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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...