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.
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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. Having never seen anything quite like it, 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 Ungava Northern Quebec.
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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 and inspiring 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.
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Reading about char over the years they became the pinnacle for me, and so finally in 2008 I made plans with my wife to visit Nunavut in the high arctic for the first time, and capture a dream. Below is an excerpt from 2008’s, “The Arctic Expedition” and it is followed by an excerpt from “Awarded The Arctic,” a return trip taken in 2011. Unforgettable experiences that remembered, still feel like yesterday…
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TREE RIVER. 2008
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… Larry popped into the tackle shop the next morning. Bren and I were in line to buy 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 neighboring Nunavut. Before we could escape with a couple selected spoons and jigs for 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. In the air the land gradually changed from sparsely treed tundra to absolute barren and scarred hard ground with many lakes and the odd lush, green grass, river valley.

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During the flight we were in and out of the clouds until finally dropping 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. Home of the planet’s biggest arctic char.

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The camp soon came into view. (looking upriver)

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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 sensed he was as eager as we were to get fishing on this first day in camp, but first his lovely wife Erin slowed us down with a French Onion soup, arctic char and rice brunch before we could get hiking.

The upper river hike from camp has about two miles of fish-able water. Three major sets of powerful class 5 or 6 rapids push strong current through this narrow stretch, leaving a number of small tight eddies and only the odd bigger, slack water pool. The char can swim just so far and usually spawn in an area below a waterfall twenty or more feet high; a stop 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 to actually jump that height. Amazing if true!

Walking tight slopes and slippery hills, Bren and I had cast 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.

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Bucket list and… check! Mission accomplished! Could close the book now. Thing was, we moved upriver a little more and I managed to quickly hook and land a second smaller fish. This was other-worldly awesome.

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The char in the water picture might as well have been painted by van Gogh. Not as red as the other, but such a vibrant and colorful healthy male specimen.

Bren and I had expected to be cold considering just four miles down river from the camp was Coronation Gulf upon 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. Our only reprieve was when along the way we dipped our cups into the river and drank the pure and frigid Tree water.

I caught a couple of small lakers, and on route watched some peregrine falcons glide along the cliffs. Many ptarmigan 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.

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And finally, we reached the end of the road for anglers, the falls. Atop of this the river continues on, eventually joining up with the two large lakes that form its headwaters.

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Bren had been fishing constant all day, probably harder than me. Trevor had been great with her, staying close and sometimes helping her out with snags. The Tree was a bit of a tough fish in that manner. There were one or two swift spots, some deeper soft bottomed pools too, but some of the eddies found also needed to be quite accurately cast into because they were so narrow and rocky. The way the current would cut at the seams in places, sharp ledges were carved into the rock through the ages. The lure had to get down into the deep side, get down quick in the current and right down into face of any char, then, somehow it’d need to pop up from the depths and jump over the step without getting caught up. 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 dozens of times she got snagged. She always managed to somehow pop off though, 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.

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The last pool on the way back to camp it happened for her. “I got a fish,” she rather softly says with a reserved excitement. And a helluva fish it was too, for when it breached the surface and thrashed we caught sight of a giant char.

It was one of the bigger pools giving Bren plenty room to play. Good too, for her char 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 strong bursts. The fish at home in his river tired quickly of the confines of the pool though, and it suddenly drove fast to the current. Trev and I went after it down river with the net, hoping it would cut out of the rushing stream and tight to shore in any narrow eddy.

The fish did do this once, but we couldn’t quite reach it safely with the net. Bren was still trying to hold that char on the hook from all the way back at the pool. The drop from where she was to where the fish had gone now put her line directly across a small, rocky peninsula jutting out from the river bank. I was a little panicked, not wanting to see her lose this fish, but the braided line was actually rubbing the rocks right at my feet as I stood half way on that point between her and the fish. I turned and ran back to Bren who was concentrating and determined on keeping the line tight and the hook firmly embedded in the fishes yap.

Grabbing her shoulders we carefully began walking together down the slippery stoned river bank to her char. She kept the rod tip high, the pressure on, and always 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 often peered forward at her line still occasionally rubbing the rocks ahead. The closer we got the greater a line angle, and the less frequent the worry. As she finally arrived to the point, Bren was able to pull and lead her tired fish closer to the shore downstream and in front of her. Trevor acted quick with the net and saved the day.

It was this very moment Bren joined a pretty elite group of people in this world, she caught a 21 pound arctic char and her first ever. We had all been so oblivious in the chaos we didn’t even notice three other anglers who had come along the trail to witness the whole thing go down. My girl rocks!

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A happy and tired expression, and then the release…

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It wasn’t even supper yet and already I felt as though we had been given so much. Before reaching camp Bren and I stopped for this hillside picture, compliments of Trevor.

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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. That’s how to best describe the group I guess..? While some of the camp went back out fishing after dinner to pursue a char as big as Bren’s, I grabbed a bottle of wine for the two of us for one of the guides, Chance, offered to 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 too. Away we went on the river for some sight seeing, stopping along the river to explore the coastal tundra.

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On route to a grave site where a woman had created some sort of lethal love triangle for a couple or horndog knuckleheads.

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The kinds of things that just grow on rocks.

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Ryolite… second hardest to Granite. Quite shapely ya feel like Q-Bert jumping around on blocks. Anyone remember Q-Bert for Atari???

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This years graffiti will be next years hyroglyphics.

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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 readily eat the plant during their migration.

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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.

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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 at 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, during the morning we moved no fish while our teeth chattered away. We had dried our clothes of the previous days 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 center-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?”

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 medium-ish male char.

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These fish are made for the profile-macro-setting shots. Stunning.

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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 tail-out of the President’s Pool. It was a hearty fish and when we finally got it to shore I saw why.

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This char was the first of it’s kind for this trip. I had my 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. Of course it would be “the” biggest though.

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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.

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Trevor had been watching me while Bren was on break. Could see the odd red swirling throughout the pool and had been trying to place the perfect cast on this one fish 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 lure swing slow right across the very top of that drop off of the tail-out.” I put it right there like he said, and on the swing spotted a large red flash chase the lure. I repeated with a cast just off the mark, but on the third try put the lure right on the fish. SWWWIICCCK!!! The rod tip came up and then bent over to the butt.

It was on! It pulled but I pulled back harder. Soon enough it was in my grasp.

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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. Was quite happy with this brute, as I had been with them all. Imagine catching steroidal brookies of 18 pounds..? You can’t, not until you do.

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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.

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Bren and I hit the shower and 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 fackin’ cold and harsh all the time eh?

Early risers next day, we were stoked to get in one more quick fish before 11:00am when the first plane would arrive to pick us up. Although the thing about that was, a big little hill of about 200 feet high maybe, lay beside the camp and I quite 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. Have to admit, cardio blows-goats.

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I obviously made it though… one coronary event later.

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This was the shot. Only thing that would have made it better might have been some sunshine, so maybe next time if ever so lucky.

We got about an hour and a half for fiznishin in. Trev parked the boat on some rocky island and after reading the water and moving around a little, three fresh char were spotted cruising into the pool below the swift. I picked a fish three quarter cast away, then dropped the jig on his face. BOOM!!

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This large male may have not been my biggest on the Tree but it sure as shit was the sexiest dipped in florescent red to be caught. A manly kype and ultra-neon-red skin. This arctic char so fiery red that gazing upon it’s glow too long could melt the retinas.

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Well… I had one blistered and broken big left toe to show for my time hiking like 12 miles or so on the Tree over the couple days, but could care not. This place was life altering. The Tree, a real arctic paradise conjured up by some God of splendor, created to warm souls from the bitter stone and ice which have always surrounded it. Have set myself up to fish some great places in the last few years but this Tree River takes the cake. Absolutely an 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 back at Great Bear Lake…
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TREE RIVER. 2011.

… Much of the flight I gaze out the window to see precisely where the tree line would end and the tundra landscape begin. Two muskox were viewed closer to our destination and shortly thereafter a big bull caribou was seen trotting across the open land. We were close…

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Upon approaching the Coronation Gulf of the Arctic Ocean, soon in sight was the Tree River. It’s aqua flow stands out unlike any other waters we passed by on route.

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Directly below would be camp.

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The plane swoops down in over a shallow shoreline for a smooth watery drop onto a bend in the river. Awaiting at a dock there are the guides and camp help to shuttle us just a few minutes upriver to the cabins. You get goosebumps arriving to the Tree.

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It is a beautiful warm and sunny day. We meet our guide Bob from Kukluktuk and he tells me it has been hot for a week. Kids back in his home town are swimming in the Arctic Ocean off the beach and cliffs there. Inside the main cabin six guests; including Jack and Doug, are enjoying lunch and patiently awaiting their groups return back to Great Bear.

“How was the fishing guys?” I excitedly inquire. Jack speaks up, “Tough… Doug got one this morning just up from camp. All totaled the group got three. The hot weather has the bite off.” I couldn’t help myself being so pumped about just being there I surely sounded like a pompous arse when I answered to them all that, “we’re gonna slam ’em!” “They’re gonna be force fed what I give ’em!” “Did yas get to Presidential Pool and further up?” When they all replied no, and not even as far as Neiland Bay, I knew where Bren and I were headed.

We said goodbye and made for Cabin 5 to get settled and ready the gear for an afternoon fish. Bob came by to tell me to leave the waders behind, so I just wore the wader boots with some neoprene socks to keep the wet off the toes. Twenty minutes later Bob and guide Mike, Bren, Ken, Ian and myself made up the trail to the boat cache that would ferry us across the river to fish the better upstream pools. Coolest thing, Ken and Ian weren’t at the Tree to fish at all, they were simply there to hike and sight-see. So, this meant, for the next two days Bren and I had the awesomest Arctic char river to fish, all for ourselves.

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The fish-able pools of the Tree River starting from down river of camp at the mouth, to the third and final falls where no char can go beyond, have some pretty cool names. Dinosaur House, Red Marker, Amsterdam, Morris Point, Fantasy Island and Last Chance in front of the camp. Upriver it goes, Second Island, Third Island, Slippery Jack, Big Bend, Little Bend, Neiland Bay, Presidential Pool, Anderson Pool, Montreal, Second then finally Third Falls. For the latter part of this day and all the next day, Bren and I would hike and fish upriver. From camp to the Third Falls is 2.5 miles of rock and grassy terrain that cuts up and down through the tundra hills along the river. I was about to get a workout, and when Bob gets to hiking, for such a wee fella he can really boot’er on his homeland turf.

Neiland was a short attempt and a bust, but rounding the corner to the Presidential we caught a few glimpses of the odd char sneaking about in the waters there. A peregrine falcon soaring overhead, Bren was the one to first sink her talons into a Tree gem.

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The President and I have some history. It was here I got my first ever char and also my two biggest and best. This Brenda chick of mine wasn’t about to show me up for too long in my pool… and neither was the George Bush fella they named this particular establishment after.

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I think Bob loved every minute of catching arctic Tree char more than us. It was easy to gravitate towards him as he has this magnetic polar energy and enthusiasm for what he does and where he does it. At 45; and even though he’s a pack a day smoker, ( $19.78 per pack in Kug ) he has kid-like stamina and agility built on a solid base of hard tundra life. A father of eight and plus, he lives and breathes arctic time and the Tree River, the place where memories and friends are made and he’s twice broken the world record with two 35-pound arctic char. Bob’s stride is a proud and conditioned one.

Back to the char, requiring more… this silvery hen came next. Sexy gal!

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Followed by one fully decked-out, big sharp dressed rooster. Handsome fella!

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They are magnificent to behold. From birth to about five or six years they stay in the river to grow before finally venturing out into the ocean to feed through their short summer weeks. Each early fall they return to their natal waters to spawn the next generation of record setting wild fish.

A speckled trout comes close and is certainly a fish of exceptional beauty, but it is no arctic char by look or name. These fish here really hold their own, these high tundra beauties. And furthermore, char of the Tree are also quite unique in contrast to just common char as well. Their striking looks are born from a mix of both arctic char and their close cousins the Dolly Varden, so much so that they resemble Dolly’s far more than they actually do all greater widespread, standard arctic char. There are isolated pockets of these Tree like rarities found mostly in the Coronation Gulf region and to the west towards Alaska’s more abundant Dolly populations but, there are also some fish existing way further east too, as far as Greenland. Looking at the Tree char I would have to admit they do resemble Dolly’s to a “T” (and maybe it would be more accurate to call them as so), although, just like the Aurora trout is to brook trout, deep down the two in question are quite strongly tied, and are both char come end of the day.

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We left Presidential Pool to fish further upriver. The hike would be worth it.

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And one tragically lost before us has felt the place worth traveling for an eternity.

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We finished at Second Falls for the afternoon. Arriving there we noticed the fast pool had many fish rolling in the froth and taking shelter in the undercuts of the riverbank. This is the char’s last big obstacle before reaching the large spawning and wintering pool below Third Falls. It’s an INCREDIBLE place to wet a line for a few hours, and made even better when you can cast-jig spoons or drift-jig white twister tails to catch char. Our numbers started to climb, and the silver fish were especially hard hitting and crazy to control. Strong, strong, strong like a fresh steelhead.

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Even Bob just for fun, managed for the first time ever to simply net two fish at once that were held up hiding in a rock cut. It gave us a good laugh. A laker and char chilling out when suddenly scooped up…

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Bob had to quickly end his shenanigans though and make room for another fish coming to shore for a photoshoot. Same hole, same time.

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Second Falls was a wide gnarly-grin from ear to ear for the afternoon. Bren popped a couple charries and lost them both in battle but she managed one laker there for her troubles. Ominous skies rolled in from the south behind us and we heard some thunder rumblin’ in the distance. It has gotta be hot in the north to get a thunder storm. Suppertime coming we made our way back… but not before stopping again at the Presidential for Brenda to get in one last char for the day.

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Man she looks pro! I’m the luckiest guy to have a woman who’ll fish with me in places like this, and enjoy every minute of it. We’re all about a little friendly competition and the odd ribbin’ with the fishing too, but there’s no ego being that we’re the best of friends on the same team. Bob on the other hand… well I had suspicions all along about who he’d rather champion. Little shiznit that he is… (hehe!) Days count, Bren two char and a laker, me eight char. Just so they know eh! Bested the last trips two day total by three already, and still had a day to go.

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She did herself proud, time to roll on out cause we could be in for some rain.

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Dinner couldn’t have been more fulfilling. I’d been snacking on Mike & Ike’s and drinking many cup-fulls of water straight from the river, but the legs felt worked and a single beer was enough to draw the lids down a little over tired eyes. Bren was all about taking no rest, and the rain never hit us. Ken and Ian along with their guide Mike had it in mind to drive the half hour out to the ocean for a swim, and whether liking it or not, I was expected to go too.

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Nuts! I wasn’t about to follow suit… cause like I said, it’s nuts. But they froze and had a good time doing so. Ian’s testicles will eventually find their way back to the sac in a week or so. A seal watched from a distance, it bobbing in the waves thinking to itself, man those people are terribly spastic and loud swimmers. And on the way back to a camp another wolf stood watching us enter the river from his ridge above. The real world…

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Quite honestly that could have been one of the most exhilarating days of my life. To start a day viewing wolves in the Northwest Territories and end it capturing Polar Bear swimmers off an Arctic Ocean coast in Nunavut; and do so much in-between, that’s the “wild life” worth living.

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A couple rounds of scotch with Bob and Mike back at camp, followed by the oil heat back in Cabin 5, I was crushed into a deep sleep.
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Fresh grizzly tracks were found on the trail just after Bob the superstitious scolded me for uttering a few words about the man-eating nightmare. A cooler day with plenty of sun and some more corn syrup in the tank. Already on the move, an Arctic fox had been curiously following behind, while Bren picked some blueberries and Labrador tea and I took moments to peek at small char-frys scooting about the shoreline rocks with the sculpins.

Arrived at the President’s Pool after Neiland continued to be stingy, it was remembered how I so wanted a photo with a big bright char and the sun on the nesting cliffs in the background. The Tree provides…

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Ya couldn’t ask for anymore crimson than that. Sadly, this fish would bleed its color right out though, and as it happens with catch and release fishing, sometimes one takes a lure too deep. We tried to release. This char ripped a gill and so we later laid it to rest in a calm, cold pool so we could pick it up fresh on the return home and keep it to feed the camp. Irony was, it had been planned to keep a fish for the table this day anyhow. It would not be a life wasted.

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Jigs and Pixie spoons with Cleos the odd time, Bren was a tonne easier on the tackle this day, losing far less to the rocks. She liked only the spoons for her 7 foot spinning outfit, I liked both, choosing to use spoons mostly on the 8 1/2 foot casting rod, and jigs with the 7 foot spinning outfit. The short sticks were medium-heavy and the long rod a whippy medium. Ran 30lb braid as the mainlines and 5-6 foot 16lb floro leads. Presidents was a spoon pool to me, while Second Falls was a better jig bite. I think florocarbon really helped, the way you’d expect it would in both clear and rocky conditions. Char don’t much actively feed in the river, but they do bite down to crush things drifting by. Sometimes they crushed our offerings just as we planned. Like this one fine, fine male specimen that really made my day and was the big char of my trip.

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Bob did the honors of capturing Bren and I having a great time up at Second.

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We had a reservation booked with the Territory of Nunavut to have lunch atop the cliffs overlooking Third Falls on the Tree River. Bob was game, Bren was game, I’m always hungry, so we rested the pool at Second and made the short commute across more tundra.

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Third Falls. To again quote Trevor our past guide on the Tree, is “a definite barrier to migration for the char.”

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We wanted time to stand still.

Having been there once, it felt like a first time all over again.

Bren hadn’t caught a fish all day and after lunch she was a woman possessed. We tried casting to the depths of the Third Falls pool but it’s such a big spot that one can’t barely whip a long cast halfways across it. In a sense, it is good the hole is too deep and tricky for anglers to really fish, char reaching their birthplace pool should be left alone I suppose.

Back at Second Falls after lunch, I released a couple smaller char before loading up on a silver bullet which rocketed away.

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She had a wee bit of piss and vinegar in her and actually tried leaping the falls upward while hooked.

Bren would take about no more of it, and so she greased me out of the good spot and got to work peppering cast after cast to the exact same river seam where the froth met the clear water right at the base of the falls. Bob with boots off and kickin’ back on a “rocky-chair” was sprung to his feet and thrown into a race. Bren had a brute on the line finally.

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Snapping photos and helping adjust Bren’s drag a little, the fish wanted to hit the big current and be surely rippin’ gone. She had to keep hard pressure on it and the barbless spoon tight in yap with that rod tip sky high. She forgets to breathe fighting big fish and was turning mad red for an olive gal, all the while Bob and I were cheering her on. Man she does me proud when she fishes… except when she started doing the “can-opener” on the reel arm to try and gain line on the fish.

She played it perfect enough as the results did show.

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No exaggerated E.A.P. for this one, no need. Bren did it again for the second time on the Tree River, she caught the biggest one. Half an inch longer than her PB but shy in girth, she weighed it in just ounces under her best fish in 2008 at 21 pounds. Lady luck? I don’t think so anymore. Bren is a very quick study and after her day one struggles with losing tackle, her day two casts were quite accurate, manipulating snags while retrieving and often drift jiggin’ the spoon came easier, and she picked her spots, especially when finding the right time to pluck the big one from it’s underwater lair. Congrats babe! The best shot for sure.

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Now can we get that fish replica mounted for the living room?

Bren released the fish and went straight back to casting for more. Bob takes me aside and says, “you know, most women after fighting a fish like that would take a break.”

We turned shortly thereafter to head back to camp. Doran, Maureen and Zach would be happy to see us arrive with our fresh fish, even though they were whipping up a full turkey dinner for our supper come evening. I’d be needing that kind of feed. My legs were exhausted, as by this days end they would have walked about 11 miles up and down hills during the past 30 hours. Something I don’t do everyday, every year, of even ever anymore for that matter.

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Bob crossing at the ferry couldn’t help himself when Bren put her rod down to say she had finally had enough. He knew just where to put his casts but had to wait only to the second one to hook up.

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Ken and Ian were back from their hike in the hills and reported seeing a herd of twelve muskox. I had a hot shower then slipped into an hour long coma in the cabin. It would take that herd trampling me to wake.

After dinner still feeling whipped I couldn’t let the day finish early, so tired legs and all I convinced Bren to follow me back upriver but on the side we hadn’t fished yet, so we could attempt hooking a char or two more out of Slippery Jack. She wasn’t really up for it, but she was. We left camp at 8:30pm with plenty of 24 hour daylight remaining.

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After losing the path we ended up on top of things… Bren was and was not amused with me.

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Slippery Jack was slippery and the fish there slipped away.

The morning fog was trying to lift and the plane was expected. Down river in the boat to attempt fishing a last couple hours before departure, sitting on Amsterdam a wolf pack the other side of the hills was heard howling their eerie calls through the morning mist. Bittersweet having to leave the Tree, but necessary. I want to one day soon seriously guide a month there myself… just wonder how any of my present employers back home might feel about asking for big time off for that?

The air was cool now, and Bob remarked how in one night summer had instantly turned to fall. It’s hard to believe, but in that part of the world Bob could be exactly right. Warmth may not return for another year… ya just never know.

Bren caught the last fish for us on the Tree, a small laker. In thanks to Bob I gave him my rod, some lures and a few bucks to go towards those $20 packs of smokes. He was a wonderful person to share our many moments with…
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The Tree River trips were both the beginning and an end. The dream of visiting the Arctic to catch char was realized, and yet in doing so, the experiences gave birth to new hopes for more. I have since gone on to fish other equally amazing places in Nunavut with no plans of stopping soon. And although the Tree may never happen again, what time that had been granted there can never be taken away. Together with Brenda, truly great memories were made.
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Bunk.
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