During 1938 while in Yellowknife on business, Warren Plummer and his father had heard stories from local folk about an incredible fishing area called the “Taltheilei Narrows” on Great Slave Lake. Curious, the two traveled by canoe some 150 miles with a 4hp motor to discover the legends were true. In a short time afterwards, Taltheilei Narrows became the site for Plummer’s Great Slave Lake Lodge. Adventurers began visiting to enjoy some of the finest fishing, scenery, and outfitting service in the Northwest Territories, a tradition that continues to this day. Trophy lake trout up to 60 pounds, arctic grayling and northern pike, can all be caught from the lodge. Choosing to jig the narrows for lakers to 45 pounds or, trolling the bays for that chance at a 60, Great Slave Lake Lodge and it’s surrounding northern beauty provides the perfect stage for anyone’s Arctic fishing memories.
But could July 2014 be the year all this history is lost??
Early winter Brenda had asked if we could go fishing come summer. When she requests such, that usually means we’ll be breaking the bank and heading some place to be overly pampered while afforded the incredible. Okay by me. Back 2008 she cut her teeth on the travel fishing experience at Plummer’s Lodge Great Bear Lake and Tree River. A return trip in 2011, it was evident that being together and fishing like this is time we both deeply cherish. Trying to make every three years become our ritual, this winter after inviting a number of friends to join in with the hope of creating a group trip, the two left standing were just Brenda and I… Fine by us, our only concern afterwards became where to go. Lake Athabasca and Great Slave were the choices, although Brenda wanted Great Bear and the Tree again more than anything. All things considered, I chose Great Slave for these reasons. Protected waters, for the safety the area provides and the knowing that there are never any “no fishing” days. As well, Slave is quite likely the lake trout jigging mecca of all, and Plummer’s as an outfitter provides services second to none for experiencing such. Finally, it is a place possessing a long fishing history, yet at the same time is completely new and interesting to us.
I was eager for it. After earlier angling growth and experiences on James Bay jigging walleyes to more recent years dropping jigs for lake trout all over my local Hell’s half acre, I thought it good time to tackle Great Slave’s legendary lake trout.
“To Slave for Lakers.”
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TO YELLOWKNIFE THROUGH A CALGARY STAMPEDE.
Boarded with AirCanada at 0800 hours in Ottawa to find an old highschool acquaintance and his wife seated behind us on the plane. “Where ya off to Bunker,” Mackey asked? He and his wife were headed with us as far as Calgary where they planned to visit with family and take in the Calgary Stampede.
Settling back in the seat I opened “Three Day Road” to the pages where I had left off, allowing my imagination to wander into the lives of both Xavier the WW1 Cree sniper and his Aunt Niska, a James Bay Native holding on to her traditional ways during the early Residential School years. Eyes growing heavy from reading, in zero “Gravity,” rather than sleeping I instead lifted myself up into outerspace during an in-flight movie.
Hurricane Arthur roared to the southeast, the prairies below were soaked in floods and to our destination in the NorthWest Territories, a hundred or more forest fires burned. So much environmental destruction happening all around, but through Calgary and on to Yellowknife, much of my relief pondered only on what other-worldly fishing may come ahead.
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Peering down at what could have been the pikey Talston or maybe some other southern Great Slave tributary, it was midafternoon when the first orange skies and a scent of smoke alarmed our senses. Sorta safe on the ground in Yellowknife and later checked into the Explorer, on my plate more orange appeared, but as flesh, for I inhaled some succulent arctic char during dinner.
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Taking in the sites Bren and I walked a little of downtown Yellowknife then followed the Niven Nature Trail leading to our friends Dan and Susan’s home. There baby Briar shared her blueberries with us, while Dan and I caught up with our lives over a drink. Relatives staying with them as well, it was Josh; whom might have lived in every “Fort” across the North (Fort Nelson, Smith, McMurray), who passed along some great fish and hunting stories from his years. Later Brenda and I retired under the midnight sun exhausted from our travel.
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THE BURNING FIRE.
Flight scheduled to the lodge for 0600 the wee hours came quick. At the airport even earlier than this, we were told our departure would be delayed due to smoke overlying the airstrip at Plummer’s. Until noon 24 people awaited the go ahead and during this period grounded my heart sank. Every minute lost is precious time which for months had been anticipated, so, when we finally boarded at 1300 extinguishing spirits were immediately re-ignited.
A very short flight later we landed at the stunning Taltheilie Narrows, home of Plummer’s G.S.L. Lodge.
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Inside the main building all were treated to a quick lunch while receiving our fishing licences, room and guide assignments. Dying to just unpack and get fishing I barely noticed the fire fighters trickling into camp and setting up their base for work. Only a few miles away, fires were creeping along the ridges behind the grounds and airstrip, heading in our direction. Finally from a boat throttling away to first laker stops, did we catch a glance at the impending danger nearby, and the incredible landscape that was threatened all around us.
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Sunny skies and smokey air, around 1600 we tossed our jigs behind the boat and began trolling to locate fish along the falling edge of a sandy flat, adjacent deep drop-offs. It wasn’t jigging yet, but it was fishing, and it felt amazing.
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It took all of three minutes to hook and land the first laker of the trip.
For two and half hours we boated nearly a dozen and missed close to that too. The lakers on Slave were rumored to be real nippers at times, and they were proving that early on. A one and half ounce Kalin jighead serving a soft and appetizing plastic Shadalicous must have appeared delish, for the lake trout loved sampling this offer from our menu. Though as many times over that they swallowed it whole, they would also nibble on the tail and miss the good meat. Bren had far less hits on a shorter Jig-A-Joe, but she made her bites count. It was hot fishing for sure, with only little challenges to chew on.
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All boats returned to the lodge for supper. The firefighters had spent some hours cutting trees and setting up a sprinkler system with water pumps around the cabins. Through thirsty mosquitoes but heavily suited, these men worked the bush hard under the hot, late sun. Before meal time Bren and I inspected this home of ours for the week.
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With a hearty appetizer of Tomatin whiskey in one hand and rod in the other, there was merely enough time to toss a spinner from shore for grayling. First fish on in as many casts, I reeled in one tough fighting specimen that I guessed to be a solid size; as far as this fish goes. Second grayling lifetime, a male with a beautiful big dorsal sail, it was all I could do to keep the wily and strong fish in my grasp for a quick photo. Placing it in a rocky puddle beneath me while settling the camera on a boulder for a timer shot, when I glanced back to pick the fish up, it had vanished. Harder to hold still than any fish, including lakers and specks. Pretty little arctic buggerfish is what they should be named.
Skitters buzzing at the window of the main lodge, resting after dinner Bren beat me at what would become a nightly game of Rummy. Capturing a spectacular fiery and sunset view, lodge guests in and out while becoming familiar with one another, fireman still crashing through the nearby bush, and after an enjoyable late evening visit with a group of anglers around the fireplace, it dawns on me how priceless just one day can be, this despite the first half of it spent wondering and worrying if it will ever even begin at all.
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THUNDER SMOKERS.
Morning under a smokey haze the lake lay calm as glass, rippled only after the odd slurp of some hungry grayling.
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While the horizon cleared, in the main lodge weary-eyed anglers rolled in to pour coffee and fill bellies over a feast of porridge, toast and omelettes.
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Bren and I were one of the early birds to the dock, and so racing away Adrian fished us out to the Lighthouse after probing spots enroute such as First Island, Diamond & Burnt, Meat Hole, Back Water and Pig Pen. The water so flat for ease of travel though, different anglers caught up and fished nearby from time to time.
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Jigging heavier baits on the long stick is not a style of fishing Bren is used to, and at Back Water she had to learn the ropes. This spot was fish loaded, lakers nippin’ and tuggin’ from 30 to 60 foot depths along a break fronting an inflowing creek. Her first big vertical battle she gut hooked a real skinny one which didn’t want to come up from bottom at all. Putting the gears to it, twisting some line and heaving the rod, she managed.
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But before long Bren adapted. Bottom contact, subtle lifts with the odd bigger jig and, the occasional reel rip to surface and hard drop back, jigging lakers came to her. One thing she needed no practice with was her hooksets, Adrian can attest to that as well. When Bren sets a hook she can go from sitting to standing, while spinning 180 at the hip and driving a two-handed skyward rod sweep all in one instant motion. Her martial arts training put to its best use in my opinion. The whole move is actually something wicked to witness and I did try to get video. Knocking fish out is her specialty.
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Weather co-operative and some fish calling from elsewhere, we and Adrian decided to make the final push for the Lighthouse. Along the high, ancient cliffs of Slave, the boat skimmed along to our destination.
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We no sooner came off plane when from the far shoreline a loud rumble of thunder echoed to us from across the sky. Visible enough through the haze we could see a front coming our way and Adrian took no time turning us around to head back. Being caught out where we were if a storm did come upon us, seas would turn rough. Being that it was near lunch anyways, we veered off into a back bay and beached the boat on a scenic little shorelunch spot, and waited to see what the weather would do.
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Ashore Bren set off to collect things as she often does, while I inspected with the camera. The plentiful flora growing about this particular site was interesting. Such a shortened growth season and seemingly little soil, these arctic gardens are quite an amazement… In the meantime, within less than an hour Adrian whipped up an incredible honey garlic lake trout feast for us, cleaned up the entire mess and had the boat repacked to get us back out fishing.
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Picking our way home we found this point of many names holding a healthy tonne of actively biting fish. The first day refusing to take pictures of myself with any laker less than twenty pounds, we put a thorough beating on many fish weighing in at the 12 to 18 pound range. Big white bucks and plastic shads were the damage-doers, and Bren at this point was catching lakers two-to-one over me. Greys and reds both, these two different lake trout strains were feeding together, and it was hard but necessary to take a time out from catching fish and capture some of these stunning lakers with the lens.
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Just an awe inspiring first full day of fishing. The action at Back Water and finally this place called Marlos, plus the deliciousness of these lakers from the pan, Slave was quickly proving to live up to it’s legend.
Back at the lodge a 33 and 36 pounder were posted on the board. Big, and I mean “BIG” tubes were the ticket for those lucky anglers. As far as numbers went, we put on the big slay over many, if not all other boats. Truthfully, I didn’t really give much of a damn though in any way. Yes, I’m always hunting for giants on the water and hopeful for those fish but, plenty days remained and it was evident great fishing lived here. Our time would come.
After catching grayling from the shore, a prime rib dinner and game of Rummy, I was eyeballing the different mounted fish along the walls. By the bar and near our table were two different grayling, excellent mounts of these colorful fish. Asking around, I was curious if they were considered big grayling, to which all answered yes. The one by the bar was particularly fat and probably about 20 or 21 inches. The reason for my wondering was, the fish I had caught the evening before had at least two inches length on these mounts. No doubt about it, two inches, maybe even a little more.
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LIGHTHOUSE.
Beautiful, calm, cool and sunny. After Brenda and I tended to one of the server’s injured ankles, we were the last but fastest boat to leave the dock, passing everyone else along the way to arrive at the Pig Pen first.
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A group traveling together, there was plenty space far out there on the lake for everyone. Adrian did guide us directly onto some early fish, and plenty could have been caught if we didn’t have a case of the rubber hooks that morning.
Wanting to jig more than troll it seemed we often did the opposite. For this time in the season the lakers would usually be more set-up on the structure areas like reefs, humps and points but, this year things were lagging a little behind. Surface temps were 40C in this exact area of Slave, and not entirely yet ready for the migration of lake trout which would normally be arriving given the water warmed up here more. Because of the month long forest fires through the Territories, I guessed that maybe this daily haze of smoke throughout the region, (a burn so vast that air quality in some southern Provinces and northern States were affected) was continually blocking some of the suns rays and slowing the lake from heating. So, to find greys, some days in some spots meant we would not only hunt hooks on structure to drop and vertical jig but, also troll shallow feeding areas, shoreline and drop-offs in search of cruisers. The fish were spread out, and we fished how best we needed to catch them.
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We and everyone around us were catching lakers all morning. One boat by noon boasted 25 to 30 some redfins alone. Figuring we’d eat before others to enjoy some more quiet fishing afterwards, Adrian took us ashore this mind-blowing island for lunch.
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Beneath our feet we were standing on an ancient seabed of fossilized coral reef. The entire island made up of stromatilite, and one of the better geological sites of such a thing on this earth. Rock hard, the circular formations were the ground, and they appeared either like flattened tree stumps or humps clustered tightly together. To touch many of them, they were quite smooth, as if varnished. This easily had to be one of, if not the coolest and most picturesque shorelunch spots I have ever visited.
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The stromatilite coupled with the surrounding cliffs, flora and gin clear waters of Slave, the colors under blue sky sunlight created one tropical-like arctic oasis. Walking the ledges I surely forgot all about fishing, work woes back home, bills to pay, my stomach grumbling… it is a truly captivating place. Bren and I were very happy to be there and living in it together.
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Turning my gaze from north to south, Adrian was there in the distance sizzling up another laker masterpiece. The forest view beyond, it too was spectacular in it’s own right. Surely following my nose by now, over fossils to the food I walked, before taking the most favorite dinner setting snapshot, ever.
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Not too sure about roe in the potato goulash it all tasted great, and once the meal was finished there would be a little time to get back to fishing. Half a cast away from shore, a boat trolled by following one of the cliffs and an angler reeled himself in a 14-pounder. With the grayling gear I couldn’t help but try nearby, and during then Bren was sneaking around with the camera capturing the action. No giant fish, but helluva spot to be standing and reeling ’em in.
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During the afternoon we motored back towards camp and lucked in on another solid flurry of fish. Two of four reels began melting with all the peel that was going down, until one just gave up and died entirely. The gear for lakers used on Great Slave is vastly different from Great Bear. No heavy muskie sticks, no 50, 65 or 80-pound braided lines or 20-pound mono, attached to 65 pound floro leaders. With Slave, trolling isn’t really the game like it is on Bear, and great fishing is all within close proximity to the lodge. No fly-outs required. On this trip I spooled us up with 30 and 40 pound braided lines, to 15 and 20 pound floro leaders. Spinning reels for Bren, and both spinning and baitcasting for myself. The rods were what I use as my bass, gar and pike sticks, medium-heavy and fast 7-footers rated 8-15 pound. Pulling up big and hard fighting laker after laker after laker on this kinda gear was a freaking dream.
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Claire’s ankle was reportedly feeling a little better once we returned to the lodge. Two fellas sharing drinks, Gary and his son Greg from Kansas staying in the adjacent room to us were out on the porch feeling even waaay better than that. Greg wanting to try fly fishing then too, he walked with me down to the shoreline where I pointed out a good spot to fling some casts. A submerged boulder close to shore on a small feeding shelf, I had caught some grayling there the evening before.
Greg had little to absolutely no experience with a fly rod so I briefly helped show him as best possible what to do. Persistently thereafter, he tried for only a few minutes before sending out a tiny nymph fly about as far as it apparently needed to go. Greg was over-the-moon excited when he hooked up and reeled in his first ever grayling and fly caught fish. It was genuinely a great thing to see. This trip for Greg was the first of it’s kind, everything about it or like it completely virgin to him. There was this moment of his and many more during the week long trip for Greg, where his smile beamed bright from ear to ear.
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SNOWING ASH.
Bren and I shared a table with the J.A.M.S. John, Atilla, Moe and Stuart. What these guys did for a living they wouldn’t say, but we learned quick enough that the four of them were world travelers in the name of fish, Brazilian peacocks prior to these lakers, the Bahama bones were to come next. Bren giggled almost every time Atilla said a thing, for the older gentleman and boss of the company had a playfully dry sense of humor. Their group was the fun one.
While all boats raced south from the dock Adrian veered us north for the first time. Plan wasn’t to go too far as that end of the lake this July 8th still had some ice and the winds were forecast to pick up come afternoon. Within minutes of pushing off; directly in sight of the lodge matter of fact, did we begin fishing. The Taltheilie Narrows location is the reason Plummer’s Lodges exists in the Territories, and the fishing here has inspired and impressed decades of visiting trophy seekers.
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Our trip was early. Few more weeks the Narrows itself would begin crawling with prespawn lake trout. Fish still around though, in just recent days high twenties and even thirty pounders had been caught.
Exploring new northern shorelines and structures our decision to fish here was cut short. As the morning breezes built, smoke from nearby fires engulfed the area around us, choking the air. When we suddenly couldn’t see but three boat lengths ahead, following the Narrow’s currents we drove out of snowing ash to find our breaths again.
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Happier sailing south we were re-oxygenated with fresher air and exercise. While reeling in lakers it was evident new fires were starting, but safe on the water now, during play of our own hot action, the destructive flames on shore were soon forgotten.
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Come noon Gary, Greg and their guide Bryce decidedly joined us for lunch. It was a welcome break with great company. While cleaning our laker Adrian found a partially digested yellow tube in the fishes belly. Judging by the jighead we knew it was from one of these boys.
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Gary’s father has held the Plummer’s Slave record since the 70’s with a 64-pounder mounted on the wall back in the main lodge. On this day, Gary added a 31 pound fish to accompany a 33 he caught the day before. Bren and I quite liked Gary, a friendly no-shit kinda guy who speaks what he thinks. A successful business man with just seemingly a touch of redneck too, mannered he’d never spit his chewing tobacco in front of ya’ll. The entire week Gary and son Greg never left sight of the lodge, sticking to jigging only. It was evidence again that the jiggers were getting it done for the bigger fish, and it was the big tubes that were the ticket. I didn’t have any quite like this yet, but decided come the end of this day I would. Adrian would need to get on board with a stricter jigging plan as well. It was afterall, the way and the reason I wanted to fish Slave.
Digesting our meals we rode out to Marlos. The spot had been good to us the day before and we hoped it’d produce again. Upon arriving we popped a quick five fish on only our first drift before four other boats suddenly surrounded us. Hooking a fish I thought for sure was going to be a new personal best, it was crushing to realize I had only pectoral snagged a 15-pounder. During this long battle with the rod bend beacon, Atilla and Stuart with their guide Vid trolled directly into the area outside where we jigged, when just like that Atilla’s whippy little stick curled to the cork. The hootin’ and hollerin’ which ensued from these three was comical. Atilla caught the big one of the day, a fish into it’s 20’s, and so Stuart was forced to pay the bet and hand over the cash.
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Slave, like Bear, like Dubawnt or Athabasca as examples, are giant bodies of water where it is the lake trout which can rule all the depths, and basically the lake. To think while on Slave how many must exist for just one boat load of anglers to come only one week and catch hundreds of these fish in just one tiny sliver of the lake, it is difficult to comprehend. Often peering into the depths at bottoms which appear lifeless and featureless, knowing that world is in darkness eight months of the year, it’s a true testament of these ancient char to thrive to such ripe old ages of a 100 years and even 100 pounds, all the while remaining so beautifully decorated in their skins. Probably no other fish has it so hard in life than these majestic great greys of our Arctic waters. To fish them in places like this, waters they own, where they are strongest, is spiritual.
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Approaching the lodge an orange haze lay low as the fires burned closer to camp. Bren’s ritual would be to clean up and catch a quick nap before dinner while I would skip the shoreline casting for grayling. Simple set-up for these hard hitters was an ultralight spinning rod with 10-pound braided line, to a 6-pound floro leader. Surely though, straight six mono would have been fine too. The spoons and spinners I noticed they were selling in the shop and which I saw on other’s lines were smallish, and wouldn’t cast all that far. A black Vibrax#3 spinner seemed to work great for me. Both grayling and lake trout hit it, and casting near that same submerged rock Greg had fly fished earlier, I sunk the hook into a heavier fish. An angry cream-sicle red nearly spooled me half a dozen times after hitting the spinner just twenty feet from shore, I had to at times brake the peeling spool and just hope. A real rush, I was pleased Bren woke in time to join me along the bank for this one-of-a-kind orange smoked redfin picture.
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A turkey dinner with wonderful people, experiencing extraordinary days together, the forest behind threatened to burn it all away. Retiring to our room I still slept easy that night.
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THE GREYS CREEP.
The J.A.M.S. and larger Meridian group were out today and new people were expected in. Good waves and decent winds on this darker morning, we slipped away on our own making haste to the south.
The lakers were hungry for our jigs. Evening before I picked up a mixed bag of white and chartreuse tubes. Squeezing the two-ounce heads into these over-sized rubbers, I aptly named them Big White Dick and Martian Dick, to which we all kept laughing while Adrian took it way further into every kind of funny pun to go along with lakers biting on these lures. This first pic shows some of the Husky’s we would troll while on Bear, while the following depicts the different lures the Slave fish were after.
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My Dick’s (as seen above on the right) took repeated beatings all morning. Sometimes it was the heads which would slough off, other times the bodies would get mangled. The lakers couldn’t get enough, and sure were hard on my Dicks this morning.
Around 11:00am I set the hook into bottom… until of course, the bottom moved. The following twenty minutes or so was filled with prayers from both myself and Adrian, that I don’t lose this one. Rubber hooks still plagued us, especially me this week. On average Adrian would say, about 30% of fish hooked are lost due to the barbless policy or other means, but this trip I would guess my percentages were likely 40 to 50%. I’d sharpen hooks, change up drag settings, horse or play, use different rods, try not to be quick on the set and let the fish take it deeper… didn’t matter how I tried to adapt, the struggle continued. One thing I did notice often, the skirts or tails on my baits had far more teeth marks below the hook, and many fish caught were barely lip hooked. This one turned out to be no different, except that luckily I caught it. The fish well over 30 pounds and comfortably being a new personal best, it lay in the net looking like a Lake O chinook, it’s length and girth just awesome.
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Back the fish went with no harm. Martian Dick did the trick. The remainder of the morning lots of mid to high teen fish and an over twenty hit the net. Still, as many as we caught we lost. Had they all stayed on, the four hours fishing could have been a fifty to sixty fish morn.
Working up that kind of appetite we bailed for an hour and zipped over to Busse’s shorelunch spot. New to there, the shale beach and high hills were another scenic delight to consume during our meal. Bren while waiting collected perfect sized pieces to bring home, polish and felt for new drink coasters and other decorations.
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Adrian’s food was amazing yet again. He battered a few pieces of canned pineapple and deep fried them up. He called them donuts and they were so good alongside the fish and some leftover prime rib we had asked for… Boy can cook I tells ya!
The first day or so with Adrian I honestly wondered about him a little. At onset, very energetic and talkative would describe him best. The more time I spent with him, the more I liked him. He is very much in fact a younger, busier and smarter version of myself. In his job as I expect in life, he inspects, details, processes and describes, doing this rapidly, much like an ER and outpost nurse often needs to. Quick witted it is easily understood that you are dealing with intelligence, and his education and knowledge of the outdoors and guiding surely prove this. Adrian chooses his lifestyle because he loves it most. To me, that epitomizes not only his willingness to risk, but an internal drive for adventure. Only his second year with Slave, he has many more years experience while guiding in Ontario and Manitoba. But, it’s not fishing he admits is even his specialty, it’s hunting. And through his other guiding business Adrian has led trophy hunters to muskox, moose, caribou, bear, wolf and other game in Canada, and during the same time outfitted others across African plains to hunt entirely foreign species. Listening to his many stories was interesting, but the way he can animate when telling a tale genuinely excites, there is good reason he is a published writer with Western Sportsman and Outdoor Canada. Bren and I both laughed heartily over the caribou and wolf Viking hunts… Funny guy too, he is actually a man after my own heart, and did I tell you he can cook? Turns out we grew up twenty minutes apart in the Ottawa valley.
But I only fish. I fish a tonne, fish hard for everything, fish more than most, and have many times over basically guided my fair share of people in both northern and eastern Ontario. Outside of the being there to enjoy a trip with Bren, take in new scenery, people and experiences, expectations of the fishing at such a price and place as this run high in me, and as so, any guide would need to prove themselves right quick and worthy of their service. This wasn’t an issue for Adrian. Again, his sociability, experience and intelligence allows for his quick adaptation. He was not above recognizing that I know my shit and hoped for certain things my way, and sensed any times there was a shift in mood. He is a professional to his core, simple as that. Adrian is a guide, and that afternoon he put us back on top of many more beauty Slave greys.
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A weight was lifted from my shoulders this day, for as I hoped, I caught my best laker. Gary offered me up some Vodka at the bar which was quickly converted into White Russians. Enjoying the drink while staring at the lodge record and other fine mounts, it probably dawned on me that new laker goals would soon be on the horizon. This place, Plummer’s, to hopefully be the road to take me there.
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Chicken and ribs with bad news winds was for supper. The forest fires crept much closer this day and talk of evacuating was on the lips of all staff and guests. Bren and I paid little mind, just keeping to our own worries.
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[b]D7. SPRINKLERS.[/b]
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Woke rough this morning and had difficulty eating breakfast, but dunno why? Outside the fire continued to draw closer along the ridge, and now the winds had turned for the worst out of the northeast. While packing up our gear for the day, Bren and I stowed away extra valuables and clothing just in case returning to camp wasn’t possible after the days fishing. Leaving the dock the turning smoke was becoming heavy over camp, but bluer skies in the distance lay ahead. Maybe fish and fresher air would settle the stomach?
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The morning fish was slow and we experimented a little on different spots. By lunch back at Busse’s again, guide Vid with his new guests from Kingston joined us for shorelunch. More shale for Bren’s pickings, fried honey garlic lake trout as requested again, and a mexican bake were on the menu.
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It’s funny to travel all the way from home to the arctic only to have a fella who grew up twenty minutes away in Lanark cooking your lunch, while you shoot the breeze with a stranger about lake trout fishing on Kingston’s Lobourough Lake. It is a very small world I guess, but looking around us you wouldn’t think that one bit.
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The sun out and day turning calm we set our sites on the Lighthouse, the trip once again taking us past the high cliffs and eagles nests we had previously explored.
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Bren is an exceptionally durable and patient traveler. On past fishing trips, whether it be camping for days up the Moose River or tributaries during colder spring and fall seasons, slogging through Frontenac portages during late pregnancy and scorching summer heat, ice fishing all day in a -28C blow or, casting week long through trying August wind and rains on an angry Kesagami Lake, Bren proves to be a much stronger woman and heartier fishing buddy than most, if not all of my man friends. Not only this, she tends to crush the bigger fish anytime we’re together. A 21-pound arctic char, 48-inch pike and 28-pound lake trout being only a few of the exceptional catches she calls personal bests. It amazes me how quickly Bren adapts to new angling experiences and any challenging environment, rarely if ever whining when the harder times or fatigue set in. There is no one I would rather have at my side, she is an incredible and loving life partner and, she can fish.
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Very little had I tried any different spoons from the box but, because we were lazily doing some trolling, I clipped on a big Provisor behind a 3-ounce snap weight and dropped it back to 100 feet. Instantly the lure was bumped, though it was Bren who set the hook into a fish. Reeling up to get out of her way, at boatside I watched four lakers follow the Provisor in before scattering away. Grabbing the rod with a jig attached, I cast out after them and just like that, Bren and I had another one of our many double-headers.
Resetting our lines, we were about to turn the corner of a small rock island when Bren’s rod got thumped hard again. She had the hot stick this afternoon, no question, and this time she reeled herself in a real beauty brute of a Slave grey. A pretty, pretty big red by its fins, or maybe a red grey cross.
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A smooth hour ride back both Bren and I closed our eyes a time or two. Nearing camp, soaking in the views along the high cliffs, Adrian and I talked a little of the guide life. Nearing the ripe young age of 40, come next year will mark twenty years serving mostly a full-time work life to a career and education in healthcare. It was the decade of remote outpost nursing in the north which I valued most. Over the past five years at home here, try as I might, working in different ER’s I can’t seem to fully settle in. Co-workers aren’t the issue as I practice alongside many awesome people, the work isn’t really all that bad either, it is other things including me. So, this summer I left a permanent position with the hopes of returning to short period, contractual type, locum nursing in the north, with casual shiftwork when home. This will break some monotony, provide more freedom, release some anxieties, and maybe just return some sense of value to my career. The one other hope is to become more open with new experiences with fishing, and so next year there is a strong consideration to try a hand at a little guiding. A hundred plus days fishing annually, combining fifteen more years of experiences in northern and eastern Ontario, and a little in the Arctic as well, it is felt I have proved to myself I can catch ‘em pretty good. The thought of putting others onto fish, having enjoyed so time and time again through the past, is of definite interest too… In my own case, as a viable business I would never be so unrealistic, though with the solid foundation and a more open schedule in Nursing, there should at least be more time now to seek out such avenues. We will see…
Nearing camp it was our guide Adrian’s livelihood which appeared most in question. The wrong wind, the burn was encroaching upon camp now and the firefighters had turned the sprinkler system on. Snapping pictures from afar while safe in our boat, the smell of smoke, snowing ash and odd burning ember fell into the lake around us, little black pieces of coal extinguished when touching upon the water. Guides with guests surely fished nervously nearby the lodge.
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Behind camp along the runway large reserves of fuel are stored. The fire through the week had climbed down several sets of higher ridges to where it just now north of camp singed trees along the waters edge. Within a mile of Plummer’s lodge the forest was burning, and like the odd little firecracker or child’s sprinkler, we could watch as the tree tops of dry black spruce would suddenly crackle and explode. If the fire is to reach the runways fuel and equipment, there could be a much more grand show.
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This menace to reach us would need to find a narrow passage around our buffer, that being the runway and a small back swamp. Or, the wind would have to carry some burning ember to the right place, at the right time, swiftly igniting a blaze which the firefighters would not detect in quick time. Plummer’s staff and guests were certainly feeling the heat of worry, but there is absolutely nothing one can do except be prepared to leave. For Adrian with his dog, his work, his passion, surely the weight rested hardest on him, as well his co-workers and friends. Bren and I just fished on, although once back at the cabin, I found myself for insurance purposes jotting down the inventory of my rods, reels, tackle and other belongings which may suddenly be left behind, if woken to alarm and evacuation through the night.
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Walking the grounds I stopped in the store to browse for a souvenir or two, but instead sitting enjoying a drink found our Great Bear Lake guide of three years ago Eddie in company of Adrian, Bob and shopkeeper Marshall. Eddie talking of fish, a 45-pounder he caught solo this day, a little of his twenty years guiding for Plummers, and of the memory of Bren’s battle with what he figured was one of the three biggest lakers ever hooked in his experience, the fire was temporarily forgotten. Like Bear’s Larry Willett the old guide, Adrian our young and ambitious guide, Great Slave’s veteran guide Bob, and Eddie our seasoned guide from recent past, these Plummer’s doods working 12 hour days, 7 days a week, two months straight, peak quite an interest and inspire me. Store closed and unable to get enough, I poked my head over to guide city and paid a visit.
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Greg out casting for grayling in the evenings setting sun, after Rummy Bren sent out a message over the WIFI to home warning that our return may not go as planned. We had one more full day to fish before our scheduled departure the following morning. It would in all actuality take my flesh burning, to leave this place any earlier than that.
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CHOKE ON THE BLOW.
We could sense over breakfast that our great young cook Chris, along with the serving girls, were saddened with the worry of an evacuation everyone knew was coming. The right wind, or should I say no wind blowing at all on this final morning, you could stand outside and breathe as though nothing was even wrong at all. The dog was chasing squirrels around the grounds, the sun was shining, and all the fisherman and guides were readying themselves to settle back to business as usual.
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Beginning our ride south the boat didn’t get too far before we were bouncing around and eating waves. Out of nowhere the blow had instantly picked up, the skies darkened with smoke and Adrian turned us around to try north.
Other side of the lodge near to the narrows it was calm and, we were able to pop a fish few from this area before breezes re-aimed toward our direction yet again. In minutes we became completely blind and asphyxiated by smoke. Blocked from going any further this direction, we carefully turned back yet again, and pondered our concerns for a time while in front of the lodge. It became apparent the remainder of our day would hold us trapped here.
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We hadn’t wasted all that much time really. Fishing around the lodge can easily be great, as Gary and Greg with their guide Bryce could attest to. Seeing them working a large flat not far away, we had yet to even try that area for ourselves. Motoring over it was understood between guides that there is both plenty of room and fishing to be had for everyone.
Those doods had been jigging the tubes all week on this spot, and Gary had caught several 20 and even 30 plus pound lakers. This morning they were finding fish slow, but when Bren started getting hit on the bucktail it was evident enough that maybe they just wanted something different. I switched up too and we began nailing a couple lakers with almost every drift-jig.
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Bren’s fish coughed up a fresh cisco and I was all over that. All week we had tipped our offerings with sucker meat, the skin on this bait probably the most durable for hanging on to a hook I have ever used. This little herring was still quite fresh and pliable though, so it was worked onto the shank and sent to bottom on a Kalins. Dragging it with little action while drifting, the rod tip quickly tapped and I opened the reel face to feed some line for five seconds before closing and feeling a dragging weight. Worked perfectly. Did it again, this time with the meat kinda chewed and softened, worked as well. Third and fourth time I just had a mangled mess secured with a garbage twist-tie, but it was all mint jelly. Sucks that I had brought up 3-packs of frozen and mushy herring but never tried this little trick all week. Lakers loved it.
Gary, Greg, Bryce, Adrian, Bren and myself all joined up for shorelunch on a nearby island. Breaking away from the group while the meal was being prepared, I stood on the island point and bombed casts into and across the wind, with hopes of catching a grayling or two on the ultralight.
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Well, if I didn’t get ripped by some gnarly laker that in an instant took half my line from the reel before cutting it over some rocks. Going back to the boat, retying and finding a new spinner, I was far too slow in returning to ever hook that fish again.
We tried Adrian’s laker sushi and although it tasted pretty well like soya soaked slime, I remarked how it was kinda OK. Just never been into that though. What he and Bryce did “cook” up though was simply another feast of various flavored lake trout delicacies. These two different personalities working well together, we could see they got along great.
From our chairs during lunch we watched the clouds of smoke drift overhead…
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… originating from a place directly behind Plummers.
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The bite after lunch was quite slooooow. Required to keep moving for clearer air, dodging wind and locating fish, we were in and out of the smoke much of the afternoon. Again traveling north, as always we were choked out before getting very far. Come end of days, I knew that in some respects it was fine to finally get off the water. Besides, it’s not like fishing has to end once on shore.
A brief but more than welcome thunderstorm rolled through, and afterwards while enjoying a pint I squeezed out a few last casts before packing up. These are a few grayling pictures from the week, including Greg’s first ever on the fly.
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During steak dinner Claire handed out the Angler Awards to all those catching 20 or greater pound fish. We each gladly accepted our achievements.
Decision had been made that come the expected morning flight, most of the staff except six remaining would be evacuated. Guides, servers, housekeeping and all incoming guests would be re-routed to Great Bear Lake and even the Tree River for the week. Helluva consolation prize that would be eh!?! On the troll this year at Bear, numerous 50 pounders have graced gunnels
Finishing touches on the bottle of Tomatin and Bren at my side, cozy together at the main lodge window we watched on as the fires burned and the sun set behind the smokey ridge….
…. 5:00am from our window it was as clear and calm as could be outside. By the time Bren and I finished showering and getting dressed, smoke had come in and completely swallowed the horizon.
During the wait in the main lodge all were anxious about the flight. Those like Bren and I with quick connections out of Yellowknife to Calgary were especially so.
Approaching the time our plane would be scheduled for take-off from Yellowknife to fly this way, many prayers must have been answered as, there was this sudden slight breeze from the south which blew all smoke inshore to land, and away from the airstrip. We saw little of the lodge manager Grant through the entire week, but it was a welcome sight when he waved us aboard the bus to shuttle all over to the runway. Minutes later, total safety and peace of mind flew in over the lake, and soon staff and guests were airborne, heading home or onward to Bear.
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From my window above the fires were far less threatening, although the questions of what might become of Great Slave Lodge did worry…
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…. Our trip home was easy and uneventful….
…. Adrian and five others had remained behind….
…. To my Facebook the following day, this fiery photo with the camp taken by Adrian was posted after he had awaited the fate of the lodge from his boat offshore….
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Plummer’s Great Slave Lake Lodge survived. It’s legacy, it’s legend, to live on.
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