us to pike and eyes, but were were totally cool spending an evening on that. Once seeing that big water though, I could feel it's lake trout and specks pulling me out. The breeze kept the skitter and blackflies down to nothing, even in the protected back bays where we cast for pike. Stevie and I did a little damage with him hooking the first good and best fish of the day. After a few hours of the pike we retreated back to the mouth of the Onaman River heading for camp. An island at the rivermouth gives excellent protection from the west winds as you'll see in the next photos, and so please note where the water is calm one side of the grass and white-capping on the other. However, you may also notice that this stupidly vain cow moose kept photobombing my efforts for a high quality picture to illustrate my point. Pay no mind to that mangy beast. For a half hour or so back in front of the dock we stuck a few walleyes for fun. Later, after a gin and a scotch following supper, quite tired in the lantern light of my tent I made a few notes in the journal. The rest of this day remained unwritten by sleep. RIGGER HISSYFIT. Frost overnight and I could see my breath come morning, the good news was the bugs were all frozen to the walls. And ya know, air mattresses really are stupid dumb frigid when you forget a thick blanket to place over-top of 'em to insulate. Though I was kinda sorta reluctant to get out of bed and put on cold clothes too, I did. Toes were actually numb. Stevie was up moments after hearing me rustling for the cookware. A good few camp trips with him and he knows me all too well. Quick coffee and bagel before making the lunches it doesn't take us long to pack ready for the day and be on our way. Poked our heads in the office to check the forecast and say hello. The idea to let someone know where were thinking of heading out there on the water is a good one. While Stevie waited in the truck I told Rob that getting my buddy a big lake trout was the first plan of the day, and if weather stayed nice we'd try knocking a few specks of the list before retreating come evening to pike and eyes. When you think about this; this being what I just wrote, broken down to just simply the fish, the itinerary for our day being lakers, specks, pike and walleye, and it be factored in that there is honest potential to nail trophies in all four species, you're pretty well able to grasp what makes Nipigon that truly special kinda place... You follow that? We pulled off the dock shortly after 9:00am and were about 25 minutes into the ride when realizing I had forgot the downriggers in the truck. Go back and cost us an hour or keep going without them? I hummed and hawed for minutes and decided to just keep trucking on, there were plenty lure choices and terminal tackle that could put us down a little ways. Lakers often being a tough go on the Nip I searched for confidence, and as we came off plane at our starting point, I had thought up a decent attack. Between 10:00 and 11:45am all was quiet. Working over a feeding flat with depths of 40 and outward to 300fow off the drop, we flatlined on the port side a Husky spoon and pulled a Magnum Rapala on the other. There's little in fishing I love more than sitting in my own office, with my tools, and getting down to business. Surface temps ranged 37 to 42C so you could imagine beneath those few top inches it was low 30's. Stevie paying little mind at this one exact moment, I watched the port rod take a sudden hard pull back then go slack. I yelped then that we had just got a hit when the Rapala to starboard got creamed. Out of the holder, loosened the drag a touch and handed it over to Stevie, but kept the boat going forward at idle. Pulled in the Husky quick, stowed gear out of the way, got the net to the ready and popped into neutral. The Agent played his fish like a champ. The big laker wasn't long in the fight for she had sucked that Rap deep to the gill and was rendered a little defenseless by her choice, yet when she saw the boat she goosed it for bottom and gave some angry peel. Back up top, in the net, and Stevie's second laker lifetime blows over 20-pound trophy status with ease. A solid chunk of a fish and man were we both ecstatic. Even though she was a bleeder I know she didn't totally tax herself out. The second that head dipped back into the freezing H2O she was racing to bottom. Pointing at the sonar to Stevie I said, "look at the rocket shooting back down to earth." The lake was pretty well glass so we were quick to turn around, get the lures back out exactly how they had been set before, and troll right over to where we hammered Stevie's girl. In all but 10 to 15 minutes, and immediately after remarking on a big hook that marked on the screen and BOOM!! The Husky fires. Stevie cleared the Rap quick while the Lund was in park and got the net ready too. This fish fought double time and twice ripped 90 to 110 feet of line off the counter. Much love for natural lakers in their element, they just have so much more to give than stocker grease in those heated pans south. When we netted the fish we both knew we had another hog, but I couldn't guess the weight. Longer than Stevie's fatty, this one was a skinny fish at 42-inches yet still a real beauty for first of the week. I'll admit to, that after back-to-back 20+'ers I felt like a rock star considering the riggers were forgotten. Another hour or so and around 1:00pm we decided to book it waaaaaaay out. The lake was still calm, the sun beaming, and although specks were last on my want list out of this trip, Stevie now had a big pike, big laker and if we could pop a speck on the afternoon when the speck trippin' is good, then we'd have all of the evening and all next day nab a quality eye. My thinking was that would be one great slam for the Agent before he departs home early the following day. Finding a nice rocky beach on the backside of an island we beached the Lund, both needing to relieve ourselves. Dirty business done, when we push off and start the motor the Yamaha isn't peeing at all. "FTW!!!" "No, no, no," I cry to Steve, "what's going on here." We drive out a little ways onto the lake, try different speeds, limping to quick rips and nada. No coolant water at all from the port so back to the beach. Going through the manual to troubleshoot does not help. Pulling the small grate from the intake to have a look proves useless. That's really about all I've got to consider... although I wish now I'd have checked to see if the exit port had been clogged, because poking a fine piece of wire in there was the only thing I didn't do. Anyways, the reality was we're 25 miles offshore with what appears to be no working impeller... I do have a radio with channels 1-9 which has limited but decent range, it's a calm day, we have plenty of food, it's only after 2:00pm and I've got four fully charged 12V batteries and a trolling motor that could pull us a little ways if we needed to for safety sake. Decide we'll limp back. Once inside Humboldt Bay and along protected shorelines we'd be all good and in no time certainly be seen. Start off slow putting in around 3-5mph. No issues in five minutes. Increase speed to around 10mph with no issue but, we're just plowing water at that speed. Get up to plane, 16 to 18mph, motor is running about 40-50% and over the next hour and a half make the 25 miles all the way back with absolutely no issue. Engine ran like a top at that rate. No overheat, no funny noises, no bogging down, just perfect motoring... and luck. Back by dinner Stevie and I we're like screw it!! Boat on the trailer, shaded inside the bug tent, poured a stiff gin and 7 and had some supper. If you've read and remember at all "The Northern Pike" Report, you'd realize that this kind of happenstance is the norm for the Agent and I. Something incredibly good happens in our day, followed by something bad. And it doesn't end there... it's our history fishing together. It's why each time we get together we dub the trips "Mission Fishin' Impossible." The Northern Pike Report. http://ontariofishingcommunity.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=42839 As we sat chatting about the setback we did come to acknowledge that there is a bright-side to our troubles. For one, it happened here. It didn't happen while he or I were totally alone out on the lake without anyone knowing our whereabouts. Secondly, we still had dozens of options because of staying at Onamans. Rent a boat to fish the big lake or, head into one of the 40 other accessible lakes close-by. Honestly it had been my plan to do so anyways. Onaman Lake, Northwind Lake, Babika, Frank, Elbow, whatever. There's every kind of natural and stocked trout but browns, and plenty pike and walleye waters all within an hour. Stevie Z had the big Titan pimped for offroad too. The more we thought about it, the more we laughed about our seemingly endless options to further adventure. No Lund, pffft, no prob!!! Blackflies and mozzies out nasty despite a breeze picking up, after our meal we grabbed a few twister tails and our light gear and walked the grounds over to the rapids. For an hour a dozen or so plump walleyes put smiles on our faces. And so in the end, Stevie knocks that nice big eye off the list... What a day he had! Plump and golden purdy eye it took to a double twister tail. A partridge beating nearby and absolutely beaten tired ourselves, we were early to the tent, optimistic for what the following day might have in store. ...continued...

SASKATCHEWAN. During Elementary School Geography lessons I remember learning of Canada's Provinces and Territories. Photos from the classroom slide projector flashed images on a screen showing beautiful landscapes such as our colorful Ontario autumn forests and orchards, British Columbia's winter snow covered Rocky Mountains, and Newfoundland's summer coastal fishing villages. By comparison, early memory of Saskatchewan's farm houses and endless golden wheat fields didn't quite evoke the same sense of wonder and awe, and through life thereafter I rarely gave the prairies much thought... not until the days beginning some recent years ago when fishing for lake trout became of interest... Netted by commercial fisherman in 1961, the largest lake trout ever to be recorded came from the northern inland sea known as Lake Athabasca. Canada's Holy Mackinaw, the fish weighed in at 102 pounds. Remnants of once a vast, post-ice age, single glacial lake named McConnell, today along with Great Bear and Great Slave, Alberta and Saskatchewan's sister Athabasca stands as Canada's eighth largest lake. It's area is 3,030 square-miles, stretching 283 kilometers long by 50 wide, and with a max depth of 400 feet. Thanks Wikipedia!!! Today Athabasca is known best for the mining of it's oil, uranium and gold, but for anglers such as myself, it's the lake's enormous and plentiful lake trout and pike which place it on the map. FACE THE NORTH WIND. Stood gazing out the Terminal window watching the sunrise. In the panes reflection, behind me, a noisy man talked fast and furious French into his headset, while waving his hands about as if conducting a symphony orchestra. The other hundred people waited seemingly unaware, their faces zombified to personal devices. Sipping my Timmies I wondered how Len made out with his earlier 6:00am departure... This trip would truly be great for him, his first ever big fishing trip. Our plan was thrown together in just a matter of weeks. No drive in me to revisit Nipigon a third time this year, I stressed for a suitable alternative which would please Len. A last minute cancellation for Laker's Unlimited came up, and after contacting Captain Bruce (Ryan) curious of availability fitting our schedule, the dates and timing for us all aligned perfectly. Len on WestJet and me with AirCanada, each of us paid our own $60 in taxes and cashed in some points for return flights Ottawa to Fort McMurray. We would meet up mid afternoon before boarding a final plane destined to meet our dinner-time reservation on Lake Athabasca. Between naps and connecting flights, during the hours traveling I settled into a new book, one which helped prepare my head for the days to come. Inside the cover, a hand-written note read... Bunk. You mentioned in your Fish-Hawk post about missing the North. Not sure if this will help or hurt but either way it's a good read. The author spent his last years in my home town. I vaguely knew his grandkids. I wish I'd have known of his story before he died. Good fishing, Saskie. "Face The North Wind" intertwines the tales of to hardy Canadian cousins whom began nearly fifty year careers from the 1920's to 70's as trappers in Northern Saskatchewan. Ed Theriau and Fred Darbyshire evolved from greenhorns to expert trappers, working adjacent traplines in the territories roughly defined as Cree, Wollaston and Reindeer Lakes. No modern conveniences, they learned to live off the land and find their way through totally unsettled and unmapped valleys and uncharted waterways. Encounters with wolves, trappers' lore, and exciting tales of fur, game and fish catches, the book captures gripping accounts and experiences of days gone by during the Hudson's Bay Company fur brigades along the Churchill River. While reading, the book completely began to change the face of Saskatchewan for me. The wheat fields gave way to many lakes and bogs, shallow rivers, dense spruce forests, gentle rolling rock hills, plentiful game, and as well, extreme winters, horrendous summer mosquitoes and sandflies; and even a historic glimpse of Chipewyan life, The place imagined was more grand and harsh with each turning page and as so, from one of the two main characters Ed, to survive there during those times and eons before, he would almost summarize what it takes while describing his neighbors with this quote... "The Chipewyan's were a hardy people, descendants of generations of proven hunters. Aggressive, independent, fearless, and almost impervious to hunger and extreme cold. They had qualities of self-reliance and initiative which actually challenged adversity." I wanted to see it more, and walk there... Leaving McMurray Aviation aboard a Turbo Otter aimed at Uranium City on Lake Athabasca, with my eyes glued to the window, in my ear Bud from Arizona shared stories of his many years flying north to fish Neultin, Wollaston and Athabasca lakes. Like Ed and Fred, he spoke his own real tale of legendary Regnier Johnson, a trapper to the area also mentioned in "Face The North Wind." How it was Regnier who once revealed a spring honey-hole up on Neultin where huge cruising lake trout could be viewed feeding on spawning suckers in a shallow creek. Below I watched as the checkerboard and ribbon scarred land of prospected Alberta ceased once over Marguerite River Wildland Park. The crossing into Saskatchewan, beautiful lakes and forest as far as the eye could see abruptly ended where a new natural wonder began, in our sight, the Athabasca Sand Dunes; the world's largest desert north of the 58. Twelve guests, ten Americans, myself and Len all safely touched down upon a rough gravel strip. Gear and camp supplies quickly packed into an idling school bus, out of the rain all were driven down to the water's edge where boats awaited. After the ferry across to Johnston Island, twenty minutes later I poured a gin and seven before sitting down for dinner. "WORK LIKE A CAPTAIN." Exciting is the dawn of a first day on a new body of water. I woke before the sun with the energy of a child, and at water's edge played with the sunrise. Over a big greasy breaky anglers buzzed with anticipation. Courtney, the camp housekeeper and hand, sat across from us and I entertained her with the meaning of the Windigo; she admitting to never having heard of such a thing. When the Captain announced the guide assignments we became eager to greet our man, "Cherry???" Ready, I made my way to the dock... ... where I waited for Len and our guide. In the meantime, while other's trickled down to the boats there was some time to snap a few pics. Known as "Cherry" or "Big Red," Dakota from B.C. introduced himself as we shoved off the dock. Looking this tall, lanky lad over, I was wondering his age before finally just asking, "how old are ya dood, 22?" He laughed, "thanks, but I'm 18!" His first year guiding and so young, admittedly I felt a lump in my throat. Trolling the shoreline of Grouse Island awhile we popped only one laker before crossing a bigger and open expanse of water to Foster and Long Islands. Choosing to call Dakota "Red," he made me nervous while standing to drive us through the waves. Fishing, Len and I had for a short while done what was expected of us. Flat-lining Husky spoons and Dodger size 0's with skirted hooks, the bite was quite slow. Luck changed when we began doing something that Red hadn't ever yet tried in his boat, we started trolling jigs. Just like that in the hour before lunch Len released a 23 and 20 pounder and I picked up several teenagers including an 18. It's some special kinda laker love when you get to nail'em with rod in hand. Mid afternoon several boatloads of hungry anglers came together for a shorelunch. Captain Bruce was part of this group, and parked ashore was his new 18-foot Kingfisher. Recently splitting a Crestliner, he was hoping this new option would survive longer than the two seasons it's predecessor had. Pending performance and durability, Lakers may just have nothing but these boats parked at their dock in the future. Facing east from Foster Island, Len and I were treated to an exceptional Athabasca view and even better fish fry. Although the laker fishing had started off slow this first day, with so much week left no one was concerned. The day bled into evening where back at the lodge Cowboy had cooked up a prime rib feast. Lazily digesting and each man with his select spirit, many told stories over sip and smoke about their personal fish and travels through the years. Todd had twenty-plus years on Athabasca and had experienced much on his favorite lake. Bud and his friends lived a lifetime at Neultin with occasional trips to Wollaston and Athabasca. Shawn and his father Ty had enjoyed thirteen years with Laker's Unlimited. Rob spoke of Northern Ontario, and I too shared memories from Bear, Slave, Nipigon and elsewhere. Blessed fishing lives we lead, seemingly quick within the cozy lodge atmosphere did our tiny group bond. Finally, Captain Bruce and some of the guides joined us for a nightcap. Twenty-nine and running the show, Bruce (his name actually Ryan) admits he is quite likely crazy. Yet, when he speaks of his years, those crazy things done, the fishing and the work, I found not only a quick respect but a sense of understanding. Bruce's heart is fully in it, totally invested, and although it might at times cause him to do crazy things for business and passion, he's honestly just committed because he loves to be so. Nothing crazy in that... "Work like a Captain, Play like a Pirate," that about sums it up perfectly. Continued...