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During Elementary School Geography lessons I remember learning of Canada’s Provinces and Territories. Photos from the classroom slide projector flashed images on a screen showing beautiful landscapes such as our colorful Ontario autumn forests and orchards, British Columbia’s winter snow covered Rocky Mountains, and Newfoundland’s summer coastal fishing villages. By comparison, early memory of Saskatchewan’s farm houses and endless golden wheat fields didn’t quite evoke the same sense of wonder and awe, and through life thereafter I rarely gave the prairies much thought… not until the days beginning some recent years ago when fishing for lake trout became of interest…

Netted by commercial fisherman in 1961, the largest lake trout ever to be recorded came from the northern inland sea known as Lake Athabasca. Canada’s Holy Mackinaw, the fish weighed in at 102 pounds.

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Remnants of once a vast, post-ice age, single glacial lake named McConnell, today along with Great Bear and Great Slave, Alberta and Saskatchewan’s sister Athabasca stands as Canada’s eighth largest lake. It’s area is 3,030 square-miles, stretching 283 kilometers long by 50 wide, and with a max depth of 400 feet. Thanks Wikipedia!!!

Today Athabasca is known best for the mining of it’s oil, uranium and gold, but for anglers such as myself, it’s the lake’s enormous and plentiful lake trout and pike which place it on the map.
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FACE THE NORTH WIND.

Stood gazing out the Terminal window watching the sunrise. In the panes reflection, behind me, a noisy man talked fast and furious French into his headset, while waving his hands about as if conducting a symphony orchestra. The other hundred people waited seemingly unaware, their faces zombified to personal devices.

Sipping my Timmies I wondered how Len made out with his earlier 6:00am departure… This trip would truly be great for him, his first ever big fishing trip.

Our plan was thrown together in just a matter of weeks. No drive in me to revisit Nipigon a third time this year, I stressed for a suitable alternative which would please Len. A last minute cancellation for Laker’s Unlimited came up, and after contacting Captain Bruce (Ryan) curious of availability fitting our schedule, the dates and timing for us all aligned perfectly.

Len on WestJet and me with AirCanada, each of us paid our own $60 in taxes and cashed in some points for return flights Ottawa to Fort McMurray. We would meet up mid afternoon before boarding a final plane destined to meet our dinner-time reservation on Lake Athabasca.

Between naps and connecting flights, during the hours traveling I settled into a new book, one which helped prepare my head for the days to come. Inside the cover, a hand-written note read…

Bunk.

You mentioned in your Fish-Hawk post about missing the North. Not sure if this will help or hurt but either way it’s a good read. The author spent his last years in my home town. I vaguely knew his grandkids. I wish I’d have known of his story before he died.

Good fishing,

Saskie.

“Face The North Wind” intertwines the tales of to hardy Canadian cousins whom began nearly fifty year careers from the 1920’s to 70’s as trappers in Northern Saskatchewan. Ed Theriau and Fred Darbyshire evolved from greenhorns to expert trappers, working adjacent traplines in the territories roughly defined as Cree, Wollaston and Reindeer Lakes. No modern conveniences, they learned to live off the land and find their way through totally unsettled and unmapped valleys and uncharted waterways. Encounters with wolves, trappers’ lore, and exciting tales of fur, game and fish catches, the book captures gripping accounts and experiences of days gone by during the Hudson’s Bay Company fur brigades along the Churchill River.

While reading, the book completely began to change the face of Saskatchewan for me. The wheat fields gave way to many lakes and bogs, shallow rivers, dense spruce forests, gentle rolling rock hills, plentiful game, and as well, extreme winters, horrendous summer mosquitoes and sandflies; and even a historic glimpse of Chipewyan life, The place imagined was more grand and harsh with each turning page and as so, from one of the two main characters Ed, to survive there during those times and eons before, he would almost summarize what it takes while describing his neighbors with this quote… “The Chipewyan’s were a hardy people, descendants of generations of proven hunters. Aggressive, independent, fearless, and almost impervious to hunger and extreme cold. They had qualities of self-reliance and initiative which actually challenged adversity.” I wanted to see it more, and walk there…

Leaving McMurray Aviation aboard a Turbo Otter aimed at Uranium City on Lake Athabasca, with my eyes glued to the window, in my ear Bud from Arizona shared stories of his many years flying north to fish Neultin, Wollaston and Athabasca lakes. Like Ed and Fred, he spoke his own real tale of legendary Regnier Johnson, a trapper to the area also mentioned in “Face The North Wind.” How it was Regnier who once revealed a spring honey-hole up on Neultin where huge cruising lake trout could be viewed feeding on spawning suckers in a shallow creek.

Below I watched as the checkerboard and ribbon scarred land of prospected Alberta ceased once over Marguerite River Wildland Park. The crossing into Saskatchewan, beautiful lakes and forest as far as the eye could see abruptly ended where a new natural wonder began, in our sight, the Athabasca Sand Dunes; the world’s largest desert north of the 58.

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Twelve guests, ten Americans, myself and Len all safely touched down upon a rough gravel strip. Gear and camp supplies quickly packed into an idling school bus, out of the rain all were driven down to the water’s edge where boats awaited. After the ferry across to Johnston Island, twenty minutes later I poured a gin and seven before sitting down for dinner.
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“WORK LIKE A CAPTAIN.”

Exciting is the dawn of a first day on a new body of water. I woke before the sun with the energy of a child, and at water’s edge played with the sunrise.

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Over a big greasy breaky anglers buzzed with anticipation. Courtney, the camp housekeeper and hand, sat across from us and I entertained her with the meaning of the Windigo; she admitting to never having heard of such a thing. When the Captain announced the guide assignments we became eager to greet our man, “Cherry???” Ready, I made my way to the dock…

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… where I waited for Len and our guide. In the meantime, while other’s trickled down to the boats there was some time to snap a few pics.

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Known as “Cherry” or “Big Red,” Dakota from B.C. introduced himself as we shoved off the dock. Looking this tall, lanky lad over, I was wondering his age before finally just asking, “how old are ya dood, 22?” He laughed, “thanks, but I’m 18!” His first year guiding and so young, admittedly I felt a lump in my throat.

Trolling the shoreline of Grouse Island awhile we popped only one laker before crossing a bigger and open expanse of water to Foster and Long Islands. Choosing to call Dakota “Red,” he made me nervous while standing to drive us through the waves.

Fishing, Len and I had for a short while done what was expected of us. Flat-lining Husky spoons and Dodger size 0’s with skirted hooks, the bite was quite slow. Luck changed when we began doing something that Red hadn’t ever yet tried in his boat, we started trolling jigs. Just like that in the hour before lunch Len released a 23 and 20 pounder and I picked up several teenagers including an 18. It’s some special kinda laker love when you get to nail’em with rod in hand.

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Mid afternoon several boatloads of hungry anglers came together for a shorelunch. Captain Bruce was part of this group, and parked ashore was his new 18-foot Kingfisher. Recently splitting a Crestliner, he was hoping this new option would survive longer than the two seasons it’s predecessor had. Pending performance and durability, Lakers may just have nothing but these boats parked at their dock in the future.

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Facing east from Foster Island, Len and I were treated to an exceptional Athabasca view and even better fish fry. Although the laker fishing had started off slow this first day, with so much week left no one was concerned.

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The day bled into evening where back at the lodge Cowboy had cooked up a prime rib feast. Lazily digesting and each man with his select spirit, many told stories over sip and smoke about their personal fish and travels through the years. Todd had twenty-plus years on Athabasca and had experienced much on his favorite lake. Bud and his friends lived a lifetime at Neultin with occasional trips to Wollaston and Athabasca. Shawn and his father Ty had enjoyed thirteen years with Laker’s Unlimited. Rob spoke of Northern Ontario, and I too shared memories from Bear, Slave, Nipigon and elsewhere. Blessed fishing lives we lead, seemingly quick within the cozy lodge atmosphere did our tiny group bond.

Finally, Captain Bruce and some of the guides joined us for a nightcap. Twenty-nine and running the show, Bruce (his name actually Ryan) admits he is quite likely crazy. Yet, when he speaks of his years, those crazy things done, the fishing and the work, I found not only a quick respect but a sense of understanding. Bruce’s heart is fully in it, totally invested, and although it might at times cause him to do crazy things for business and passion, he’s honestly just committed because he loves to be so. Nothing crazy in that… “Work like a Captain, Play like a Pirate,” that about sums it up perfectly.
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JERKY & JELLY BELLIES.

Cool and collected…

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A calm morning ride out slowly turned into bigger water, as the cold north-wind began to build while rolling further towards the blue zone. You would not guess it in these pics though…

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Many times looking out on the horizon I would say to Len and Red that I believed it was snowing, a familiar mauve color beneath the clouds scattered here and there all around us.

Hiding out on the lee-sides of different islands, nothing but jigs continued to work… and boy, did they ever work.

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The lakers were biting well and many high-teens with a few over twenty graced the gunnels. My home-made, hand-tied bucktail Holy Mackinaws and some bigger Big Martian Dicks were putting it to the grease purdy good. For Lenny, while in Sudbury weeks before, he found some gnarly 3 & 4 ounce saltwater bucktail jigs made for stripers, and with these lures he was machine. Because jigs are so versatile and full of life, we each picked up numerous lakers which followed a first hooked fish to the boat. As Len or I would play one, the other person would reel in or jig alongside that hooked fish and many times over we’d double-up. In fact, we had a ridiculous number of double-headers all week.

We worked up quite an appetite but foolishly opted for sandwiches over a shorelunch. The cold weather, fish after fish and the lake chop does tire, but Len and I feeding Red too, we all kept our energy up eating ample mouthfuls of beef jerky and Jelly Bellies.

Through this second day I was growing more comfortable with Red’s guiding, as he was with guiding us. The lad was proving himself in the boat, and the way he and I began to joke around and carry on, surely served proof to Len that we were both nuts.

A cold end, our sea-worthy Alumarine surfed us back to the calm bay and lodge, Red keeping us almost dry the whole way.

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A hot shower, warm cabin, steaming cup of coffee, BBQ chicken dinner and three fingers of Ancnoc thawed me out quite nicely. This was a great day of fishing not just for us but for many in camp. An insightful talk with two Athabascan veterans Todd and Senior Guide Bob, followed by drinks with Shawn, Courtney and Len, absolutely exhausted we crashed into our pillows.
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WHITE AND GRAYLING.

Third morning and last to leave the dock… again. No fault of our own. But, Red loves to rip and was ready to make haste.

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Expected to be another day of tucking in behind islands out of the strong prevailing north winds, the morning sun left no questions when it too occasionally ducked behind cover… the snow this day would fall.

Dragging Husky’s and jigs the action was hot. Len and I continued to double-up and shorelunch fish were quickly bonked, but the overall size was down a little. That being, we had to settle for many mid to high teen fish because we could only muster one over twenty. So be it.

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We joined guide Scott and with his guests Shawn and Ty for lunch. Enjoying my one beer-a-day ration while sampling Dorito and spicy lake trout, we swapped whiskeyjack and camping stories, and Ty requested I speak a little Cree. Being a dentist, he hoped most that I knew how to say, “open your mouth,” but there was no helping him with that.

The shorelunch spot was a pretty one. A shallow bay completely secluded from the day’s winds, the big fire pit grill and picnic tables were a welcome comfort.

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Most of our damage was being done in the morning and it was obviously the best time of day for lakers so far. Popping Jelly Bellies and lazily cruising the afternoon we left the greys a little early so I could hold up my end of a bargain. A deal Lenny and I had made the evening before was, he’d get twenty minutes grayling fishing at the end of the day if he was on the dock ten minutes before 8:00am each morning. On this first day of the deal, making no mistake about it, he was in the boat quick and early after breakfast. His reward; actually a reward for us both, was to watch him catch his first two grayling. I think Len loved those fish as much as the lakers… and maybe for some this is rightfully so, for no doubt they’re tough little buggers and stunning to look at.

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Delicious smoked ribs and pecan pie, high on a dose of moonshine Rob from Virginia had us all in stitches while telling a story of how he made his wife wizz her pants at an Oktoberfest celebration in Germany… And on that note, a little too full on the fluids myself, it was good time to retire.
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PLAY LIKE A PIRATE.

Len was streaking around the cabin getting ready to go when I woke to the alarm quite dizzy and tired.

A lighter breakfast, sore and grouchy, even Red too admitted he wasn’t in best spirits this rough morning. A dead battery and the boat not gassed up, it mattered not that Len had the most spring in his step of anyone, we were last to leave the dock again.

Everything felt in slow motion awhile, only picking up pace once the first fish woke us up. Another fine laker taken on a Holy Mackinaw, it’s the redfins I often go goo-goo-gaga over. Probably the sharpest looking lakers and of which are rare to those back home and south, I think some would agree that pound-for-pound against the greys, these orange crushers give the more spirited fight.

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Confined to particular and protected areas to avoid the bigger winds, through the day we plucked away at twenty-five fish with five over twenty. Horsing around with Red we had fun, sometimes razzing one another to the point of temporary insanity. Jelly Belly stocks still strong but down to my second last bucktail jig, through the afternoon a Bondy bait proved a solid fish catcher for some sweeter sized fish. Although it was Len on this day, again having woken fast and furious, who really had the hot stick.

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Red, Len and I debated holding fish. On Athabasca it’s preferred that lakers be held one hand under the gill plate to support the head, one hand under the belly and, the fish to spend as little to no time possible in any sort of vertical position. This way, the fishes head is well controlled and the organs supported and done right there is little chance of gill damage. Months before while on Great Slave, it was noted that tailing the fish with one hand and supporting the fish at it’s chest and shoulders in a horizontal position is the best hold, or if the fish is absolutely huge to basically hug it. Online from time-to-time different anglers from different camps; like guides from different lodges, and especially those people who dislike vertical holds, all say their piece. My experience is, of these three holds, the vertical is obviously the least ideal (especially for bigger fish) but, for so many fish and always those which come up through an ice-hole already vertical, a quick and controlled release with the least fish handling and subzero exposure is probably every bit as important as anything… and if keeping the fish it’s a mute point anyways. Of the two horizontal holds I wouldn’t say one is better than the other. Hand under the gill plate may have those worried about damaging gills and disease introduction near the vital lungs all up in arms, while those tailing more often have less control when a fish is bucking and fighting, and could also remove more slime or drop the fish because of that. We’ve all seen flying fish in the boat a time or two… We adjourned agreeing to disagree but respecting that it’s often not either hold which can lead to the most fish injury, but the experience of the angler holding the fish. More important is doing it well and in a timely manner, for any valued big fish especially so. Being prepared, gentle, fast and efficient in a way comfortable to you and the situation is key to making more successful releases. And, those overly concerned with wanting to limit any and all chance of mortality… well, they should likely just quit fishing, because there never will be a 100% in catch-and-release.

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On the way back to the lodge it was a rough ride. I accidentally spit on Red’s tackle box then Len gave him the finger. He caught no grayling. I drank some Ancnoc.

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KISSING A BIG GIRL AND BOY.

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A beautiful morning, the best of the week, Len and I were up, moving, and in good spirits to face the day.

By the lodge Len was inspecting the rods, hoping to find what might be a suitable stick he could use to try and bribe me with, to fish more grayling. More interesting than that though, in a guide’s boat laid out was a solid selection of the usual suspects one might find up at Lakers. T60 Flatfish, Eppinger Husky spoons and Dodger 0’s being the most common trout criminals. Lenny and I caught fish on the spoons and flasher but hardly gave any effort with the Flatfish. Most of our fishing thus far was still on the bucktail jigs, and it surprised me that no one else at all was bothering with them. It’s pleasing for me to catch fish on my own creations, and the Holy Mackinaws were working great. Although, everyone’s catch reports each night at dinner were roughly the same, so I guess it didn’t much matter in the end what was tied on a line.

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… “Everyone is a baby seal if you use your mind,” slipped out of Red’s mouth and had us howling. What we’d been talking about before that I don’t even know, but with the kid at the helm we were steered many times into some deep comment that left us giving our head’s a shake and busting a gut. “Hey, it’s not rocket appliances,” you’ll figure it out.

A beauty sunny day we fished Long, Grouse and Foster putting six over twenty in the boat by mornings end, and we piled some more grease in the tub come afternoon too. The two best fish of the day were my fat hen which came on my last Big White Dick and, Lenny’s log noggin’ male which tapped his striper buck tail. Gettin’ Jiggywithit.

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Shunned twice at other shorelunch spots we landed on our own for meal time. Lending a hand, Len got the fire going, I sliced spuds and onions while Red cleaned the trout.

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Again the afternoon fishing was slower than morning, so experimenting more we trolled various colors of Husky spoons, a Dodger, a Provisor and the odd Bondy bait. The result was more fish, and for me a hard fighting redfin followed by a decent grey as well.

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Just arriving back at the lodge to settle in for supper, our glass calm day turned very windy. The chicken wings which were deep fried outside were absolutely delicious, despite Cowboy’s cooking struggles to keep the oil heat just perfect, while the cooling air outside whirled around his deep fryer.

Some late evening visiting as is the ritual, once the eyelids felt heavy I found the cabin, and Len there already fast asleep.
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CRACKING STONE.

Now with a ninety mile fetch, the weeks north wind turned abruptly from the south and boy did it blow up big. Weighing options in the morning, everyone knew the day would be a crap shoot. Most were of the mindset that they and their guides would simply slide out into pockets of the lake around islands and points, and hope for fish-able cover. Traveling to the better fishing areas of the week would surely mean boating through big surf and swells.

We hatched a plan to explore. In fact, we wouldn’t only do that but we’d also try our luck here and there with pike and grayling. Lakers Unlimited is known for it’s exceptional pike fishing except during the later part of the season at their Johnston Island lodge, when it dies down to nothing once the pike have left the shallows. Nobody knew for sure if they’d still be around or not.

As well, the Johnston Island site is part of an immense northern peninsula consisting of many other islands and the vast mainland point stretching north to Uranium City. A maze of back channels winding every which way provides shelter and shallows, where at this time of year smaller lakers, grayling and possibly pike can be found.

Red was in the kitchen come morning to pick up our bagged lunches. Eyeing the cinnamon buns, he placed one in a tupperware before stepping away to get his gear. Cowboy, the cook, wanting to play a joke, replaced his bun with soda crackers, signed a note blaming one of the other guides, then sealed the container. Len and I were in on it, and couldn’t wait to see Red’s reaction.

We set off in a new direction and within no time Red was pointing out an old fish plant, a trappers cabin, the area around a closed uranium mine, a government facility and some “hookers” cabins.

Uranium City itself came into existence in the early 50’s, shortly after World War II when the desire for nuclear weapons and technology was the new global ambition. Saskatchewan’s most northerly settlement, the city once supported a population of 10,000 but since the closing of the mines in the early 80’s, only seventy or so inhabitants remain there today. Like the dying town, while examining abandoned cabins nearby, an abandoned mine, and poking through empty woods, any civilized, modern or technological thoughts were oppressed once finding artifacts of old, and thinking particularly then of the days of old… like those of Ed Theriau and Fred Darbyshire of “Face The North Wind.” As trappers not far south on this very land, I imagined the two men would have been so far removed, remote, isolated, and with little concern for such things as World Wars, nuclear power, city sky scrapers, Disney Land or even paved roads, telephones and TV’s for that matter. Derelict fishing supplies laying about, a crushed cooking stove, rusted steel traps and the collapsed log cabin evoked in me a wonder of a whole other space and time. A simple but harder time. I imagined a moment, Northern Saskatchewan in all seasons, at it’s best and worst, and felt rather small and powerless as one who might or could have ever survived, carving out a home and livelihood in the sheer and vast ruggedness of this place. And I thought of what few souls remain today, those last people holding home and hope in Uranium City, the tiny band of only a couple dozen Chipewyan settled totally alone not far to the east, and finally, of the few fishing lodge workers who make some of their living in this place, loving all that it is and sharing it with people like myself.

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When Red opened that container the look on his face when he exploded in despair, and right then stuffing all those crackers in his mouth letting the crumbs fall down his chin, it was so priceless. When he read the note and began plotting his revenge, even better. Finally we let him in on the joke and I coughed up his prized cinnamon bun that’d been hiding with us.

It was just an easy day. Photographing the sites, catching a dozen smaller pike through the morning and watching Red “tree bowl” from a hilltop lookout while all enjoyed their lunch, it was a welcome break from the big water. A day to think and breathe a little deeper.

After zig-zagging a time and reaching the more westerly side of Cracking Stone, on the calm face of an island Red pulled us into a tight nook where Len and I were able to climb ashore and view the lake at it’s biggest that day. Pictures unable to do any justice, the wind on Cracking Stone would nearly blow me over, while huge rollers would sometimes curl and break like ocean surf as they passed us by. Beneath my shoes, the pressured stone was indeed cracked in rows from the eternal pounding of the water. Athabasca is like any Great Lake really, but one far less traveled, and it was when standing as close to the waters edge where safe, did the power of the place really leave an impression.

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During a couple hours come afternoon we hit on a grayling spot only to find smaller lakers loaded there. Averaging in and about the 4 to 8 pound range, with light gear we had a blast surely catching more than a dozen, with Red getting in on the action just for fun too.

A steak dinner, that night at the lodge being the last, what little was left of the gin, Ancnoc and beer was happily consumed. Quite enjoying Bud’s company all week; he being the fella from Arizona I sat next to on the plane when coming in, he and I were the last men left standing once we polished off our whiskeys. Turning out the lodge lights, a later night than most, it was easy to close the eyes and drift off from this day.
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FEATHER LEN AND BIG CHERRY RED.

I’d caught Red getting a haircut up at the guide’s cabins the evening before… and it was still funny in the morning.

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Little bit, just a little bit hungover, the sun and calm of the day quickly burned off any fog before the three of us set out for our final day under perfect conditions.

Through the entire week the cold north winds had slowly dropped surface temps from 50F down to 44F, but the big south blow from the day before brought it right back up quick to 50F again. We did find the early bite was slow on our usual haunts, the fish there maybe needing time to readjust.

The big grey of the week at Lakers was a 35-pounder caught by the most veteran Athabasca guest, Todd. For the most part, on this particular week many struggled to find 30-plus fish, yet the fishery is known for its solid numbers caught this size, fish even up to and over 50-pounds. Early-to-mid September is a transition period for lakers, moving in from the depths to spawning areas, timed just right you can intercept the mother-lode stacked up in the shallows. Our days Len and I released more fish in the 20-plus pound range than I had ever caught, anywhere. And that says something.

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Pound for pound Athabasca’s mid teen average with incredible numbers of high teens through to high twenty pounders, it is no wonder my rod-arm shoulder is still healing today, one month later. Setting a hundred and more hooksets into the most determined-to-dog char there are, is an experience that never seems to grow old on me. With Len, a newbie to this type of trip, it was apparent he enjoyed it much the same. We had a good time together no question, and I believe now that he’s tasted the arctic and it’s fishing, he will forever be changed.

Red on the other hand… well I don’t know about this kid???

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Truth be told all six guides, Nevin, Parker, Scotty, Bob, Bruce and especially our Red are all the salt of the earth. And it’s that knowing everyone a little, the guides, staff and all the guests which make this place something kinda different and special. A real tight, homey, family feel with a solid group of hearty guides who all work together to ensure everyone staying in camp each week goes home healthy and happy to have reeled in countless lakers, and pike too. Red at 18 proved he is a tough kid, young but well on his way to a good life in guiding provided he plays every bit as safe out there as he does hard. Poodlehead Red was fun and he won’t be forgotten. Come afternoon he enjoyed fishing with us and reeling in some of his own… everyone in the boat catching fish in the final hours.

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The fishing ended an hour earlier than usual so all could get back to the lodge for a quick pizza supper and pack. The group of twelve coming in to replace us had already been up for a week in the spring. There were goodbyes and farewell handshakes to end our time, though many would see each other again. Bud with his group of six rebooked for next year, as did Shawn and Ty. Todd and maybe Rob won’t be far behind as well. While shuttling me over in the Kingfisher to meet the plane home, Captain Bruce explained how he couldn’t be happier.

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Len wouldn’t board to leave and so from my seat in shotgun I had to holler over and get him quick to his seat.

Taking off over Athabasca, passing beyond the desert sands to where northern spruce forests cover the land, I realized then that there won’t be anymore imagining prairie grasses and farm houses in Saskatchewan, there will be real memories of so much more.

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Bunk
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