2018 - With Allan
After all these years I should be good at it but most every time we head off to the boonies I manage to forget something. That's why I start packing better than a week in advance. At the moment a pot of spaghetti sauce is simmering on the stove, all my clothes are packed, rods and tackle checked and double-checked, and the food's bought. But eating away in the back of my brain is the sure-fire knowledge I've forgotten something.
On Friday, my son Allan and I are off to Red Lake, Ontario. Saturday morning we climb in a small floatplane and fly to a cabin on a river system that might or might not be good fishing. The scary part is the weather forecast. It's too good. Highs in the eighties every day, favorable winds, and no rain. Good reason to pack the sunscreen.
We have a week to explore around seven hundred acres of the small chain of lakes that form the headwaters of the Nungesser River. There are walleyes, pike, and perch and I've packed for all three. However, our gear is simple, spinners, jigs, plastics, and half-a-dozen rods and reels. Even packed the fly rod and am determined to use it a lot (we'll see).
Also as usual, I've got the pre-trip jitters and get depressed that once again Allan and I are off to the woods. That usually lasts as long as it takes to start the car and back out of the garage. Then it's ten hours of conversation, music, and staring through the windshield as the world slowly changes from Interstate to back roads.
You can bet I'll be the one behind the wheel when we cross the border, will misunderstand every question I'm asked, smile stupidly, and hope the guard has a sense of humor. Good thing Al has good ears.
Considering all of the walleyes we caught, it was kind of disappointing as far as Canadian fishing trips go. Could be I expect too much even though I say it doesn't matter. And like all stories about flying into the bush, this one wrote itself. Yeah, it was a good time; hard for it not to be seeing as how it was with my son. We get along and Allan always throws new light on my way of seeing things. I like that. Gives me something to think about in the thirty seconds before I fall asleep.
This was our first fly-in and also our first serious fishing trip in Ontario. The idea, once again, was big pike and enough walleyes to kill and eat a couple. Over the winter I tied thirty spiffy-looking, bucktail treble hooks. In the spring I turned them into spinners, both single and double bladed. All were what I'd call #6 size—big pike, small musky. For the walleyes we packed a couple of dozen jigs and a few bags of plastics. That was it, jigs and spinners. For gear we had a half dozen rods and reels, backup line, and a landing net big enough for a small submarine.
Wasn't but an uneventful five hundred and forty mile drive. Over the ten hours the scenery changed from rush hour traffic to spruce, pine, rock, and lake but it still was a long drive. At seventy-one I don't handle half a day behind a windshield like I used to. Could be that I'm no longer as tall as I once was, my butt and head have grown uncomfortably close, and too much time on my backside can cause a headache. Could also be that the excitement level isn't what it once was. Adventure might still be calling but I don't hear like I used to. Good thing I was with my son and that's always a pleasure.
Along the way Al spotted a dead moose in the ditch. To some that might not be a highlight but these days we take our interesting where we can. Who knows, there might even have been a treasure worth collecting among the bones? However, we were in a hurry to have fun and figured being slathered by rotting stink might not be worth rooting through the festering cadaver. We drove on, hell bent for Red Lake.
The motel wasn't much but was clean and our room was far enough from the bar that we weren't serenaded at two in the morning. Done that before and it's not as neat as you might think, especially when the alarm is set to six.
There was a mural in the lobby. Kind’ve neat in a modern, primitive outdoorsy style. I'm not sure what it was supposed to mean but figure moose, fish, and dead trees had a lot to do with it. In fact, the moose looked something like the one Allan spied in the ditch, bones and all. Anyhow, I thought it was a pretty spiffy painting.
Our check-in with Viking Outposts didn't take but a minute. Lacking anything better to do, we hung around to drill one of the owners on pike fishing Optic Lake where we were heading. Originally we'd signed up for Night Hawk but were told the water was too low. Seems they'd had a dry winter followed by a warm spring. The temperature had hit ninety-five the day before and our outlook was mid-eighties for the next week. Glad we'd brought short sleeves and sunscreen. Looking back on the last three years I’ve hit more than my share of hot weather in places that should be on the cool side even in summer. I’m not saying it’s global warming but I sure have sweat a lot.
Anyhow, the word pike spawned a questioning look on the man's face, like no one had ever asked him that before. He all but blurted out, "Who the hell in their right mind would come to this part of the world to fish pike? This is walleye country. Troll and jig, Yank. That's why the good Lord invented the 9.9 horse Mercury. Oh, we've got pike all right. In fact we've got way too many of those nasty little line snapping pricks."
I suppose his words should’ve been a clue, but not for me. What the hell, this was Canada; there were big pike everywhere, even in flooded ditches. I know for a fact Canadians had no love of pike. They called them jackfish and figured they’re not even worthy to feed to dogs. We'd heard the same up in Northwest Manitoba also and found the pike fishing to be excellent. As usual, I figured the locals who'd been fishing the lakes around us since they'd stepped out of diapers, had been missing the boat. We left, none the wiser. Learning the truth took a few days.
We were limited to 150 pounds of food and gear each. After finishing the paperwork in the morning Allan asked if the water at our outpost was filtered. A good question that he'd asked me several times and I'd given him the wrong answer each time. Roseanne, who handled the paperwork and money, simply said, "No." That changed things a bit. Though all our canoe trip drinking water had come straight from the lake, this time I had my doubts. Luckily, Viking had eighteen-liter jugs of potable water we could add to the dozen liters Allan had packed and we bought one. Didn't think we'd go through it all but we did.
Once loaded, we squeezed into a little Cessna floatplane piloted by the other owner, Hugh. Later we heard Hugh probably had more hours in a Cessna than any other pilot in Canada. Nice to know and our twenty-minute flight went just like the man'd been doing it all his life.
Don't know about you but every time I've been on a plane the takeoffs and landings always held my attention. Not that I fear dying, more that I enjoy being alive. Between those dances with death, I peeked out the window at the lakes and woods passing below with hopes I wouldn’t be impaled should I jump before the little plane exploded from a twenty year old gas leak that’d not been thought important, scanning the dials on the dash hoping they were working, and checking to see if the wings might be coming loose. Touch down is always a good thing.
Another party and a stack of gear were waiting at the dock for our arrival. I asked how the fishing had been and received an 'awesome' for an answer. Like that told me a lot. There was a time awesome was used for a category five hurricane, a moon launch, or a massive forest fire. These days the word's used for everything from a volcano to how good the beans taste at Taco John's. Guess we're easily awed these days. So what they said told me they'd caught a few—maybe a lot, who knows? I figured Allan and I would find out on our own.
While offloading, Hugh gave us the lowdown on all we needed to know, "the cabin's up there, the water pump's at the end of the hose," and in ten words and two seconds, how to start the pump. Guess we'd figure it out on our own.
We weren't expecting five star accommodations but our cabin was more than adequate. Had most everything we needed including moose antlers.
Ten minutes of offload and Hugh was gone. Quiet ruled the land. I've grown to love quiet and don't mind hearing my heartbeat at all. Says I'm alive and my hearing's not completely shot.
Once Hugh flew off at 8:30 we stood at the pinnacle of our trip; we were loading our gear into the cabin with the Canadian boonies right outside the door and waiting for us to come out and play. Brought back memories of Larry Gogal roaring off from Dow Lake in northwest Manitoba and leaving us to the silence of the forest. Only this time we weren't going to paddle off. Nope, we had us a roof over our heads instead of a tent. I honestly can't say which was better. However, having a cabin sure made it feel like we were cheating. Not traveling by the seat of our pants might've been a sign that wisdom had finally entered my life though I doubt it. Wisdom is a fickle thing and I’m always ready to season my life with a dash of stupidity.
By 10:00 we were offloaded and ready to hit the water. I'd like to say I was excited but the outboard motor hooked to the back of our boat had me a little nervous. Nervous hell, I was borderline terrified. Could be the reason I'd been a canoe man had to do with paddles never failing to start. For a brief time we'd had a boat and motor at the cabin and it'd been a nightmare pain in the ass and black hole for money. Before leaving home I'd YouTubed a video (Outboards for Dummies) on how to operate a 9.9 horsepower Mercury outboard. Even wrote down the steps. Seemed easy enough but I had my doubts. It was a simple three-step process: pump it, set it, and pull the cord. Oddly enough it worked like a charm and I never once had a problem.
According to the Lodge's website the best walleye fishing was right off our dock at the mouth of an incoming stream. Only problem was the low water levels. Somehow I figured eighteen inches of water wouldn't cut it for a fish that liked sixty-five degree water. The shallow water also had me paying close attention to the rocks strewn about. The idea of whacking the motor's prop held no appeal. As it turned out, the owners had already taken bimbos like me into consideration and installed a heavy-duty metal prop guard. Good move.
Like I said, we were out for monster pike and began to scope the water for the little telltale spikes of flowering cabbage where the bad boys—actually bad girls—would be hanging out. Didn’t take but a couple of minutes till we were in pike heaven. Fifty casts later we had our twenty pounds spread over eight fish. Not good. An hour into the trip and I knew we were in trouble. When everyone said we were in walleye country maybe we should’ve listened? Oh well, time to learn a few new tricks.
By the evening after a squall line had moved through we’d pretty much given up on pike and hit South Optic with walleyes in mind. Think of a melting hourglass that’s in the process of exploding and that’s the general shape of our pair of lakes. The cabin was set on Viking’s original site and there was little doubt the lakes had seen a hell of a lot of fisherman over the decades. It might have been fly-in water but it sure wasn’t virgin. Regardless, we hunkered down along a little chain of islands and caught us a few under the lowering sun. We jigged along the bottom and boated enough walleyes to get me thinking, “Oh yeah baby, we’ve got ‘er figured out now.” Yes, I am a fool.
Sunday was more of the same but we did check out the river egress. A hundred rod portage passed along a series of cascades touted as the fifty foot falls. We tromped through carpets of bunchberries and tiny, pink bell-shaped wild flowers known as twinflowers. At the bottom we found a battered Alumacraft canoe and three beat to hell paddles. A short cruise and second portage was supposed to take us to Glenn Lake where the lodge had stored a couple of boats and motors. We’d have checked it out but I was a little hesitant. Truth is I ran though my lost in the wilderness video in my head and said, “Maybe tomorrow.” Believe me what happens in that flick ain’t pretty. We shot a bunch of photos and headed back to the safety of a motor that worked.
I was never one to run down to the lake and dive in. My tactic was always ease myself in to enjoy the pain a little at a time. Don’t know why, maybe I was born that way? Or maybe I learned it in my early years? Could be something happened way back when that bent my twig. However it happened, this trip was no different. However, I knew in my gut the lakes we were on were okay but were way too much like Minnesota lakes—the fish were hip to our tricks. Part of me knew Glenn Lake would be better, a lot better. Another part knew we were stretching our safety line by heading there and being dependent on an old seven horse Yamaha motor and my sketchy ability to run it. So we left the falls and did a repeat of Saturday, caught us a dozen walleyes by jigging and enjoyed each other’s company. Somewhere along the way Allan asked me if I had a plan. I think that was his way of saying we needed to head to Glenn but didn’t want to push it.
While this was going on I was revising Draftee for the eighth time with hopes of tightening the narrative, plugging the holes and re-assigning everyone in the story their real name. What I actually need is an actual editor but that’s not happening. Doesn’t matter a lot, I’ve no intention of pushing Draftee’s non-existent sales. At home I changed the intro, patted myself on the back and once again put it on the market. In the fall I entered it in the Minnesota Book Awards with no expectation other than an ounce of hope. Turned out there was little interest in a marginal memoir about a kid who ended up in the war in Vietnam. The world had moved on since those long ago days. That’s my take anyhow. This spring I got my five copies back without a comment.
We were down in Alabama when I got an email from lulu.com saying Carolyn Woolwine would like to speak with me. Shit. I’d been in Vietnam with Bobby Woolwine and he played a major role in part of Draftee.What came to mind was lawsuit. Five minutes after reading the email I called Mrs. Woolwine—might as well get it over with. Turned out she was concerned that I’d used Bobby’s real name without seeking permission. My sketchy research had said it was okay so long as you didn’t say anything bad about the person. Yeah, I was an amateur dealing with the real world. Truth is I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
I was a contrite as could be and offered to pull the book from publication. Carolyn said that wasn’t necessary. Bobby was at the VA hospital in Virginia suffering from advanced stages of dementia and had suffered from PTSD his whole life. She suggested I come pay him a visit and added she’d bought a few copies of my book for the family.
Over the days I gave it some serious thought, realized my story had invaded the private lives of others, withdrew Drafteefrom public distribution and wrote Mrs. Woolwine a letter explaining what I’d done. Over the next month I did revision nine and altered all the names. That’s the way she sits today.
Monday told us to explore farther. We passed the falls, this time with fishing gear. Broken thwart aside, the canoe didn’t leak as we s-curved our way to the second portage. Almost felt like a real Canadian fishing trip with a paddle in my hand. The second portage took us to the stashed boats and a boulder-lined pool at the base of the rapids. While I pondered the motors Allan dip-jigged the water and quickly began pulling up walleyes—fish in a barrel—as though we were briefly caught up in some wild, hard-to-believe, Canadian fishing tale from back in the plaid shirt days. Allan’s enthusiasm drew me in and I caught a couple. Al couldn’t leave it alone and pulled up fish after fish. I have no idea the exact number—like that mattered—but it was in the dozens.
Mostly I looked stared at the motors—I do this, then this, then the cord pulls loose. They sure had a used look. Years back I’d read small outboards weren’t much different than my lawnmower back home. Simple as simple could be. But I also had a hard time believing it’d all work out. All I could see was a hundred pulls on the starter cord and a whole lot of swearing. When the walleyes got tired of playing with Allan we headed back. That evening the fishing on the Optics slowed to a crawl. Can’t say that was the deciding factor but I knew we were heading back to the honey hole in the morning. Suck it up and give it a go.
Next day we loaded gear and lunch, double-portaged, dipped the honey hole, rigged the boat, held our breath, pulled the cord twice, the motor came to life and we were off down a narrow, grassy, channel filled with prop crushing boulders. The sun was high, sky was blue, the motor buzzed lake an angry bumble bee and we headed three miles down lake in hopes of finding the spot marked on our cabin map. Once there we immediately fell into our tired, old routine of casting spinners and bouncing jigs. Nothing about our method felt right and it became obvious it’d take a while to find walleyes by fishing five thousand acres one cast at a time. I believe it was Allan who suggested we try trolling. If I were back home thinking about what to do that would’ve immediately come to mind. But out on the lake I was clueless. Allan’s suggestion seemed worth a try. We rigged a couple of jigs with twister tails and putt-putted the peninsula about twenty yards—oops, we were in Canada make that—twenty meters from shore. Desperation methods tend to be a waste of effort but not this time. We didn’t hammer ‘em but over the next couple of hours under a broiling mid-day sun with eagles sweating in the blue sky above we did hook up with a couple of dozen. Terrible walleye conditions but we did okay. What can I say but, “Thanks Allan.”
Wednesday bounced in armed with wind, rain and hail. In the evening we headed to South Optic to show off our trolling skills and caught a few. Wow! We were fishing just like Minnesotans. Can say I was thrilled trying a method that’d worked since the invention of the oar but what the hell, it’s never too late to be normal (but it hurt).
The longer I worked with the outboard the more confident I became. It wasn’t as versatile as a canoe and gave me chills when I’d hook up near a reef. Reeling in a fish and steering at the same time is a learned skill. As is taking the boat tight to shore to remove a tangled lure. But it’s not as earth shaking as I’d feared.
Thursday found us back on Glenn. By now the walleyes were hip to our dipping in the honey hole but the lake proper was still a giving lass. Not much to say, we caught fish, explored a little and learned a lot. As usual Allan caught more fish than me, even when we were trolling. That’s the way it’s supposed to go with sons and I no longer reminded him of why we were where we were and how it all started with a north shore trip back when he was twelve. All in all we slept well, got along as good as ever, had generally good weather and caught some fish.
Saturday morning we packed it up and were picked up by an aging de Havilland Beaver float plane. Classic. Again I feared for my life on the takeoffs and landings but gained the inspiration for a new introduction to Draftee.
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