According to Brenda, I was bopping around in my seat like an excited school boy going on a field trip. Big questions, had some real big, pressing questions in mind, and so I guess that might have shown. Stuck same place in the noggin’ with all those questions too, was this old song our music teacher would make us sing in elementary class…

Canada is the rocky mountains
Canada is Prince Edward Island
Canada is a country made for love
Canada is La Belle Provence
Canada is the Yukon mine
Canada is a country full of love…

A classic diddy which goes on and on really, I wondered awhile if kids still sang in school today? Other songs like this one would follow through the week.

There was an old man named Michael Finnegan
He had whiskers on his chin-ne-gan
The wind blew them off and blew them on again
Poor old Michael Finnegan, begin again

There was an old man named Michael Finnegan
He went fishing with a pinnegan
Sat all day and reeled it in again
Poor old Michael Finnegan, begin again…

Thems childish thinkins growed up only abit before just like that our arrowplain was gliding over the planes of Sakastchawan. John Wick was on a killing spree and had finally taken out the villain actor who plays one of the two pecker-less characters on Game Of Thrones. Through Wick’s wicked ways and joyful song, I’d been sitting at the edge of my seat most of the trip and wanted to finally recline until a second big question came to mind, is it OK nowadays to do that sort of thing? You know, recline the seat? Invade someone’s personal space behind..? Could it or would it cause a scene? Ya never know eh..?

Some frozen and sealed sucker meat packed tightly into a cooler before being stuffed into the checked suitcase, a Rubbermaid tightly securing tackle and gear and a rocket launcher of a rod tube, the actual and most pressing conundrum was towards the week of fishing ahead. Anticipation ran sky high.

31,328 square kilometers of inland ocean Great Bear Lake is Canada’s third largest lake surrendering only to Superior and Huron. Six and a half times the size of my favorite Ontario playground on Lake Nipigon and nearly double the size of Lake Ontario, the five arms of Great Bear could reach around and simply squeeze the life juices from out of these southern puddles. 2720 kilometers of shoreline, a max depth of 1400+ feet, an average depth of 270+ feet and only 300 or so permanent inhabitants cornered way down in the southwest, for visitors, adventure seekers, anglers and hunters, “The Bear” is as “Great” as it can get. To be returning there again, we felt blessed.

For our tenth year wedding anniversary, last fall when I asked Brenda where she would like to trip to she immediately said, “Plummers.” It took no prompting, no persuasion, nor was there even mention of fish, Bren eagerly picked this! And so over the following months, considering all costs, dates, family and work schedules, the guess is she grew tired of all my humming and hawing and decided upon herself to just leap forward and book with them at their Arctic Circle Lodge. Hmmmm… interezting!

Billy and Dolly Haerr opened Arctic Circle Lodge in 1965. At the time, the Chicago Tribune would write a glowing review about the excellent fishing and amenities found at this new site only sixteen miles beneath the arctic circle’s latitude. Over the next three decades or so, A.C. Lodge would co-exist alongside four other Plummer’s owned lodges on the same lake. Advertising through magazines like Field & Stream and surely attending southern fishing shows, A.C. it would appear did well to thrive through the eras of catch and keep, and likely some commercial fishing times as well. But then in about the late 90’s, early 2000’s it seems as though something must have changed? Today, the lodge is owned and operated by Plummers and after what may have been a 25-30 year “semi” closure, Arctic Circle is now accepting new guests up to just twelve at a time, to ply some very well rested fishing waters. The best part in my opinion, is that these are self-guided trips allowing a great experience for any keen adventurer, at a lesser cost.

Our friend Seth was waiting at the terminal in Calgary. Coming in from Fargo via the Peg, his flight moments earlier had arrived at the same gate. When he saw the Ottawa plane was pulling in next he graciously stayed to greet us. Over a late breakfast, Seth and I caught up on as much fishing and travel as we could both digest until boarding the next plane onward to Yellowknife. Arriving there and still hungry to chat, after checking into our hotels, hiking down to Bullock’s Bistro in Olde Town we worked up an appetite for even more chatter. Some big buffalo steaks to us boys and a plate of char for Brenda, if you haven’t been to this Yellowknife gem, you gotta check it out.

On route back to our rooms by small chance I bumped into two past Slave guests I had guided, Keith and his young son Tyler. Taking a return trip to Great Slave Lake Lodge, Keith’s youngest lad Brandon was along as well. Keith had contacted me over the spring to ask if I’d be returning, and ohhh how I wished to guide these boys again and put Brandon on his first lakers. That was a real good week for us in July 2015. Past guests Dave and Tom were there as well and the whole short lived reunion was a real unexpected pleasure. Hoping to hear how they made out this time.

Awhile later, Brenda and I strolled just a few blocks from the hotel to our friend’s place for a visit. Sitting outside on their sun deck, soaking up warm evening rays, it would have been nice to see Dan and Susan if only their young daughter Briar; aka Dr. Harley Quinn, hadn’t brutally massacred us over-and-over with thousands of imaginary bullets prior to cutting off all limbs and nose, tongue and toes with her chainsaw. That girl has got alotta “puddin” as she would say and is unbelievably adorable. It was honestly, a perfect time spent.

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The rooms, beds and even rates at the new Chateau Nova outdo the Explorer plain and simple. We had a good restful sleep overnight.
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Day 1. HERD HUSTLE. (11)

At the Summit Air base come morning the herd hustle began. Stepping back, I said hello to guides Morgan before chatting awhile with Carl who was heading up to Trophy Lodge for a few weeks. On the one flight, were all guests to Plummer’s main lodge along with our gang of a few merry men and Bren off to Circle, the waiting room was jammed with jacked up and energetic beasts ready to stampede. Joining with us for the week, we were introduced to Eric and his son Rob from Alberta, as well as a foursome of fellas, Steve, Red, Doug and Andrew hailing from parts of the eastern and southern States. This group totaling eight angling souls would be the first of the season into Arctic Circle and everyone was quite excited to get there. About forty folks in total, we would all soon be corralled on the plane.
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A few forest fires amidst countless lakes and rivers below, thoughts wandered back to six and nine years ago when Brenda and I last fished on Great Bear. A lake of legends and lunkers, lucky anglers and guides return year after year, while some people may live it only once and feel just as lucky with that. We had caught some good lakers here on our previous trips, although my greater purpose in going to Plummers at the time was to experience the arctic char fishing on the Tree River.
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Everything fishy in this part of the world can come in record size proportions, personal bests are awarded to anglers daily. For lake trout though, Bren and I had fared slightly better for numbers and size on Great Slave Lake over the years. And with this trip to come, despite feeling highly motivated and ambitious to see and fish all that could be found at A.C., I actually had lesser expectations of catching trophy fish overall. Arctic Circle was rumored to be an incredible numbers fishery with bigger sized lake trout harder to come by. Fishing through fish to get big fish could be one possible challenge, or not easily finding the trophies over the vast, maze-like area a second hurdle. Honestly, I believed big old lunkers still had to be there somewhere and felt it one personal challenge to find ’em, but as important to those self wants, Brenda had hopes too. Good thing one of those on her list was to catch some big fish as well.
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Stepped off the plane to a big “fisherman’s hug” from Scotty Orr. Greetings and handshakes from Pandelis, Manny, Brandon, Cody along with a nod to Pike Mike and a short boat ride chat with Terry, the guides of Bear whom I have known online and some others back to our first trips, are just a bunch of great souls who truly make arriving anglers feel welcomed. Absolutely it was the highlight of the day for me.

Into the main lodge for a short layover luncheon, Brenda and I said a hello and took a moment to remember one other great Great Bear guide.
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In short order, Plummer’s manager Chuk informed us to pack light and head off for the float plane. “Bunker,” he said, “know you’ll be eager to get fishing, I wanna get the Circle group in as quick as possible. Pack light for the day, the rest of the luggage will get dropped off later.” Chuk was right and wrong, I was ready to get there but, we most conveniently got everyone’s luggage on the plane. Turned out, the four American’s in our group still had suitcases back in Calgary. Shitty AirCanada eh?!? A quick stop in the tackle shop, Brenda picked out a sky blue colored spoon from the shelf and I thought to myself, here we go! The least likely spoon of all for any angler to pick. I grabbed a couple new Big Jims and in no time we were in the air…
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The half hour float flight would have us backtrack a little southeast from the Dease Arm to the MacTavish Arm of the lake. The topography changes quite a lot in that short span from a flattened, more tundra-like landscape to an almost sparsely treed shield of rocky hills and cliffs. The overall scenery nearing the lodge is much like what one would find on Great Slave Lake further south. It’s stunning really, a definite bonus and quite easy to take in. Welcome to Arctic Circle Lodge.
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Bernie the camp manager, chef, maintenance man and dood totally responsible for everything else, was there on the dock to greet the plane. A one man show, I would come to understand that Bernie is a helluva hard-working, gracious and easy going soul. Up into the main lodge, our rooms were assigned and dinner plans set. Everyday Bernie would make breakfast for 7:30am and dinner would follow loosely, at about and sorta around 7:30pm. This whatever supper hour wouldn’t be his doing, being that all were self-guided anglers in camp and different pairings kinda got back to the lodge when they got back to the lodge ya know..?

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Obviously reading my mind, to get us on the water for the remainder of the afternoon, Bren was helpful to grab and sort anything and everything she quickly could. The dinner hour pushed back ti’ll 8:00pm already, by two o’clock we were motoring off the dock in search of fish. The tiller was given up to my better half for much of the short ride so that I could put together rods and reels and get us set. Crossing the waters, we weren’t the only one’s hustling to get some place.

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Best speed at one point in the 18′ boat with a 4-horse 20 Merc was 19mph. Average speed for the week would be about 17-18mph or 27-28km/hr. Good thing to take note of right away because plotted onto my GPS were many waypoints and, on Brenda’s IPad there were about twenty different satellite images showing the whole area, as well as plenty magnified sections of water. Google Earth had helped measure distances ahead of time so now with speed I could best guess travel and whether it be worth it or not at different hours in the day to go. Shoals, fishing spots, points, bays and shores of interest, Google Earth really helps point all that out and also plot faster and safer routes.

Surface temps around the lodge averaged about 40-44F. Lake trout here will bite in anything but prefer 48-52F. Sailing deep into the back of a large bay with a feeder creek, against the shores there the water temp climbed to 60F. The first shallow pass we hit nothing. Cruising back and off the shoreline to slightly cooler temps of around 54-55F we hit the first fish over some soft, shoal structure and over a little more depth.Bren got the first fish… and on her new spoon of course.
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We wouldn’t hit them fast and furious just yet. After getting my line unstuck from the prop, in those eager first hours we had to slow down and address better hook-setting technique. When trolling, Brenda was best sitting same side of the boat as me, with her line out behind my back so I could face the sonar, drive and fish off the port side. A number of fish were missed because she was holding her rod straight out 90 degrees from the boat. This doesn’t work well because it only leaves half a sweep for a hookset before having to reel down. Once Bren began to point her rod tip along the gunnel towards the back of the boat, she then had much more sweep and power behind her set. Forgetting as well, I too had to better play my part by using the motor. Speeding up on any hits helps set the hook and especially works to keep BIG fish connected in the early going of a fight. After changing spots and finally finding a more productive area in the last hour or so, we popped eleven fish before dinner, the last one of the evening being the first well over 20 pounds.
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A rustic, clean, cozy lodge with some charm, Bernie had BBQ’d us up some double-thick pork chops to perfection. All the trimmings, it was a relief after much travel and our first afternoon of fishing to just walk in to the room, grab a shower, pour a scotch then sit down to a full dinner. Everyone else there surely felt the same way. Some cheers and a few cribbage games, the herd hustle finished and we all went to pasture.
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Day 2. COSMIC GULLSTONE. (56)

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It had rained heavy overnight but only for a short while. Other than Bernie preparing breakfast in the kitchen, I was first up to enjoy some morning light. Not far behind, Brenda settled with a coffee to do the same.

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A northeast breeze brought some cold, damp air. It kinda sent chills, unless the sun shone. There would be showers on and off all day long.

After breakfast it didn’t take long to reach a first spot to try. In a quiet long bay we were just off plane, idle and readying the rods to troll when a lone duck quacked overhead before landing a hundred yards away out over the deep and still water. Within seconds of touching down it suddenly began struggling. Quack, quack, quacking frantically, wings flapping fast against the water when in an instant it just went under…… A ducks last quack, it never resurfaced. After the wait and wonder, Brenda and I looked at each other, eyes and gaping jaws wide open. Fuck I love big lake trout I said to myself.

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Circling the bay, from points and a shoal we picked off a few fish here and there before reaching the windswept side. An area of shoreline which reminded me of a Great Slave fishing spot, we would call this point, Marleaus. The little bay in behind had plenty bait blown in and trapped there. An outward shoal to the north, a point and saddle to its south, it would be like a water funnel with the overnight prevailing winds. Surface temps warmest there in that section at 47F. On the Ghosty Goblin spoon I plucked the first decent fish.

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Between 9:20am and 12:30pm Brenda and I caught 17 lakers. For myself it was mostly low to mid teeners with the odd single digit greaser. For Brenda it was a whole new level of fishing I don’t think she had ever really experienced. We left Marleaus and moved on through some slower fishing along a shoreline we called Shenanigans, then onward to another new area. Finding two circular shoals beside a bottle-necked saddle, a smooth clearing on the shore and an old, decrepit trappers cabin, we would name this spot Circle Square Ranch.

Driving an orange sparkled Flatfish T60 into the soft bottom of the saddle, rod in the Salty I got a hard rip that tore 32 feet of line from the Tekota. To explain what this means might help one understand why this is a big deal. Drags on our line counter reels are set to musky-like standards. Crimped almost as hard as it gets, running spoons I like real tight, while the Flatfish just a hair looser. Why, because the spoons have super strong and big steel barbless hooks that will not break or bend. The Flatfish, the hooks are smaller and a little weaker and on heavy drag they can open up or more easily tear out of the fish. Being singles and being barbless you have to trust that you will want heavy pressure between you and the fish, especially just after hookset when a big laker is going to use every bit of it’s size, strength and energy to shake, roll, run and fight free. Controlling as much of the fishes movements without breaking off and tearing the hook out is the fine balance you and your gear have to achieve for better odds of catching the fish. The larger the laker the harder it’s mouth too. Their jaws can be like bone and therefor the hook has to drive deep into that somehow. So again, when big fish trolling it is my belief that the drag set to as tight as your gear can handle is imperative to a better hook-up and early fish control. Throughout the week to come, Brenda and I would learn that lakers averaging about 18 pounds would be just strong and heavy enough to rip up to around four or five feet of reel peel on the initial take. It would reach a point on this trip with me very quickly that if there was no reel peel, I would almost want the fish to just fall off the hook. In fact, being barbless, rather than have to reel another one in, through the week I would shake many off on purpose that felt small. No reel peel, little chance of a twenty pounder. The fishing at Arctic Circle can spoil an angler that much, you’ll see!

But after that 32 feet of reel peel and pulling the rod from the Salty, I popped the boat into neutral and lost the fish. That was a mistake, should have likely still kept the boat in forward idle drive for a consistently tighter connection, at least until the fish tired more.

Circle Square Ranch had a healthy population of better than average sized lakers. Bren’s Sky Blue and my U.F.O. (unidentified fishing object) spoon had the attractor beam, many fish were abducted aboard our mothership but eventually we warped on out of there to another galaxy. Last stop of the day, planet Gullstone!

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Another nameless honey hole, Gullstone just had everything. Shoals, islands, warmer water, protection, depth and well defined points, it reeked of fish pulling in there. It was one of a half dozen spots which weeks earlier on Google Earth I had stared at the satellite imagery intently for a long while. Later in the day now, over only a couple hours we barely scratched the surface. Brenda and I had ten double headers I think it was in under two hours. While she would pull in a laker, I would reel my spoon up beside her fish to catch one of the other lakers following hers to the boat. For the first time in my life, as we were trolling along the shore, I watched a lake trout just five or six feet off the motor, follow and eat bubbles out of the prop-wash. Reeling one in, just below the surface a second laker got temporarily hooked on the same spoon when trying to steal it from the mouth of my caught fish. The fishing there was out of this world. Like I said, we warped into another planet. We vowed to return. I stowed the waypoint on my CPS: Cosmic Positioning System.

The day belonged to Brenda though. Her fishing was exceptional, her confidence growing with leaps and bounds over only the first day. She wanted no part of any help from me if it wasn’t absolutely required. The Sky Blue spoon was a demon all day, it flat-lined, flat-out slayed. When I would ask, she would reply that the line counter on her reel is tuned into her favorite 101.5 on the FM dial, cause that’s the music the fish wanna hear. As I mentioned before, my fish were teeners all day, but Brenda had a personal best laker of 28 pounds to beat and she did it with her first over thirty.

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We were a good ten hours on the water during this full day. The weather was a little all over and wet at times, but the fishing was exceptional. Returning to the lodge, the other anglers were an all happy bunch enjoying many drinks and laughs. Bernie put a heaping roast beef meal in front of us but I could only pick at it. Starving after a very busy first day, I was actually too tired to eat. Left all energy somewhere out there, just right out there, in outer space. But Brenda on the other hand was still beaming, and so she stayed up later to share drinks with the other aliens.
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Day 3. BIG WATER, BIG FISH! (68)
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The lake was glass come morning. Over french toast and sausages I made the decision to run some big water this day. Big water for big fish. To get out of the channels and shadows of the islands and hit one spot on the map I felt had the perfect ingredients for many fish, and bigger fish too.

Rob and Eric had been curious as well. Their third year, they had never boated there and were wanting to go… although not quite sure where, and weary of the travel, they seemed to be waiting for my lead. When we left the dock that morning Eric asked one last time, “so you’re going for sure?” “If you choose to go we’ll see ya there,” I replied.

Complete calm water for the hour and a half run, it still felt a bit like I white knuckled it. Some tiller parasthesia from my fingertips to elbow; and maybe a little around the brain too, upon final arrival all would return pink and just comfortably numb.

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Everything of this bay was perfect. Higher water temps and some inflow, the right depth and structures, and just as importantly, it’s relative seclusion. A good distance in any direction from anything else resembling similar attributes, it didn’t take much figuring to believe this had to be a prime early season holding and feeding area for migratory fish from the big water. And, it would likely have a good resident population of fish in general. Upon catching some first fish within minutes, hopes were answered. After an hour or so, we came to realize that this place is special. The numbers and size of fish really reaching up a notch.

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Big Jim, Sky Blue, Firetiger and U.F.O. did all the damage but, I think some bubblegum stretched out on a bobby-pin could have caught lakers too. Eric and Rob about an hour behind us turned the corner into the bay to say hello. At the time, I was locked into fighting with one fine and feisty 36 pound fish.

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The breeze had started northeast, went calm, the sun came out here and there, it might have spit some rain when sometime mid afternoon a cool, onshore wisp and ripple from the southwest made the hair on my neck stand up… It was around this time too we got a good spooling of Bren’s line wrapped around the prop. Momentarily hooked up with big lakers of their own, (an ongoing issue for these two) after playing a fish out, Eric and Rob had to be flagged down to help us out. That alarming wind was kinda forgotten.

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The fishing was exhausting fun. It was non-stop except for an hour or so while Eric and Rob were breaking for shorelunch. Our bodies actually ached a little from reeling in fish over the past two days. For energy, we’d made some big roast beef sandwiches and packed a mountain of sweets. Bren made sure to ration us just right because if the candy bag had been under my control, it’d have been finished right quick.

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Eric and Rob had been back from lunch and in their boat fishing for awhile. The bite was picking up again, and the fish were moving deeper into the bay where the wind was beginning to blow the warming surface water. They were stacking up nicely along a short and straight shoreline run. Bren and I had been releasing fish after fish again when the next hit hammered me and tore 48 feet from the reel. You now understand what that means right?

Maybe I’d popped into neutral prematurely, maybe I didn’t, but the boat came to a stop anyways and when it felt like the fish was pulling us I throttled forward and fast for a good few seconds. Through the rod I could feel the laker hammering headshakes along with these occasional quick taps resonating through the line. Anyone ever having or feeling someone else’s crepitus with say a tendonitis or the like, would understand this sensation perfectly. The line would pulsate. But what that actually was caused by, was the fish getting turned away from me and it’s tail kick hitting the leader. This was only one of three fish all week that had enough weight and power to turn 180 degrees from the pull of a hard drag.

I kept slow forward momentum with the boat until believing the laker had tired enough then, in neutral, the process of regaining 150 feet of line began. Easy, easy, easy keeping constant pressure, the drag was loosened now but only a smidgen. The fish was still throwing the odd big head shake and making hard runs. When there was thirty left on the counter and we were over 28 feet, the fish was straight up and down with the boat. Bren had been ready with the net for what seemed like forever, and when the laker finally surfaced and quit, she amazingly fit that fish into the small hoop. Rob and Eric were riding over quick to see what we’d caught. A great Great Bear laker is what!

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It’s the kind of laketrout you dream about catching on a big trip. You plan and prepare for it… and hope it happens. And then it does! And there’s this relief, and happiness, and an appreciation of all your efforts and circumstance. It’s probably what any and every angler wants to feel for themselves, their friends and loved ones, and it’s why we do it. You hit a hole in one, played the best hands and won the big money, convinced that girl to go out on a date, scored an A+ on an important assignment or landed a great job. It’s all you and what you’ve done to put yourself intp that moment and it feels damn good when you find your personal rewards. Rob and Eric were very congratulatory. “Really want to thank you Bunk for bringing us along. Best fishing we’ve ever had here,” Rob declared. Bren’s best lake trout day ever had been the day before, but this one would probably be mine, and it was great to hear the fellas were happy with every part of it as well.

Still planning to fish another hour before heading back to the lodge, the wind was now making me quite nervous. Flowing into the bay, low rollers were coming in and the odd whitecap was breaking on small waves. Swirling winds would occasionally gust hard. In the distance and outside of our protection, it appeared as though the big water was rising and it was heavy with whitecaps. Not liking the situation much, it had been several hours since that first cool wisp got my attention. I’d told myself a time or two that it’s an afternoon wind which will die come evening, stupidly forgetting that evenings can bleed ti’ll mornings in the arctic.

The guys had noticed too. Just before 6:00pm we motored over to tell Eric and Rob we were going to head back. We agreed we should go together.

Dawning a rain suit over my rain suit then lifejacket on, Bren would do the same. I asked her to remove her seat and sit closer to mid boat on the wood. I’d do the same.

Setting out at first it wasn’t crazy bad. Riding in the troughs I think many of the guides would probably laugh about my nervousness. The waves were steady and about 4 to 5 footers. Eric and Rob were off our port side but dropped back behind us. Bren kept an eye and I looked for ’em every couple minutes or so.

The further we rode the bigger it got. Had been in waves like this some other times before, usually in bigger boats but a couple times not. Still, I imagined the fellas down on Athabasca that surf this kinda chop all their fall season long, that they wouldn’t bat an eye and just go play boating in it. These waves weren’t so uniform though, they were kinda awkward at times.

Fours and fives grew to fives and six, the odd rogue seven capping. When I looked behind us after a time, Eric and Rob had completely disappeared. Worried I asked Brenda to look hard but she couldn’t spot them. Might have been two, might have been five minutes since I had last looked back. They had been losing some ground and been driving more starboard, but were still for sure less than a hundred yards from us. Turning with the waves we rode along as slow as I could have us safely go. Hoped they’d catch up or that we’d see them. Truth is, there were some bad vibes growing. They should have been right there, and how could they not be in sight now? In minutes they just completely vanished!!?

There was no turning into these waves to go back, there was only riding the troughs or flowing along with them. A few instances Bren and I had plowed hard and jolted the boat and ourselves on some gnarly surf. Fearing the worst, those boys being bigger, sitting up higher in their seats, the same jolt might send one fella flying or even swamp them. All this crazy shit started going on in my mind but here we were out in the big water, less than half way back ourselves… and the lake still seemed to be growing. Our path on the GPS required we now go with the waves. Controlling the up and down speed carefully while avoiding the rogues requires full attention as any boater knows. About two thirds of the way across, some of those rogues were eight footers. Bren fixed her eyes the entire time on the horizon, hoping to see Eric and Rob.

Finally rounding a wildly choppy point and taking some refuge lee side at the entrance into a big bay, once beyond the worst of the criss-crossing waves we stopped, sat and waited for 45 minutes. Eric and Rob never came. Brenda was quiet, while I spewed out every little worry that came to mind. “They’re adults who made their own decisions. You’re not at fault, so stop feeling guilty,” Brenda finally said.

Andrew met us at the dock and asked how the fishing was. Bren walked by him quickly and into the lodge to let Bernie know what was happening. Still outside by the boat, I told Andrew everything. And, by the time I finished the tale we heard a motor in the distance and watched Eric and Rob’s boat round the corner into the lodge bay. When they arrived on the dock I gave Rob a hug. “Man, we feared the worst for you,” he told me. “We saw you turn to go with the waves but we just couldn’t do it. We were getting soaked when we tried. Thought you were taking the hard way man! Had to stay in the troughs and ride ’em out. We had the lake touch the gunnel a couple times, one mistake out there and you’re dead. Came into the shore way down and had an extra hour ride to get back.” We just couldn’t keep up with you!”

Inside the lodge I gulped a big gin and chased ‘er down with an even bigger scotch.
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Day 4. CANIS LUPUS ARCTOS. (57)
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“Birds of a feather! Na Na Na!!!” She’d say…

Not sure if Bren was sour about the bumpy ride home evening before or, the fact her big laker got demoted from top of our boat’s leaderboard. “My fish is bigger! Ha Ha Ha!!!”

We do have friendly and fun competition on the water but truth is, I’d love to have her kick my ass out there and she has before but, she’s gotta earn it every time! With her little click score keeper, each fish caught gets added to her tally. As for me, she just remembers how many I’m up or down on her count. She took day one by a fish and day two by two more, but day three I rallied and got her back by eight. Beside the title of each day in this write-up, is the number of lakers that were caught.

The place mats under our breakfast plates were all about arctic wolves. How there’s the northern and eastern varieties, some differences, how they behave, mate for life and other facts. Clearing skies but with some cooler air on this morning, it was perfectly pleasant on the water without the wind and waves. Bren and I decided on hitting the hotspot at Gullstone. Going to try and fish through all those fish to catch some bigger fish. Arriving there we were greeted by a tundra ghost quietly breakfast grazing along a grassy shore. Tried to sneak up on this caribou for closer pics but unfortunately it was rather shy.

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We had arrived at 9:00am and shortly after the noon hour had caught fifty lake trout. The Gullstone and Lover’s Lane produced fish non-stop. Bren was on her game!

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Very satisfied with our fishing, we decided to move and go explore a little. The wilderness here is intense, rugged and beautiful. We followed some shoreline into a back bay which then lead into a warm water creek. Curious as to what could be found, we took a scenic tour before stopping for a shoreline break.

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The Salmon and Ghosty Goblin spoon worked for Bren through the morning, I took fish solely on my favorite lure, the Big Jim. Shorelines facing the sun would almost always fare better throughout the day. The fishing at the Gull and Lane was hot for numbers sure, but breaking twenty was a chore. Bren’s one fish would miss that mark by a pound. The lakers bit so eagerly and constant that I reached the point of not wanting to bring them in. Through several days already, the fishing spoiled us so much that I wouldn’t really set hooks sometimes, or just shake fish off anytime during reeling them in. We’d count small fish on a leader touch now and again simply because, being barbless we were both getting good enough to just manipulate the rod and line to unhook many fish without having to touch them. Had we not quit on the spot in the early afternoon and stayed all day, I am 100% convinced we would have counted over a hundred lake trout caught and released.

It’s funny to say this too but, all of our trolling and big fish were caught on Ugly Stiks. Now, for any gear heads or quality control snobs, please read this with an open mind…

Invited in to be part of a group of laker guides who all really know thei fishing, a discussion over the winter about rod choices for trolling these big Great Bear and Great Slave lakers came up. Overall, rod selection seemed to be more of a matter of preference. With Shimano mentioned, a good pick would be the Talora downrigger or dipsy rods. These sticks run 8 1/2 to 9 1/2 feet, I believe are an all fiberglass blank and come rated at medium heavy, 15-30lb test strengths. They are generally; like a musky rod or drop shot rod as examples, application specific although, I use my downrigger Taloras to flatline troll for musky too. No rules are set in stone.

Some mentioned tip sensitivity as important, others wanted back bone, all generally want both to some degree. In the past, I have known guides to run musky sticks from Loomis, Shimano and St.Croix and so I have also done the same on a couple trips. (didn’t care for that really) But then this rod last year falls into my hands, the Ugly Stick “Elite.” Hmph! A cork and pistol grip. A two piece, 9 foot, extra heavy rod rated 14-50lb test, and rated for 1-3oz lures. Good specs in my opinion so far. And this new addition to Ugly Stik isn’t at all like their whippy, heavy, unattractive poles of the past, it’s more graphite and feels like a graphite rod in hand. Some saltwater guys I know use ’em and like ’em too for shore chucking hardware. The action overall, is much like a moderate heavy salmon/steelhead casting rod in that the upper third is softer and sensitive but then beyond that you run into some serious workhorse backbone. Pulling 1.5 to 3 ounce spoons and Flatfish; like those used for lakers, really only the top quarter of the rod loads at normal troll speeds. Running this rod both in hand and on the Salty while at Bear, it stuck fish really, really well. And it has trolling for musky too!

So I weigh it up against the different Taloras at home only to find that not only is it six inches longer and built stronger, it’s 2 to 4 ounces lighter. The grip is more comfortable in hand, and basically being a big baitcasting stick it can be used to cast as well. (done so already for musky with no issue) The tip is Ugly Stiks patented, clear, nearly indestructible fiberglass tip and it is more sensitive compared to my Taloras and muskie rods. As well, probably more than anything else like it that I own, it telegraphs every little flutter of the spoon right through to it’s more graphite blank. Cost is $90+ tax whereas others mentioned start at $120 and go up. Previously testing it, there have been times I have locked the drag and tried to purposefully break this stick… and it won’t. Stainless steel guides without inserts may be a little cheaper of a feature but, there have been no issues with line fray and unlike some other rods at home, eyelets haven’t fallen out during travel, because there are none. On this trip, for no reason at times I just threw mine around in the boat until Brenda would scold me, the Stik took it like a champ. The rod gets great reviews online and I have to say, for an Ugly Stik, I’m totally sold on it now too! Best bang for the buck it’s lighter, stronger, more comfortable, with more uses than most application or species specific rods I have in the house. For any future laker fishing in the arctic, spend more on the reel, get the Tekota, Calcutta or some lefty oddball reel of the like, spool up some 50 pound braid and you’ll have a solid set up for big lake laker trolling. These freshwater beasts of trophy sizes will beat your gear up regardless of what you use. The lakers will force every hookset, headshake and reel rip onto you, and you will feel it…And so you know, I don’t work for anyone, rarely ever pimp any products, nor subscribe to many of the latest fishing fads, so with an honest review you may want to put an Ugly Stik Elite rod into your hands next time you see one, and then think about this.

To cover bases for jigging, casting, downsizing and general fun play, we packed a few other rods up. Medium heavy spinning and casting rods are good to have on board and, a heavier and strong back-up rod in case of any loss or breakage is safe to keep in the boat too.

One more thing to mention or a below photo might not make sense is, the bead. For muskie trolling, above the three foot leader I put a bead on the line before attaching the swivel. With ski fishing you’re often reeling in big baits on a super tight drag to clear weeds, reel in the lures or a fish. I often do it while the rod is still in the holder and driving forward. The bead gives the knot but more so the eyelet, a little more protection from the swivel or any other connection getting in the eye or damaging it. It’s also a more visible a cue to stop reeling in. We both ran six foot, 50 pound floro leads at the business end. Bren had a bead on all week, I didn’t, and it made no difference. It has not with muskie either. Never cringe again because someone using your rod reeled the swivel right into the line guides.

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Out towards the open water the surface temps would drop from 44F to as low as 37F. Even with the sun, the previous big wind day had stirred things up enough that the shorelines were colder now than before. We’d left all the fish behind with hopes of finding bigger during the afternoon. At a new spot the “Donut Shop,” Bren drove on through and ordered up the one above which was our best treat of the day.

So much water and shoreline to explore really. Thankfully, Bear guides Chris and Scotty before our trip had basically allayed any fears of not finding and catching fish… because, the fish are everywhere! There would definitely be some hotspots but overall, you could just troll shorelines all over the place and intercept lakers as you go. The area is huge, but at the same time, it can be worked and broken down rather quickly. Later season, I would imagine some fish scatter a little… maybe going a bit deeper and onto or over some offshore structures that eventually find a little heat. But for what is basically just ice out on the Bear, sticking to the plan of seeking out warmer water in that mid forty to low fifty degree temperature would be important to catching more fish.

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Filing some hooks and sorting some gear while the dry air and arctic sun weathered the skin, Bren took the tiller a short while on the troll. The best way is the thoughtful way I would ponder to myself, as one expends less energy for what usually brings better result. “We’re getting tired, old and fat,” I would tell Bren. That thought just coming to mind too, which didn’t go over so well and ending up costing me more energy than expected. Two birds of a feather really. Filling another cup of cold drinking water from the lake, I know we can howl, wimper and nip like Canis Lupus sometimes, but just like them, we’re for life.
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Day 5. SNOOPING DOGGY DOGHEAD. (18)

Our American friends had been catching some fish but none had any ridiculous number days like we had. To be kind, at breakfast I pointed them the way of Gullstone and Lover’s Lane. A glass calm morning, the air temperature cold but quickly rising, Bren and I would set out on a long haul trip to some foreign water, probing some points and bays along the way. Eric and Rob seemed interested in the plan too, but not fully committal when we pulled away from the dock first.

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There were high expectations for parts of this tour. Virgin water to tap, the question was how far would she let us go. Without ever having a forecast all week; or any way to know the weather ahead in the slightest, self guided we were left totally to our own devices. That sometimes meant, we could be at the unexpected mercy of mother nature too. Having spoken to Bernie and Eric, our only wish if we could have one, is for a weather report. Even if it was a forecast update every two or three days or so, just so we could plan our days more safe and accordingly.

After a half hour ride I needed to stop and warm up. Got a chill that wouldn’t leave and needed a sun break. We pulled into a small bay we’d called Elizabeth and circled some shoreline for trout. Bren ran a spoon, while I pulled a Flatfish behind an inline spinner. We both caught a fish.

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Not yet finished, we hear a motor and look out to see Eric and Rob blazing by. Well, well, guess they decided to come with after all. Putting the sticks away we chased them down.

Another 45 minutes to an hour we’d all just kept going, traveling deep into a warm water back bay and known hotspot on the lake. By the time we arrived it was nearly 11:00am.

When there, both boats covered a little of the same but plenty different water. We caught fish but overall it was very slow. Feeling as though it was a swing and miss, I rode over to ask how Rob and Eric were making out. In the hour and some since we last passed each other by, they’d caught one fish only, but a good one at that!

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“Yaaaaahhh, we’re thinking of heading out soon too,” said Eric. We both agreed that the worry of the wind picking up and the long run back plagued us. Wished we knew one way or another because we’d wasted plenty time to travel so far and there was more we could yet explore. The fishing in the spot though, wasn’t making it worth it. In hindsight, there was one area we both didn’t hit and I think it could have been the jackpot. Maybe next time?

Bren and I sped off toward the lodge understanding we’d get half way back, stop, fish and reassess. Offshore and out on the big water it was waaaaay less breezy than near land. It was glass calm actually. SHIT!!! And it only got even more glassy as it went to full on aquarium mode. Driving along in the boat, my sonar would read 42-48 feet deep and I could see rock bottom in places. The fishing too, it even picked up a little for us. All new water but the sun beaming, the air stayed seemingly cool yet the rays were getting some fish moving.

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We didn’t see Eric and Rob again. Having told me where they were heading to check out, it turned out they found some fish stacked up in a windswept bay and did a little damage. Bren and I however, we just hopped from point-to-point and plucked one or two as we made our way back to the lodge.

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We were rounding Penis Squirt Point when Brenda’s rod popped a boner and the reel blew its load. She never says at any time whether it’s a big fish, or a heavy fish… or even “FISH ON!” It’s a 24/7 peep show for me to make sure I don’t miss her dancing with the pole. “Is it a good one? Bren? Bren? How does it feel,” I have to ask all the time? She always says little to give a decent answer. But judging by the fact that the bow was being turned 180 pretty quick, she’s losing line on the reel and forgetting to breathe while her arms strain and she begins to wince, it’s just an educated guess that she might have a stallion on and it’s galloping the other way.

Even though it’s one bucking bronco, this ain’t her first rodeo!

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When it comes to fishing, I’ll trade fifty fish days of teeners to twenty pounders, for one laketrout like hers. To watch Bren fish and enjoy herself all week long, like I have on other trips before, is an amazing joy. Really is! Timid and rusty in the beginning, as the days passed she turned pro out there. Her netting fish was flawless, her playing fish exceptional, and how she carefully handled fish was perfect. She locked that drag down even tighter on her reels than I had on mine, and big fish she crushed into quick submissions. Everything, all the time, all her too… and this was good for me. Because if I have the choice when going fishing, I’d rather not take a guide if I don’t have to, and instead just have a great fishing partner at my side.

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Late afternoon we would stop fishing for a time and just watch the dozen of smaller lake trout and grayling swim by us along the gin clear shoreline waters. Closer to the lodge, I didn’t tell Bren what I was up to until it was happening that, we were going to check a back bay for pike. She wouldn’t have agreed. Truth be told, the pike fishing is reported to be phenomenal in the area but, Bren had turned full on laker snob and wanted nothing to do with them. “Are they bigger than lake trout? NO!” “Will I catch one here bigger than my best? NO!” It is true she would be hard pressed to as she has caught a giant railroad tie of a pike before. “Lakers are stronger. Lakers are prettier.” She pleaded her case quite well actually.

In the little bay we disrupted a swan from sun bathing. Cabbage was choking everything in three feet of water or less, it was so thick it was matted on the surface. No weedless lures it was impossible to fish it. A little deeper out we cast for ten minutes or so and hit nothing. Only pike I did spot were total runts and nothing was stacked up in any pocket anywhere, from what we could tell anyways. The pike moment didn’t last long at all, and much to Bren’s pleasure we left.

Tending to the boat at the dock, when Bren walked into the lodge I heard our American friends happily hooting and hollering her name. My turn in the door, it was Steve who put his arm around my shoulders while the other fellas thanked me profusely. “You’re the man Bunk!” “Tampa Bay Baby!” The guys went on to tell me how it was their best day ever fishing at the lodge. Steve in fact, caught more than fifty fish by himself through the afternoon. Honestly, it was no surprise. They went down to Gullstone and Lover’s Lane and pounded the ever-loving shit out of the lakers. They were really happy and thankful I coughed up that honey hole for their enjoyment. They were planning to head back tomorrow for another round.

All was fun in the lodge for the evening. After a uniquely delicious sausage and perogie meal, Bren and Red played cribbage, Steve had us answering 20 questions throughout our supper hour and of course the scotch tasted soooo damn good after another incredible day on the Bear.
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Day 6. “SINCE YOUS” SENSUOUS. (52)

Relating to the senses, not the intellect.

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Steve had this clever saying that everyone would use. When someone was up and the drinks were empty, they’d say “hey sensuous,” meaning, “since yous” up, fetch me another drink. It was perfected and always timely. So when Rob came into the main room for breakfast, sleep deprived and rather foggy, Steve was quick to chuckle and point out his current state. Rob just answered to him straight faced, “you were just so damn sensuous last night.” Everyone in the room howled.

No intent to fish any old water there was still plenty fresh to frolic in out there. The Yanks headed back to Gull and Lover while Eric and Rob had other plans. They wanted actual ice from a glacier to bring back to the lodge for their drinks tonight. Albertan’s eh!?! Awesome! It was a bit a stretch to get there, an icy cool adventure actually, but not one we were interested in. With the temperatures rising still, I wanted to play on the outskirts of town.

Well we fished, and trolled, and fished and trolled but to no avail. Water temps were still really cold out in deep space, like 37-41F. It was a fair bit of offshore shoal work, still hoping for quality over quantity… or some theory like that. After about three and a half hours and only one fish I asked Brenda, “do you want to keep exploring or go catch fish.” “Whattaya mean,” she asks? “Explore or catch fish,” I says again. “Catch fish,” Bren answers.

We stopped at the Donut Shop for a quick drive-thru but the fish had moved. I did know to where but didn’t feel like wasting time nibbling for ’em. Andrew and Doug were sitting on the Gullstone when we pulled up at about 1:30pm or so. “Bite still good guys,” I asked? “Yeah it’s great,” Andrew replied. He wasn’t lying.

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Non-stop!

Fish after fish. The spoon bite was slow-ish right off the hop. Bren took a little longer to switch out but the jig was double to tripling up on her Sky Blue. Drifting shoreline, casting, dropping on deeper arcs, trolling jigs, it didn’t matter cause the fish wanted ’em bad. I beat a “Big White Dick” tube to a pulp, then destroyed the green “Beast” jig before switching to a hand-tied “Original” bucktail. Non stop! Bren finally went to a firetiger bucktail and started slamming ’em too. It was fun because we’d hardly done any casting and jigging at all through the week, we were picking up some great size fish and did I say already that it was, non-stop?

Watching lakers take the lures below the boat Bren was smiling ear to ear while playing more than one chasing fish at a time. The only break over six hours we took was to relax through a snack and make a run over to Circle Square Ranch. We hadn’t been back to the Ranch since day two and if you remember there was a ripper in there that got off on an orange Flatfish. Well, this time ready with Big Jim we set to troll up on that same spot but well before we got there, my rod got smashed and some big fish took off peeling the reel. Just like that, big head shake after the rip and it was off. That one damn fish might cost me a lot more money some day.

The saddles and shoals were holding okay numbers but better than average size. Casting mostly, we drifted along and over the key spots and set hooks into quite a few actually. While there I got curious about the old trappers cabin so, thought I’d go ashore and take myself a peek.

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Sites like this one kinda give off an eerie feeling and at the same time provoke a real sense of wonder. While riding back to the lodge I couldn’t help but study the land more and think about what survival might have been like..? What the isolation, desolation and probably desperation at times took to endure. That lonely cabin was a one soul show, no question. So was it seasonal for hunting and trapping, or did the Bear just have another Dick Proenneke type, alone in the wilderness.

And when I returned to the camp, after Bernie’s delicious steak dinner, a mood to further investigate things took over. This place itself, what of it? I had heard rumor that the previous owner before Chummy Plummer, had a lodge full of guests and guides in camp, when he just one day late in the season had made enough money he chartered a plane to come pick him up and he left to never return again. Left all the guests and guides behind to sort themselves out. They all supposedly had to be somewhat rescued I guess, by Chummy too who coordinated their extraction at the request of the NWT Government. What was up that dood’s ass if he did that shit to his peeps? Like, C’MON!!! I could be totally wrong, but the story came from a historian at the main lodge who sure made it seem believable. And since Chummy was then able to buy Arctic Circle afterwards, my understanding is (and I’d heard this times before from guides) that some extremely rich, older couple for years just rented out the entire lodge for themselves, each summer for the entire season. I won’t say what exactly, but there was maybe some evidence of this around the lodge.

The door to the rundown owner’s house was wide open. Questioning the stairs and floor I walked carefully inside. Fish mounts and antlers still intact on the wall, an old stereo cassette player, beds, dresser, awesome bathroom and shower, a bar and empty stools and a stone fireplace. There didn’t seem to be much dust on the counter-tops despite the draft through tattered screens. A couple old magazines, most were 1998-99 and then there was one 2004 and nothing noticed beyond that. It could all be something again if someone wanted it to be.

Outside the Trapper’s Tavern was boarded up and closed for business. Wished it wasn’t because I imagined it being 1965 in there if I opened the door, walked in to greet the other patrons, sat down at the bar and ordered a Hornby Ale. We’d talk about our days fishing of course, and laugh drunkenly about the grizzly bear clawing to get in. Even if it was just dust and broken glass behind the sign now, it wouldn’t have mattered really.

Checking out such spaces and getting into places around Arctic Circle that aren’t really in use anymore, I obviously had a bit of that wondering and eerie feeling here too. There’s a history that lies beneath and within the walls, and voices that still echo through time in the Trapper’s Tavern. There’s a soul it seems, that since this place re-opened to anglers only just a few short years ago, has a faintly palpable pulse now and it only just needs a nourished working shell and a breath to become bounding again… Suppose it all may lack intellect or even sound purdy stoopid, but maybe while staring at the fragments of the past, some things of a past were actually staring back into me. One thing was for sure, it was quite sensuous.

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Doug told me the story about selling his two insanely wild dogs while he had them on valium. No one in their right mind would take them off his hands otherwise. Poor new owners were in for such a surprise when those dogs came out of it. Eric and Red returned from their long journey to the ice box. They didn’t make it to the glacier but instead got some amazing video footage of Rob dropping his dad off on a lone iceberg, then pulling away in the boat. They also had about a sixty fish day in a spot we thought was Action Alley but were wrong, and it is now named Action Alley 2. Everyone’s whiskey for the evening was chilled with the clearest, cleanest, iceberg ice. Steve joked around all evening and was in quite fun form while we played a round of Liar’s Poker.

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Day 7. ALL GOOD THINGS… (23)

A scorching hot final morning Bren and I wouldn’t stray too far from the lodge. Having to be return by 4:00pm for a float plane flight back to the main lodge scheduled at 5:00pm, under intensely sunny skies we quite leisurely trolled some new shorelines out towards the big water. The fish were biting and the first was cracker.

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From the abyss to cliffs and everything inbetween, pulling spoons, dropping jigs and casting lures we would appreciate several splendid hours under perfect skies. I’d even catch a butterfly.

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Within the rocks, trees will take root into anything they can hold onto, and cruising one stretch we came upon another quite at home here. Relentless screeching from the heights above, a nest nearby, this mother peregrine falcon was none to happy we stopped by uninvited. Swooping down at us and flying overhead, the fastest bird on earth seen here in this fully natural place was simply another amazement during our trip on the Bear.

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Shenanigans, Marleaus, Circle Square Ranch, Donut Shop, Gullstone, Lover’s Lane and even Penis Squirt Point, we’d fish all that of our own and plenty more names already taken. At Arctic Circle, from day two onward this could have easily been a 400 or even 500+ fish week for us, had we only wanted to stay on hotspots the whole time. But here in this place on the Bear, there’s a desire to explore which is almost equal at times to the call of the water’s trophy lake trout, you end up absorbed into other things at times. A week in the boat taking in all that we could, Bren and I would spend more than sixty hours over what was equal to six days of fishing, we were both thoroughly satisfied with that. For a tenth wedding anniversary trip to ourselves, we couldn’t have asked for a better gift to share.

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All good things… Many hand shakes and one final fisherman’s hug for Bren and I, we said our goodbyes at the Arctic Circle.

Thanks for reading.
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