The story ahead will have plenty enough ups and a few low downs. Not the usual rock’em-sock’em fish catching with mile wide grins, this time it’s gonna dig deeper. Every day, step and hope, at some level a test of patience, understanding and ideals. As it is in the Arctic, this is cold flesh and bone served over stone, unwashed, raw and so very “uncut” it still bleeds life. The Ekaluk didn’t quite give all that I had expected most; maybe wasn’t ready for that, but I have to believe this river gave me what I needed. In some small way this story might do the same for you?
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Day 1. BE PATIENT.

Mid afternoon along Cambridge Bay’s shore my pilot Fred taxied his Cessna 206 up aside the Canadian Coast Guard ship and near to a Viking cruise liner, both anchored close off the coast. Few words were yet spoken, but while searching for the seatbelt strap he would ask if I was ready, “got it,” I’d reply with a click. Engines revving up, floats lifting off a calm sea, nose pointed west we’d take to the sky, our destination the Ekaluk…

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The Ekaluk River and its arctic char fishing has kinda long been on my radar. Since first researching these fish and any angling destinations, atop the Coronation Gulf on Victoria Island Nunavut it is noted to exist some of the greatest char fishing on our planet. Plenty anglers believe that nowhere else do char grow to such a big average size with such incredible numbers as well.

The Ekaluk is a 2.2 mile (3.5 kilometer) river that connects Ferguson Lake with the Arctic Ocean. Each summer in late June to early July, the majority of char which have over-wintered in the fresh water, leave the lake via the Ekaluk to spend a short 4 to 8 week feeding season at sea. When they return to the river in August, full bellied char oftentimes do so with 30 to 50% more body weight and a fully rejuvenated power and energy, of which to sustain their lives through another long, cold, dark, nearly dormant winter under the ice.

Ferguson Lake is Nunavut’s 15th largest lake. A surface area of 227 sq/miles (588km2) for easy comparison it’s a bit smaller than Lake Simcoe or Nipissing, and half the size of Lake Champlain. Ferguson’s greater measured distances length by width are 77 by at most 14 kilometers, making it quite long and narrow. The maximum depth of the lake is unknown, and so because of this local folklore might imagine that it is bottomless and holding lake trout that could swallow people whole. Regardless, considering this is an island and not mainland lake in Nunavut, it truly is a giant. And, within it’s depths swim some of Canada’s biggest arctic char as well as century old lake trout which will often exceed forty pounds.

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Historical facts, scientific stats and geographical maps aside, as an angler one thing interested me most, the Ekaluk’s fall return run of silver char. Last recorded by the DFO it was calculated that 70,000 to 80,000 fish funnel through the river every August and early September. This massive push of char runs for about three weeks on average, during which the 2.2 mile long Ekaluk becomes choked with fish. Not tiny fish either, the Ekaluk boasts excellent averages of 5 to 10 pounders, many catches 10 to 20 and the odd fish exceeding bigger beyond that. Timed right too, it could be a fish every cast at peak run. The char are not the glowing reds, pinks and oranges that fancy most anglers eyes online or in old photo albums, they are instead the same fish in their searun chrome, silver and more pale version. Having caught many reds before, why one would choose silver char over the painted version is, because of their power. Like ocean run salmon or steelhead, anglers in the know will most certainly agree that fresh steel and chromers are the greater test. Fish at this stage, strong from feeding and with the power of the salty sea still coursing through their veins, they provide the most challenging fights. For char fly fisherman on the Ekaluk, the river is suited perfectly to swinging big, bright streamers in the currents, while conventional anglers can cast spoons and spinners anywhere they please. Hook-up with these freight trains and hold on! Thousands of big healthy char in the river, this was bucketlist stuff for me, something I had been dreaming of a long time.

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Fred had broke the long silence as we approached the Ekaluk. “Be lucky if there’s any char in the river at all right now,” he said. And it was with those words it felt like every ounce of blood flushed out of me. “What do you mean,” I asked? “Best dates I had noted online claimed that the peak of the run is usually August 20 to 22nd, and that’s “the peak” of the run.” To this Fred answered only a little, he did agree that normally by dates it could be a good time and further corrected his earlier statement of no fish being around to, maybe a few coming and going..? “Everything is behind this year. The fish are running late. Flying over the ocean I haven’t spotted any returning schools swimming back along the shorelines yet. Be patient! Keep your eyes open for fish coming in though, maybe the 19th they’ll show.”

How could two days make such a big difference? Why would there not be fish now? “A peak” of any run to me should mean the highest height of the fish numbers, not the beginning..? Others back in Cambridge Bay during my weeks preceding this trip all seemed to have great optimism that fish would be around. Long before arriving in Nunavut I planned everything on this “peak,” connecting the dots, making stars align and now I find out there are no fish around. This is the Ekaluk, there should be more fish than water in this river right now… right?!?

I held my shit together. I had to work through the nightshift before this day began and over the past 24 hours only a coffee and three eggs were in the system. An hour or two nap in 35 hours, every bit of energy was merely excitement and adrenaline driven, and despite what discouraging thoughts came forward there was no turning back now. I brushed it off and tried to stay optimistic. Before leaving, Fred offered his SAT phone to me for safeties sake. “Be patient,” he reminded me once more, and he took to the sky.

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From the drop off to my cabin was a bit of a jaunt. The cooler and bag had to weigh sixty pounds each, the gun, the garbage bag full of big bed linens and fishing gear another fifty. A warm and sunny mid afternoon on the tundra thankfully there wasn’t a single mosquito around to bother, only some noisy sandhill cranes seemed disappointed with my arrival. I got to hauling gear over several trips back-and-forth, snapping some first pictures along the way.

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The camp and cabin couldn’t have been more perfect. Exceptional comes to mind. Considering I had planned to tent out on the tundra, to have a bed, roof over head, and just the space in a place to sit, cook, and hang wet clothes to dry was luxury. Outside there was even an outhouse nearby, now ain’t that the shit’er!

And the view!!! Beautiful. Facing the sunsets over the biggest widening of the river. The banks a bright white made up of sea shells, the turquoise water shimmering and clear, from beyond the cabin door just a peek over the ledge and I could spy any fish that might enter the pool below. For a brief time this heaven on earth was allowed all to me. Alone on the Ekaluk.

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Hauling gear, setting up camp, cooking supper and taking some pictures required three hours of time. The two chicken wraps and a coffee put just enough spring in my step that I made off downriver to fish. Seeing nothing moving anywhere, before long I had reached the sea. It was down that way I hooked into a first fish and it was actually a char! It took all of about an hour to make that first catch and boy did it insert some positive charge into me.

In a short span three more fish came to hand, surprisingly all small lake trout found that close to the salt water. No fish of size, I was overzealous to believe the char was about 7 or 8 pounds but looking later at the cruddy photo it maybe have been about four. Will say this, that silver fish fought five times harder than the lakers and even at that size more than once it peeled off line quick from the reel.

Retired back to camp before 9:00pm, exhausted, again having been up over 36 hours or so. Two quick hauls of Scapa from my flask warmed the insides, giving that soothing goose-pimply feeling. The sun was slow to fall but nearly down, shortly after I was dead asleep and stayed that way for a good eight hours.

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Day 2. THE WRITINGS ON THE WALL.

Bright in the cabin I stirred and woke at 5:00am. The mind was well rested but the muscles were a little bit behind schedule. Must remember to drink some water at least everyday but for now a coffee, some cereal, yogurt and berries will do.

While dressing, eating and contemplating the days best moves, it was impossible not to read the writings on the walls. Many of them dated, anglers from all over North America and Europe had recorded a little of their time spent for any others to follow. What was curious to me were the dates. Being that people would tend to sign at the end of a trip, I’d take note that most anglers had been here during the last week of August, first week of September. This said, a number of writers were once also here about the same time frame I was, and one person had inscribed on the exact date, August 18th that he had wonderful experience with lots of fish. There were those few signs that certainly did give hope, but they were kinda buried amidst a heavier indication I missed the mark.

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The tide time table called for the high at mid afternoon. A best guess would be that any char coming into the river would do so on the rise so, this meant for the morning I’d hike upriver from camp to the lake, scout things out and fish my way back. If there was a good bite there’d be no rush to return, if it was slow there would be plenty of time to get back, have lunch and fish that high tide. It was just 7:00am when I slipped out of the cabin, peeked into the pools below for char and seeing nothing decided to book it upriver as planned.

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The walk to the Ekaluk’s outflow at Ferguson Lake was a piece of cake. I’m no hiker, and although the month had been spent prepping with a couple hundred squats and 500 crunches every other evening, there’s little decent cardio within me. Weighted pack the hike was an easy 25 to 30 minutes, a bit rugged under boot but otherwise flat terrain.

Though what is always interesting on the tundra is the perception of distance, summer or winter. It surprised all too often how somewhere seemingly so far away to the eye, was just another ten or fifteen minutes to reach on foot. There were enough instances when I’d think, ahhhhh no fawking way am I going all the way over there, but then I’d trudge on a little further and in short time find myself half or all the way.

The walk up the Ekaluk the morning sun beamed upon the face. It was the beginning of what would be an incredibly nice, warm, arctic day.

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From the lake outflow one can spot the commercial fishermen in the distance. In 2012 Kitikmeot Foods based in Cambridge Bay agreed to no longer harvest arctic char by netting at the mouth of the river. Instead, they moved their operation to Ferguson Lake above, just near to the Ekaluk’s headwaters. This move allowed sport anglers, local fisherman and families the opportunity to better fishing within and, at the mouth of the river itself. Kitikmeot Foods harvests its char from numerous places around Victoria Island but a large bulk of their catch is provided from the Ekaluk. Previous two years, each season 35,000 pounds of char were “said“ to have been pulled from the Ekaluk at Ferguson Lake, and this was done so with just four nets in less than a weeks time. This company supplies much of western Canada with wild arctic char. But a little more on this later…

At the mouth there I would catch none. Not a single char. The distant netters I could see appeared lifeless as well, tending to nothing. The fact they were even there if ya think about it is a positive. Just above that first swift and riffle out of the lake is a vast, shallow and smooth rock bottom. The current moves fast. Swinging spoons only one lake trout was keen to bite.

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Departed that scene rather quickly and began the hike downriver towards the cabin. Now and again I’d throw some casts into eddies, pools, ins, outflows and any deeper looking holding spots, but there was jack shit to be found. Not the end of the world, just having the chance to photograph the Ekaluk as I went kept me happily preoccupied.

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The hour was only 10:30am when I returned to camp. Not carrying a watch, rarely would the GPS be on to tell time, it was often anyone’s guess out there. Hanging around camp for a couple hours gave the opportunity for a restful lunch, jotting down some notes, peeking into the pool below, but mostly soaking up the sun. It was a sweet morning hike it was, along an incredible river few in this world may ever see, but the lack of fish was beginning to concern.

That afternoon with the tide rising I set off downriver to the mouth. From spot to spot I’d fan cast a spoon, spinner or sometimes a jig and hope for something to come of it. Had one dinky beaner char follow the Strobe in but turn away at my feet. Not seeing anything else I just kept going along the sea shore.

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Wanted to reach this one distant point that having studied some SAT imagery appeared near to a deeper hole just off from its shore. But, needing to cross the tidal creek pictured above I wasn’t sure whether it would be possible. Reaching the creek it looked totally shallow and easily wade-able until I stepped in a second or third time and sunk quickly into muck nearly to the knee. Goose SHIT!!! Not even a quarter of the way across, there was no question I’d reach its deep mid section and find myself trapped to the hips, it was difficult enough just getting one foot out cause the other sank in from the weight of levering to pull. I would retreat from this plan, curse the Gods, and begin walking back to the cabin.

Didn’t get too far before plopping down on a rock and feeding on another chicken wrap. It was so unbelievably quiet and still, when I wasn’t chewing. That’s when I heard a rise in the eddy just downstream from where I sat, and looked up to see the ripples. A moment later, a second rise came closer to me. Setting down the wrap, picking up the pole, I stayed higher up on the shore so as to not spook this fish cruising close to the bank, and moving toward it I cast right to where the last rise had been. The lure was struck instantly but not overly hard, the line went limp a second before instinct kicked in and I began reeling fast. The fish had picked up the spoon and was running right at me. When the line caught up and the rod started to bend into the weight, the char went screaming off sideways to deeper water, it smoked the reel. I mean, it peeled hard! Then, with no warning the fish stopped going to my left, turned 180 and came leaping entirely out of the water, spitting the hook as it did… Not sure before the heavy sigh if I said aloud or just thought, NOOOOOHHHHH!!!! Seeing it clear as day it was a bright chromer and comfortably into double digits. Picking my spirit up off the ground I tried casting the area in hopes there were more, but on the third toss the line wrapped around an islet sending my lure a thousand miles away to never be seen again.

Late afternoon and almost back to the cabin, shuffling the feet along the shore by the plane dropoff I spot from the corner of my eye a BIG fish just lazing in the shallows. We were so close it kinda startled me, and not wanting to spook it I jumped behind a fuel drum standing on the bank. From behind the obstacle there I tossed two quick casts and reeled in the spoon right in front the fishes nose. Not movement at all. The third cast same thing, right to the fishes yap, but this time it did move, going sideways into the deeper water to vanish. A lake trout or a char I wasn’t too sure, it was just a big fish either way.

So much more to tell I’ll fast forward a little here. I got back to the cabin around supper time, boiled some water, had a coffee and filled the wash basin enough to allow myself a cleansing. A little journal notation, a short siesta and some food planning for a possible Nipigon tour later in the month, I honestly didn’t want to fish again this day or even think that much about it. It was deflating. I was beginning to self loath a little, picking at my choices and expectations. First thoughts were how I could have been so stupid to miss the dates. This whole trip plan from its onset could have been pushed back a week, maybe two, whatever would be necessary to be here a little later. Certainly could have extended the work contract another week, then flown out here seven days later to find a river teeming with fish. And what of the now, was zigging when I should be zagging the right move? This chance may never come about again, here I am in a Nunavut paradise and the green pastures are wilting because the fishing isn’t living up to my years of dreaming. What will it be that I write on the wall?

The clouds were both literally and figuratively forming overhead. The pool empty of char below the bank, above seagulls and ducks were coming in off the ocean. I had done a shit tonne of walking this day already, my leaky wader and gnawing right boot. But I summoned up the get-go and give’r to walk one more time down the river bank to the sea. Catching nothing I hoped some changing weather was coming along with some luck.
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Day 0. THE CAMBRIDGE BAY PRELUDE.

( Earlier in Cambridge Bay )

I am in Cambridge Bay Nunavut sitting in a quiet, stuffy little one bedroom anticipating a busy Saturday night on-call. Earlier this week my flights north had begun. It was Thursday morning boarding in Edmonton when I first heard fish speak coming from the mouths of thickly accented anglers carrying some pack rods and brand named fisher bags. Austrians they would turn out to be, one took a seat beside me on the plane and it wasn’t long before the two of us were swapping stories and cell phone pics of our fish conquests. I can impress myself enough but truth be told, the man’s “private club” European stocked huge taimen and his own Arctic char photos were surely ego rivals.

On route to High Arctic Lodge in Cambridge Bay the Austrian’s destination was nearly the same as my own, except first I had to work a few weeks. Fred Hamilton of High Arctic has a uniquely interesting fishing business. His guests are met in town and promptly flown off to some central lodge located on Victoria Island where they then spend the rest of the week flying over the tundra to locate, land upon and fish char and lake trout. If that doesn’t sound incredible you are 101% dead to me!

But further along the flight path boarding a different plane I sat awhile beside some Cam Bay locals. They themselves were quick to speak of fishing too. “I’m so excited to go for char,” a girl named Annie would say. “They’re ever getting lots at the Gravel Pit! Big one’s too.”

I’d read mention of this Gravel Pit spot before. A fellow fishing traveler and healthcare worker had recently been posting mind-blowing char and laker catches from out of Cambridge. Truly impressive stuff. From what I had gathered already, the Bridge, Gravel Pit, Long Point and Starvation Cove were several ocean shoreline spots to try. Further away are lakes above Mount Pelly in the Greiner system, bigger freshwater bodies that hold both char and lake trout. Coming into it all, with zero idea of how much time and resources would be allotted to fish, I actually felt a little stressed. This particular contract like most other summer “Nunavut Nomad” experiences provided me the least amount of certainty for any fishing at all… but of course, there was an initial plan!

It was several emails with Fred Hamilton of High Arctic Lodge – https://www.higharctic.com that set things in motion. At the very least, come the end of my work stint, I set aside a few days to fish. It would be Fred whom said he would help with that. Long on my list of char river bucketlisters is the char-famous Ekaluk River. Fred offered a flight price I could accept.

In town I worked my first day, a Friday. No on-call scheduled, it was after supper around 6:00pm I stepped out of the “transient unit” and onto the street. Waders and wader boots on, back-pack stuffed heavy with shit surely unnecessary, I turned the corner around the hospital and met Lisa, a familiar face. “What do you think is closer Lisa, the Bridge or the Airport?” She mulled it over a second before saying the airport. I was planning to walk (and it would have been a killer thing for me) but then Lisa’s friend, another familiar face, Francis pulled up. In short, Francis was quick to offer me use of her ATV for the evening and that’s when things got exciting.

About 15 minutes drive from town is the “Gravel Pit” spot. A long stretch of sandy shoreline, char which have exited the lakes through rivers nearby cruise in schools along warming sea coast shallows in search of food. The Gravel Pit is basically just a good access spot on their route. Being that it faces south, the 24 hour sun does shine hottest on its shores, which draws in baitfish. When I arrived there others were fishing. Nearby char were hung drying. In the rocks, char remains were rotting or feeding the gulls. A sandy beach spot it appeared this would be a good place to start. By 8:00pm or so, more than a dozen other fisher-people thought the same. But, after three hours of casting, moving and trying different lures in the box, only two fish had come to shore all evening… and they weren’t mine. While visiting with a local fella transplanted over to Cam Bay from Kugluktuk I confessed, this was the fourth summer in a row that my char fishing would start out with a skunk.

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The following day found a little time for planning. I brought a single burner propane stove but couldn’t fly up the fuel so I tracked that down in town. A one pounder here is $12.99 but I took three in case I needed it. A little food prep was also in order. Most of the meals were for work through the week, but I planned to Ziploc and freeze some of my soups for hot servings on the tundra.

That Saturday on-call “Beer Dance” night-shift went off great! A phone call at midnight only, all was quiet. When I woke about 8:30am feeling well rested and ready to rip, I remembered it was my eldest daughter’s twentieth Birthday. And for a good while thereafter I got slowed up looking at old pictures of the two of us, reminiscing and such.

When noticing the clock I realized it best to get along, much of the morning was slipping by. Sandy at work was kind enough to lend me his Honda ATV. Zooming out of town I passed by the Gravel Pit and kept on going to Long Point. The morning was a bit mix sun and cloud with the odd light shower blowing through. Upon reaching the sea shoreline I found endless miles of sand beach with clear and shallow waters. In the distance, two fisherman were casting so I figured it must be a decent enough spot to begin the same.

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But within a short while the spring in my step slowed. Confidence with surf casting over the miles and miles of shorelines everywhere seems a daunting task. On this day, other things began to bother too, like the new Shimano reel acting up. But, the Bunk funk didn’t end there. Twice I cast out and the line got fouled on the rod or reel. SNAP! And the spoons landed somewhere in Alaska. To the bottom of the sea, two rocks also reached out and stole two more spoons. Will tell yas, in the spitting drizzle and dreary, those reties made me weary!

The ocean char got left behind. I toured through town, grabbed some extra gas and made haste for Mount Pelly and its lake trout lakes to the north. The “Greiner System” as it is most properly referred to.

The land albeit flat around Cambridge Bay is actually quite stunning. Mount Pelly itself ain’t all that big, but because everything around it is like a gravel parking lot, it stands out like a long, ten story apartment complex. It’s quite cool.

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And I kept going beyond Pelly a short ways, stopping at the two different lakes nearby to fish. Overhead I was buzzed by a float plane and later on a helicopter, both times while retying.

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The first few lake trout came off. Didn’t mind, they were small. But, the lakers up here are super gorgeous red and orange finned specimens, nicer than most I have ever seen anywhere. And aggressive too! So wily on the line they fight quite hard in the icy Arctic waters, actually had two jump like salmon during the fight. Watching them all afternoon breaking the surface to feed on hatching bugs was a reminder why the lakers thrive so far up in the numbers they do, and that I best lather on some deet cause the still air made the mozzies thick in hordes hungry for blood.

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The early evening came and I was both parched and starving. Little to eat through the day the reserve was empty. Heading back to town a bit earlier than I had planned, my eyes wandered to a steep lake shoreline nearest Pelly, and so I summoned up a little more give’r from the guts.

The spot as it turned out was great! If I was to fan cast five times from shore, I’d hit three or four fish in the five casts. Taking a short walk eighty feet or so along the bank, repeating the fan would catch another few. And so I did this about a half a dozen or more times over the span of an hour and some, and released twenty and more lakers. None were over the four pound mark, but it was fun for a short while and it actually gave a slight confidence boost.

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The way back to town was a bit of a ride and stop. Some pictures here and there, it was the river near town I found most interesting. When the char run up and down that bit of beautiful water I can only imagine. Said to be few fish in there right now, locals have claimed that in about two weeks or so they’ll start coming back up. I can only hope to experience that.

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Couple days passed and while working I met a fella who got chatting about fishing with me. Stand-offish at first he warmed up a little. Turns out he was raised in Kugluktuk too, and we had stories from the Tree River in common.

During our convo he mentioned the river here through town always has some fish in it. Despite much of the char being out to sea, some schools of migrating fish will poke their heads in at the mouth from tide to tide. Another spot mentioned was the park area, just a short ways up the river itself.

The following day I was finished at 5:00pm so with dinner in my belly I got fishing shortly after. From someone at work I bummed a ride up the road to the bridge and park, about four or more kilometers away. From the park I worked the pools, eddies, riffles and tailouts back towards town. A pretty river, easy to fish, with great looking holding spots for char, all I managed was one tiny, maybe ten inch silvery minnow of a char. It was nothing to photograph but it did keep the skunk off. A friendly couple out for a drive and fish too, they picked me up on route back, saving me the walk. Quick evening, it was good to get out.

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Later in the week had a chance meeting with a local fella named Pat, he was curious if I wanted to fish with him the coming Saturday. I could not due to work but said that Sunday I might be able to find myself a quad and get out after the night on-call. Unfortunately, he could not that day. But the conversation albeit quick was not a loss, Pat seemed a nice guy with the similar interest and when I spoke to him of my plans for the Ekaluk his interest was peaked. Expressing my worry of having no firearm for grizzly protection, Pat was super kind to offer me use of his shotgun. Being that he had holidays booked in Spain, he could not take me up on the offer of coming along to fish.

I bumped into Dave, one of High Arctic’s pilots late in the week. He was coming through town with one of the Austrians and I was surprised they were still here and fishing. Must have been a two week booking? Word had it the fishing had been slow for them, only now just picking up. Some red char were caught at “Char Lake” wherever that is, these Europeans fly-fishing only. There was still no concrete flight plan to be provided, Dave saying I’d need to email with Fred. However, in conversation I was asked if I’d been in touch with Bill about staying in a cabin? His idea a good one yes, and I had been wanting to talk with Bill about the river anyways.

When the second weekend arrived I secured Sandy’s ATV once again. On-call 8am to 8am Saturday through Sunday, I was praying for an easy night but had bad vibes all day going into it. I was right, in for work midnight to 2:00am, to sleep for 2:30 or so, but interrupted by calls between then and 8:00am, I slept in later and woke with little energy. Outside, the day just happened to be blowing and raining sideways at times too, so that actually gave some peace of mind. The plan to take advantage of the tide time and ride out to Starvation fell apart, the back-up choice of riding closer to Pelly for lakers wouldn’t happen either, most of my day was spent FakeBooking and writing stories. Maybe next Sunday?

Wednesday brought about a great development when by happenstance I met Bill Lyall in passing. Quick to introduce myself, I pulled him aside for a brief chat which turned into a wonderful one hour visit.

Each summer for the past 20 years, during two short weeks, Bill and Jessie Lyall have been hosting fly fisherman on the Ekaluk River. Google search “Nunavut arctic char fishing” and surely you will come across this link – www.arcticflyfishing.com which will transport you to B&J Fly Fishing. For reasons I won’t get into, Bill and Jessie have been unable to open their camp since 2017, and while speaking with him I could sense some sadness with that.

At 78 years of age Bill has and continues to lead an interesting life. In fact, having done so much, you can read about many of his accomplishments on Wikipedia or, even better yet this article from Up Here Magazine. – www.uphere.ca/articles/co-operative Truly a man for his work and people, a made member of The Order of Canada, in 2016 the Nunavut Arctic College, Author Bill himself and editor Louis McComber published a book about his life, lifetime work and contributions titled, “Helping Ourselves by Helping Each Other: The Life Story of William Lyall.” William’s (Bill) story is a tribute to the dedication and community-mindedness that the Co-Op movement represents in Canada’s North. His contribution has left a positive mark on many Nunavut communities as well as on the national Co-Op movement. By telling the story of his personal experiences, he also relates a significant piece of northern Canadian History.

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And although I was not aware of everything noted above until afterwards, the short visit with Bill allowed me a glimpse into a deeper man. We spoke a little of residential schooling, northern life and traditional living, the changing landscape and peoples, fishing and even his being, “Eskimo.” He truly left a lasting impression on me. “We’re all Inuit,” he said. “All of us! But I am an Eskimo. A name that gives me my identity.” I reached out, shook his hand and with a sheepish smile said, “well it’s nice to meet an Eskimo then.”

We talked further about the Ekaluk. His own long family history there, “Eskimos” have been traveling and settling that area of Wellington Bay on Victoria Island for 3000 years and more. Bill and his family have fished and traveled around the vast expanse of Ferguson Lake, the body of water that forms the headwaters of the Ekaluk, and found artifacts of the old culture along the entire way. Archeologists some five years ago also studied the area, they were the experts who examined evidence of human life dating back those 3000 years. But for Bill, what he remembers most, and what I believe he holds most dear to him, is the fishing, family and life memories made there. He would tell me, that he and all his brothers and sisters (ten siblings in total) were likely packed on their mother’s back in early childhood, a fishing rod in hand casting over her shoulders. The char there at the Ekaluk (pronouced: EE-KAH-LOOK) mean a lot, and the chance encounter with Bill, the man, the myth, the legend, only made my lust for reaching the river there that much more of a must. Before saying our goodbyes I did ask if he’d like to come with me, there would be plenty room on the plane, but he could not. Instead he permitted me a cabin to use.

As the final days drew closer I became restless having much difficulty getting more than four hours sleep a night. The shotgun was now in my possession, so I had the protection. From the Hamlet I signed out a “SPOT” emergency signal and GPS device, I now had that safety. All my food prep was done, it’d be cereal, yogurt and berries for breakfasts, steak or chicken wraps for lunches, and hot soups for supper. A small fry pan with some sauces and spices, there was the option for some fresh char too. Extras like a little rice, KD, soup stock, cheese and nuts for snacks, and my flask of scotch for the nightcaps, I felt confident there was enough to get by. Fred also emailed me back earlier in the week to confirm that all was a go for the coming Saturday departure. There was nothing more to do than wait, hope everything works out and pray the char would be running that river. “You can plan a pretty picnic but you can’t predict the weather…”

… I am still in Cambridge Bay Nunavut sitting in a quiet, stuffy little one bedroom tired after a steady Friday night on-call. Maybe two hours of broken sleep the phone and patients trickled in at just the right intervals to screw me out of any stage 4 & R.E.M. “Emergency” on-call means little nowadays to some people and that’s becoming a worsening culture of misunderstanding some places throughout Nunavut. This early morning, asking questions at 4:00am to triage over the phone I received some sadly rude comments like, “you gonna see her and do your fucking job or not?” And the wonderful and often recycled, “you’re on-call for us so do your fucking job!” I had only asked if the bleeding stopped and, if ice or any other treatments had been tried yet. Some people can be much worse sometimes. So much for Nursing respect, who am I kidding, that’s never existed… And of course rather than risk further trouble to myself with management I rolled out of bed and met with the non-emergent patient just like I do most of the time, heck, I’d been awake all night anyways.

Outside the winds are down, the skies a mix of sun and cloud, the sounds of ATV’s zip up and down the streets. Last evening I messaged Fred to ask about a “ballpark” time that the flight may be, today I have still not received any response. Other than the cooler to fill, everything is packed and on the floor at my feet… There is still nothing more I can do but wait, hope the char are running the river and pray that Fred or any pilot will come fly me away soon… and then at lunch an email came through… “Pick you up at 2:00pm.”
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( Back to the Ekaluk )
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Day 3. “HE CAME IN ON A RED CHAR SWING!”

The morning started foggy and still at 6:00am. After using the outhouse, strolling to my cabin I peered over the ledge to spot a big fish in the pool below. Thought I recognized it actually, as the one that’d been downriver at the plane landing. Big grey or char, dunno? Did know that half naked, groggy faced and not near ready to handle anything but a coffee, the fish was safe for now. Cool thing of it, this was the first fish to be seen in the pool.

Finished breakfast I’d linger around camp casting into the shallows there. By this time in the trip the conversations were pretty one-sided and getting sorta weird. Excessive walking and talking to myself, needing a friend hang with I had waded out into the middle of the river and onto a rock island where there were enough stones to first make a tide warning marker, then an Inukshuk.

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Stone by stone my new pal came to life, a real solid, stand-up guy he would be the beacon of hope, a signal of life and guide to any travelers that all decent Inukshuk’s are meant to be, I named him Shuk… Shuk the Inuk! And we hit it off right from the start.

But now I had no sooner made and met Shuk when we were just about near ready to take our picture together, and then we suddenly heard a plane. Behind the camp High Arctic’s Beaver would circle over before coming into land heading downstream of me. Camera already in hand their timing was pretty darned good. Hey! Meet my little buddy SHUK!!! What a beaming beacon of life this dude really is!

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Made my way over the plane half expecting this to be either a check-in flight or, the pilot to pop out and tell me bad weather is coming and I’d have to get going home now. Part of me would have almost taken that second option understanding that an ATV and access to fish-able lakes could be found back in Cam Bay. But imagine my surprise while approaching, to see anglers filing off the plane with gear to fish the river. Poor saps I thought, they have no idea yet. And when I did reach the plane to give all the fishing forecast and say my hellos I spot this fella I know, do a bit of double-take, likely squint the eyes to focus a little better before letting out a laugh. Of all the places to bump into someone you “kinda” know, have never met, but figure is gonna make your day a whole lot more fun and interesting.

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Only on the Ekaluk for a half day the pilot went airborne leaving Aaron, guide Ron, John and Gayle(sp?) behind. Trying to be witty I made comment that they just flew in on a quick “red char swing,” and Aaron picked up on that as expected. Following up I remembered to congratulate him on his recent engagement.

Confessing with Aaron early on, I told him the straight up truth, there’s not much of Uncut Angling I haven’t seen. He does a great job at keeping people entertained, I don’t care for many fishing shows at all, barely watch T.V. or even YouTube for that matter but, I do watch and enjoy his show more than any. Although Aaron and Uncut Angling need no introduction here… https://www.youtube.com/user/uncutangling He on the other hand wondered if we’d met because I looked familiar. So I asked if “Moosebunk” wrang a bell? Told him I write plenty online, am always fishing and posting pictures, and that we’ve been Facebook friends for like probably at least 5 years. He said no, that’s not it and he’s not on social media much, and so his question remained. Awhile later, “you on any prostaffs” he asked? First time I answered no, but then when he raised this a second time later I did confess I am on one. When I told him what he said, “naaah, that’s not it.”

We chin wagged a good long while, several hours actually. Talked plenty with Ron too, helluva nice fella from Newfoundland. John and Gayle having gone upriver, only the three of us just hung out and those lads taking some kinda pity fed me as well. Ron admitted it was a tough fishing year, that everything was really far behind. From the plane Dave had spotted some schools of char swimming about in the ocean near the mouth of the river and that’s why Ron claimed they stopped over this day. Their hopes same as mine, were that the char were beginning to run. After giving them the full report of my days so far, both of them were content to just stay planted where they were. Myself, I was just waiting for a later tide to start coming in anyways, right at the plane landing where I had seen fish rising the morning before and, spotted that big laker or char just past evening, it was as decent a place as any to hold up and cast.

Aaron was solid with a fly rod, he made it look effortless and bombed streamers out there quite fluidly. Before having to catch fish any which way for his business he admitted that fly fishing was something he took up early and had always enjoyed. I can appreciate that, from a float tube in the hills of Zec Dumoine with a 6 weight, dries and streamers was where the passion for fishing really started for me too. But unlike Aaron, this trip the easier to pack and more versatile spinning outfits were the only tools I had brought. A lot of fishing gear gets sacrificed for food and camping gear, plus everything else needed for three weeks at work.

But Aaron wasn’t only curious about where he knew me from, he was also wondering why silver char? He was on his trip in a full out search mode for “red char!” I get that totally, having been the same hunt times before. But to answer his question honestly, I just wanted to experience silver char. Anyone who’s fished both and knows, will tell you that to fish silver char is to test your angling against the fish when it’s at its healthiest and strongest.

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Put simple, Aaron could agree. Having friends he said that are all about fresh chrome steel and salmon, he understands. For him, he wanted the colors… and man ohhh man that’s understandable! Red char are magnificent.

They must have flown in around 10:00am and it was now beyond 1:00pm. Their plane seemingly not coming anytime soon I had to get along. The tide was coming in now and the plan had been to fish down near the mouth and hopefully intercept any incoming fish. Not that far really, Aaron was easily convinced to come with and so the two of us set off. We hadn’t been gone long, just down a short ways and around the first point in the river when he spotted a small school of a half dozen char come cruising up current along the shore. “You cast to ‘em,” he would assert. “No, you get after ‘em,” I’d retort. The truth was I honestly didn’t care about fish for myself at this point, I was really quite happy to have the company and wanted Aaron to enjoy his few hours on the Ekaluk. Besides, it’d have been great to be a part of things when he catches a nice silver char for his show.

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Aaron loves the big fish, as do many of us. He also appreciates the details, this I could easily gather. Inquisitive and quick to question, he reminded me of many people smarter than myself. One more topic of discussion fiddlin’ in his brain was with regards to the biggest of char, the record holders, and if this river could have that potential. He was also already aware that the current Arctic char records may be of question for some, and he wondered my take on it. I’ll elaborate and answer this more thoroughly here…

The Tree River char don’t appear to be the same as the more commonly known Arctic char. The world record and many line class records that come from that river are records for another fish, a “type of char,” the Dolly Varden. It’s quite possible the Dollies don’t have the same global sex appeal to anglers that char do, and maybe that is why Tree keepers and all record holders would prefer to call them arctic char? But in my short list of experiences in other areas of Nunavut, (not including the Coppermine and other nearby rivers to Tree that can have Dolly-like char) there have been no char to be found like the fish in the Tree. Not only this, I have shown Tree River char to MANY Inuk nowhere near Kugluktuk, and most won’t believe they are char at all, some have even called them salmon. Heck, the two guys I met recently from Kugluktuk back in Cam Bay that had often visited the Tree growing up, they both called them Dolly Varden. So whether it be that they are char with some strong Dolly genetic or they are just Dollies entirely, the differences between the Tree’s char and common arctic char are so vast that I personally can’t believe they classified Tree’s fish as char at all. Other fish species with much less distinctive difference are separated, the aurora trout a brook trout being one good comparison, so looking at the pictures below it should be obvious Tree char and arctic char are not really the same. The one thing I have to end with is this, that the Tree River fish are a very special thing, from a majestic and special place. They are as unexpected and rare to the Tree’s surroundings as they are spectacular and welcome to find. To fish them is a royal treat for anyone, and if they are to be Dollies or char I could actually give a fuck if going fishing for ’em, because they’re just awesome either way. As are all Arctic fish really! Here’s some Dollies and char for comparison, Dollies on top!

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The plane was heard in the distance. “Tomorrow could be the day they all show up,” said Aaron. “Here’s to hoping,” I replied. “You’ll have to let me know how you make out.” Happily I half begged but in a boastful kinda way, “hey man, I subscribe and follow, you should do the same. But keep doing what you’re doing Aaron, its great stuff that keeps me laughing and my jaw on the floor.” As he he ran off to meet his ride. I liked Aaron!

I watched the Beaver take to the sky and began the limp back to camp. A wader boot blister on the outside right ankle had formed and because I had leak in the stocking foot the wet skin was soft and chaffing off. It was just a wee bit annoying by the end of this day and getting worse.

4:00pm at the cabin for a coffee and wash. Was both bummed to see the visitors go but at the same time really stoked they had come by at all. With Fred’s SAT phone I figured it a good evening to put a quick couple calls out to Brenda back home and my friend Jenny in Cam Bay. Needed Bren to know I was alive and kicking, and Jenny to ask for a pick-up once getting back to town. Only Jenny answered the call, so for five more minutes I had the chance to talk with someone other than Shuk.

Later that evening I fished down by the plane landing and actually hooked into a fish. But it got off. It was from there I noticed across the river that an ATV and side-by-side had arrived from Cam Bay to stay at another cabin. Two guys and a girl could be seen outside, readying a boat to launch into the river. Once afloat they sped off down to the mouth where awhile later from my own cabin I could actually see them out on the ocean trolling back and forth near that point I had tried to reach the day before. Interesting…

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The newcomers caught nothing out there at sea. Cam, his son Cory and the woman who I think may have been an Alice, all boated over to say hello later that evening. Planning for a week, the trio had fished the bank on the other side of the Ekaluk and then trolled at the mouth. No fish to be had. I told them the same spiel I had given to the High Arctic crew, fishing was brutal and I’d hardly seen any in the river. End of day three it was and I’d only caught one char matter of fact. Cam was surprised by this, claiming that he had been on the river August 17th last summer with Alice and they caught fish on every cast. It was non-stop. He booked his vacation this year from work right for this date because of it. The ATV ride from Cambridge Bay is six hours and they’d brought plenty to stay awhile before turning to home. I had nothing to offer but condolences, the river had no fish so far this year and he could trust me, I felt his pain too.
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Day 4. THE MIND PLAYS TRICKS.

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Waved to Shuk who was already up and at ‘em fishing this early morning. Little buddy of mine is real hardcore, gotta love him.

A northeast wind was blowing cold, despite the sun shining the air felt a little damp, there were no fish to be seen in the pool out front of camp. In the cabin I sat debating if the shotgun should come along with for my hike. So far no wildlife had been seen anywhere, except many sandhills. The gun remained loaded beside the bed, never going anywhere but ready for anything that could come through walls if it wanted to. But now for this day the plan was to go far up the north shore of Ferguson Lake, beyond the commercial fish camp. A point jutting outward into the main lake, on satellite imagery it appeared to drop off quickly into deeper waters there. Figured if I can’t catch char after two days, may as well try for some lake trout instead. Decided to leave the gun behind though, just too much weight to carry already.

The ankle was in shitty shape. The skin sloughed off, the blister busted, it oozed a little pus and was a tad tender to touch. No heat, no swelling, no cause for much concern. However, with the long walk ahead I was glad to have packed a few bandages and things, so I dressed and wrapped the wound more just to add some cushion between the boot and the bone.

8:00am I turned to face the north wind. A high road well behind camp, along the base of this hill I aimed to hike on the ascent, thinking on the return of just following the longer but flatter shoreline back. The land on route to the lake was half and half enjoyable, some parts easy flat rock, gravel and short grass, while other areas were wet and boggy with uneven footings like Swiss cheese gofer holes. Surprisingly I made awesome time through it, but building up a heavy sweat from head to toe. The ankle kept dry was a bother the first minutes until it too settled into the pace. I would walk the hill, traveling past the fish camp yet never get far enough up the lake to be out of sight from those fisherman at their other shore.

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When I reached the destination point the wind was blowing across it pretty firm. The deep water I had hope for was there, but because of the waves and blow I wouldn’t be able to wade far enough out to have any cast reach any significant depth. The whole area was of course much bigger in reality, than what I had guessed while looking at Google Earth. Alas, here was the best view looking east at Ferguson that would come of the trek, and I sat awhile there cooling off and admiring the water.

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After trying some casts and retrieving a couple snags on the shoreline near my pack I found some dead loons. For a minute I thought this rather peculiar? Like, why the Hell is there a pile of dead loons here? They hadn’t been shot or anything. Head back up and looking around the only thing in site was the fish camp. Ahhhh… now I get it! These are by-catch birds that drowned in the nets.

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Wondered how many lake trout were by-catch too? In the Arctic those fish are absolutely delicious tasting, not like our southern greasers at all. Canadians salivate for Arctic char in restaurants and such, and I imagine if lake trout was on the menu it’d often be overlooked but, one day in the future I will bet that Arctic lake trout commercial fishing will be a thing, and the world will wish it hadn’t thrown those fish away for eons beforehand.

I heard a plane! Then I saw the plane!!! The Beaver was in the distance circling over my cabin. It appeared to be looking for something, or someone, maybe me, because it kept circling and then finally landed. And now the 206 arrived and circled the same, staying low taking a wider pattern, it appeared to be looking for something, or someone too, maybe me?

No need for shouting at ’em, but waving my arms and trying to flash shiny lures their way it was obvious they couldn’t see me. A speck on their horizon, too far away, they would not have guessed I’d walked to where I was now. Someone from the Beaver was likely running to the cabin, to knock on the door and see if I’m home or maybe sleeping. But I’m not there… I’m not there! Fuck it I thought… A lump in my throat, a sense of urgency to maybe sprint the hour back to camp, there was no way to do anything. Helpless slid into hopeless and off a cliff falling to despair.

My heart sank. What if they were going to take me fishing with them? Why else would the big plane land, they already know the river fishing sucks right now, so they wouldn’t land for that..? Of all the mornings to leave early and go wandering off miles away, I’m an idiot, should’ve waited around camp. Different scenarios which lead down a same dark path came to mind.

Walking back it took a little time to climb myself up out of this one. “Give your balls a tug,” I’d say like Shorsey to myself in effort to cheer up. Remember to, it’s like at Christmas, it’s the thought that counts Bunk. And despite losing the chance with this gang to go fishing, the big picture and my grand path leading to the Ekaluk, was not one of disappointment at all, but rather of people’s kindness and my own perseverance. Maybe Aaron, Ron or the others had convinced the pilot to pick me up for the day, that’s awesome! Imagine the cool story for Uncut Angling? Aaron saves the day! Picks up the Nunavut Nomad hitch-hiking over the tundra. Hell, imagine how befitting that end would be for this story? But deep down I somehow knew this one trip was headed for some heartache, it often had an uneasy feeling even when pieces kept falling into place to make it happen. It was there I started sliding off again, slipping back into pathetic self-loathing…

The 206 flew away first and a few minutes following the Beaver took off. I was walking at the outflow of the lake when the plane buzzed low right over me. The wing dipped a hello but sadly where I was there would be no chance of landing. A couple casts for lake trout was all I had motivation for. This time out alone and all my fishing and hiking efforts were really beginning to take their toll.

Skirting along the river I was coming up off the bank to cut a corner, crest a hill and shave some mileage. Sun over the shoulders, ahead in the distance two large, dark objects could be seen atop the next ridge over. Hovering about there, moving slow to and fro, whatever they where they were big and in my direct path to the cabin. Some first thoughts that came to mind, grizzlies… don’t think so, they look too dark. Muskox… yeah, they could be, they are big. The gun… hmph! What a time to leave that back in the cabin. Through the 55/200 lens I tried zooming in to see better but they were still unidentifiable. With the camera though, they actually appeared a little more brownish and robust.

If these things lying ahead were at my 12 o’clock, then the wind was coming over my shoulder at 4 heading to 10. The river bed down lower than the myself and these things was about my 1030 but taking that low road I could stay out of sight and bend right around the things on the ridge. Get around them, keep better out of the wind, keep quiet, get to the gun in the cabin, that was the idea.

All went as planned too… almost. Not all the way back, curiosity got the better of me. Sneaking slow up from the riverbank I had to know. Besides, if they were muskox I thought, they’d probably bugger off or just stand around and let me get some amazing photographs. Creeping, hunched over and cautiously the summit of a small hill was reached and when I looked over the top two sandhill cranes were there strutting about as they do. NO FAWKING WAY!!! No way!!! No way, no way, no way!!! Maybe the beastly things were just over the next nearby ridge? I didn’t see cranes!?? Retreating back down the bank I continued along the river to camp. Somewhere out there behind the cabin on the tundra were two things, beastly things, I was convincing myself that I was not going crazy.

Outside the cabin drying a cold sweat, I would note everything of the morning before eventually resting a stirred soul with some hot soup, coffee and half mouthful of scotch. Still morning there was certainly a feeling this day could be a long and likely fish-less one. Doom and gloom I didn’t have it sooo bad really, cause out on the river, upon the little rocky island, Shuk was still standing there but his head and part of his arm had fallen off. Poor little headless guy, that’s having a bad day. I collected my manhood best I could, and with every intention to go to Shuk and fix him slid into my waders and stepped to the ledge. And that’s when I saw this.

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A dozen fish maybe, most smaller but the odd decent char in the mix. The FIRST SCHOOL of char to enter the pool! Instantly giddy and energized I sprinted down the bank to the rivers edge and began casting to the fish. My spoon retrieved by them, through them, over them, around them but they wouldn’t bite. Changed positions, they wouldn’t bite. I turned around to face the bank and retrieve a different lure when just then the hair stood up on my nutsack and I looked up. Two men were sitting quietly above me. How long I don’t know? But they were sitting and had been watching me fish. “You must be Andrew,” the bigger fella says.

Fred ( a different Fred than pilot Fred ) and his son Jimmy had been dropped off by High Arctic’s Beaver to fish the river. It dawned on me right away what a moron I had been to conjure up all my earlier theories of fish and rescue. Fred and Jimmy initially started down river, but changed their minds to cut over land and explore upriver. It must have been them I had seen on the ridge, the two coming towards me, but we all passing by. Still, it left me a little amazed we got around each other undetected. While I had lunch in the cabin, they returned from behind the camp and boy-o-boy did this startle me to look up and find them there.

Excitedly told them right away to get down here and fish with me, that I had just seen the first school of fish enter the pool. From their vantage point the big fella declared, “really, I don’t see anything!??” “They’re here!” ( I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy ) And I pointed to where they had gone off. Within the minutes, both from up top could see I was right. The fish were holding in the darker riffled water and more difficult to spot, but now and again some would slide out over the pale bottom and expose themselves. The younger lad came down to fish with me.

The two seemed just as content to relax as to fish, both having had caught plenty of char throughout their trip with High Arctic. When I was telling Fred of my time so far it was apparent he already knew. He wanted to stay on top of the ledge and help me out by spotting fish to cast to. The char in the pool were stubborn as ever, when finally changing from a spoon to a spinner I hooked into one. A small char, probably of four pounds at best, it was only the second in four days. I was too embarrassed to ask for a picture with such a fish.

The spinner pulled a nice size char out of the school shortly thereafter. Both Fred from up top and myself down low watched the fish follow inches behind the lure before turning away. “Ohhhh, so close! That was a good one,” were the words from the help. After that I’d put the rod down a awhile and just shoot the breeze with these two gents. Fred and Jimmy (17) have been fortunate enough to experience some of Canada’s finest fishing. Minipi for brook trout, Bear for lakers, Tree for… whatever they are? And here with High Arctic Lodge for char. Within time the stories ceased and we all walked down river to the sea awhile, casting as we went but catching no fish.

Their plane expected soon enough we said our goodbyes. The first rain started, the fellas in good gear waited it out at the plane landing while I retired to the cabin. It was damp and cool, and nice to have the heater inside with a dry bed to nap in too.

Between 4:00 and 7:30pm it got to pouring real hard. Figuring I wasn’t missing much on the river and already having put in a solid days effort I just stayed in, fought some sleepiness with a book and some booze awhile before succumbing to slumber.

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“How we come to value everything in life relative to ourselves is the sum of our emotions over time.” (Mark Manson) I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy! But maybe just overly emotional right now..? Pout, pout, I must catch char!!!!
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Day 5. A SILVER LINING.

The ATV’ers across the river packed up and left for Cambridge Bay early morning. Inside the cabin I flicked on the heat, warmed up slow and took a little time sorting stuff for home. This trip truly involved an incredible amount of thought, time, hope and effort, which I think in turn was much the cause for feeling such ups and downs along the way. But here this was the last hours, and I’ll admit to not wanting to even look over the ledge.

If you’ve actually read this far I also want to thank you. A longer one than usual, it’s certainly no little sound bite, screen flash or scroll by. It’s always a goal of mine to bring you along, bring you in, to suffer or succeed and make you feel like you too had the experience. The writing is as much a chance to brag and boast, as it is to capture the moment, vent the spleen and entertain anyone out there reading, including myself in the years to come. So thank you for wanting to share in this.

Peering over the ledge no char were anywhere to be seen in the pool below.

I’d shuttle a few items over to the plane landing before donning waders and boots to go fishing. The ankle raw and throbbing, this morning I doubled up with the bandage and tensor before plastic bagging my foot into the wader. Just wanted it dry and cushioned but the damn boot flaw just kept gnawing at it. Today I would walk at a half pace all day.

A trip down to the sea and back was uneventful, although I did take more than the usual breaks to just sit quietly, think and patiently wait to see if any char were coming in. At low tide that was not going to be likely and eventually I returned to the cabin for lunch.

The soup and coffee scalding hot I stepped outside while it cooled down. Looking to the river there was Shuk, still without his head and arm. Damn I thought, been meaning to get back my little buddy. About to turn back in I spot from the corner of my eye three large char just entering the pool from down river. Immediately I hobbled fast back to the cabin, retrieved my rod and booked it down the bank to the river.

The char were swimming right towards me. The pool like a round-about, a cul-de-sac, basically a dead end, I’d watched only a few other char come in, circle, then head over into some deeper riffles awhile before leaving elsewhere. These char were about to find out they would have to turn around too.

The first cast and steady retrieve came right through them, the second cast did pretty much the same. The third cast as the spoon was passing I gave it a couple twitches and let it fall, kinda jigged it a moment, and that’s when one in the pod just suddenly turned it’s head a hard left, kicked the tail once and snatched up the lure. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!!

The char was strong taking an initial run down river towards the fast water at the exit of the pool. It peeled line quick and effortlessly at first, forcing me to chase along the bank after it.

Closing the gap the next plays were quick, sharp bursts of speed in various directions. No leaping thank goodness, no big obstacles about to snap off on either, there was only the fish and I to battle within a clear and clean ring. In good time the angler won out.

Nervous to land without a net, the hook was right through the tip of the snout. Just right there at the very end of its face, leaving cause to worry that it could easily pull out or be shaken loose by the fish. There might have been a few good opportunities to try and lead it to shore sooner but I chickened out wanting the fish to tire more. But it wouldn’t tire..? The longer I left it in the water the more it shook it’s head pissed off at me and once I saw where that hook held the time became more urgent. During the fight I had reached into my hip pouch to slide on a handling glove, when the char near beached with the next effort I reached quick to grab it.

I may have nearly wept tears of joy, I won’t lie, this one Shuk me! After days of hard fishing, feeling powerless and disappointed, just one good char tipped the scales. Confidence restoring and righteousness returned, a happiness came flooding within.

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If my Ekaluk experience was to be what it had been plus this one, then that is its total value. To cry or rejoice, reject or accept, falls entirely on me.

Photographing the fish quickly I rushed to get back to casting for the other char. They had made the turn and now rested in the dark riffle possibly contemplating their next move. My best bet to catch them, was to get over to Shuk in the middle of the river and work the angles from there.

The 206 buzzed overhead taking a couple loops around. Way too early, just after lunch, Fred wasn’t expected until evening. It was a just a check-up flight though, he flew away, and would later tell me that from the air he spotted two char right in front of where I was standing. I knew this, told him that the third fish had already been caught.

The char were spooked. Lock-jawed and having nothing of it. In fact, after a dozen casts they buggered away to some place else. At this point it was kinda like I didn’t even care. Just catching the one lifted my spirits enough, I was really gonna be okay this day. I had to get over and tell Shuk all about it, but he still needed his head put back on first.

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I would limp a couple more times down to the mouth of the river throughout the day. Actually, I fished pretty damn hard most hours between 8:00am to 5:00pm. No more char, not a single one was seen entering the camp pool or found swimming along any other bit of shoreline.. All of the gear was carried to the plane landing during the trips back and forth from the cabin to sea. Everything was ready to go by late afternoon and Fred arrived around 6:00pm to taxi me back to Cam Bay…
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… All the Ekaluk around me had been this place of splendor, quite beautiful, unique and inspiring, and it was at times with some heavier burdens and blinders on that my spirit did fail to see such. An experience like this one reminds me I haven’t grown up quite enough. That, I’m still learning, and there are times my ego and goal driven self confuses what values should be prioritized and, how I can feel about missed expectations. Was catching 80,000 fish or just one big silver char something greater than experiencing all of the Ekaluk itself? Guess it is questions like this which define who we are and what we hold more dear..?

But my seed for such adventures is the fishing, and what sprouts beyond that becomes everything else of me. Reason for the Ekaluk was not first for scenery, wildlife, wonder or whim, it was to fish and catch Arctic char. And I did fish char! Fawk did I ever!! In the end I really, truly, dug deep down and did fish for Arctic char, something I valued intensely. It was the catching that just fell short of expectation, the fish just hadn’t really come home yet, but thank heavens for the one beauty that did… I am coming to realize too, reliving this now through writing, that some greater values were found during every other happenstance brought on by this quest for the Ekaluk… Values like good will and kindness, hard work and planning, patience, sharing, determination. perseverance and of course a sense for adventure. I am just a lucky man to on occasion be able to combine work with play in such a way. And so what if the big run of fish didn’t show up as scheduled and I had to try harder to find what it was the Ekaluk would give, I’ll probably be the better for it in the long run! Yeah, I guess in its end now I’m all well and good, and for certain, the Ekaluk River will forever remain a special memory hiking all tundras ahead.

Thanks again to those who helped make this happen.
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Bunk.