August 1993 - Deep in the woods of Canada
My favorite adventure in the wilds of
Northern Ontario started without much planning. Picture it if you will. The
last few weeks of the summer stretched out for
miles. My brother and I are at the end of our ability to entertain ourselves. But my Dad, who works in a
nickel mine, has a plan. See, when you work for a
mine, once a year they shutdown for a few weeks to do the big
yearly maintenance jobs, like cleaning out the
smelter. So, you have to give all your employees a few weeks off. Why not in the middle of summer when
precious metal prices traditional slip. Genius!
So my dad, my brother and I prepare for the best 2 weeks of
getting back to nature that a kid could hope for. A little background is in order. In
Northern Ontario, it is possible to leave completely leave
civilization by accident. My family made a habit of doing it on
purpose. My dad grew up in the
bush, hunting, fishing and chopping wood. So when he goes fishing, he does it in style. Family gatherings usually end up with everybody listening to the
wild exploits that my dad and my grandfather got up to in the bush over the years. I distinctly remember my father coming home from work on the
last shift before the
shutdown, setting down his
lunch pail in the doorway. He asked my brother, who was 8 at the time, what he did all day. Not
sugarcoating it at all, he complained that he had nothing to do. "Well," said my father, "sounds like a reason to go fishing". A call was placed to my
grandfather and plans where made. 5:00 am tomorrow morning would be the
departure time.
Dead North would be the direction. The objective:
fishing.
A trip to
Canadian Tire was in order, so all three of us piled in my Dad's
old beater. He called it his "
work car" and it smelled of old
Tim Hortons coffee and the stink of the
mine. Soon we found ourselves in the cramped aisles of
Sporting Goods, also known as
Guns and Tackle. Reels were re-spooled,
Red Devils,
Pop-eyes and
Rappala Wobblers were bought and excitement was sown. We stopped by my Grandpa's house and he was out in his huge garage, hooking up his
old boat to the top of his huge truck. We had the
traditional Pepsi from the
beer fridge in the garage and we played on the
car ramps and
wood piles in back of the yard. Back home and off to bed, I didn't sleep much. Packing and planning were the order of the day.
Departure
When my Dad said 5:00 am, he meant 4:25 am. Ugh. I vaguely remember helping carry coolers, loading
fishing rods and
tackle boxes, and spilling a box of worms in the driveway. It was black night as far as I was concerned, and
seeing stars in the morning was new to me. After a sleepy eyed kiss from my mother, we
set off. I quickly woke up after we hit the end of the road about half an hour later. The
transition from road to gravel is loud in a big
4x4 truck. After asking how much further, my dad laughed and said that we should be there by lunch, barring any washouts.
6 hours on a logging road can make you learn to
love pavement. About 3 hours north on the way to my grandpa's hunting camp, we hit the first
obstacle.
The bridge, and the lack thereof.
The
Vermillion river is not much of a river. At the
Wolf Mountain bridge, it was about 15 feet across and maybe 4 to 6 feet deep. As it turns out, that spring it was about 60 feet across, full of ice and at least 20 feet deep. Therefore, the bridge at Wolf Mountain was
gone. 2 lonely concrete head ends sat at the ends of the bank. We stopped and surveyed the
damage. I asked if we would have to go home, a bit disappointed. My Grandfather laughed and said the
first 20 years that he came up this road where was no bridge. Confused, my brother and I got in the truck. Grandpa dropped it into
4 low and slowly inched towards the bridge head. He turned to my dad and said "Figure we can
jump it?". My Dad replied "The boys probably make us too heavy, but
what the hell, go for it." To further
freak us out, he then stomped on the gas. We kids
freaked out. The old people laughed, as the truck stopped at the edge of the
bank and then slowly
crawled toward the water. A
sandbar beside the bridge showed the
old fashioned way of getting across. As the water
lapped up just under the door, I was impressed. Not even there yet and we were already having fun!
Bear
After
fording the river, we settled in for the rest of the ride. As the
logging trucks hadn't been past the river since the
spring, the road was in much better shape. More like a
washboard than a piece of
corrugated cardboard. Following along the river, the road twisted and bent in long turns. Rounding one corner, we happened upon a large black shape on the side of the road. A very large black shape. We slowed down, looking at a full grown
Black Bear sitting on its bottom eating something
very dead on the side of the road. We were 30 feet away. Not a good place to be. Luckily for us, the bear was
surprised by seeing a truck come around the corner. Leaning on the horn and flashing the lights made the bear
run for it. Slowly driving past the bear's
picnic area, we tried to identify the meal. No
consensus was met, but the number of flies buzzing around was impressive.
Bear Pt 2.
The rest of the trip, as well as climbing the truck up the hill to the camp were uneventful. After
loading the food into the camp, I was informed that it was not a good idea to do that, as a bear, like the one we just saw on the road, would not have much trouble breaking down the door to get to it. I also took note of the
old Pre-World War II rifle strapped to the wall beside the bunks. "If the bear gets in." I was told. I hurried to move the coolers
full of meat out to
screened-in entrance. To further my
bear paranoia, my dad called my grandfather over to the back of the camp to look at some damage to the corner.
Huge claw marks scored the wood around the corner, and long teeth tracks peeled up the paint about
7 feet off the ground. "Sometimes they like to eat the glue in the
chipboard." commented my grandfather. I didn't sleep well on the other side of the wall that night.
Moose
The next morning, we where sent down to the lake to get the boat in the water and to have a
morning swim. My brother and I tracked down the trail to the lake, glad the
bugs were almost gone for the year. As we crossed the
beaver dam at the top of the trail and got within sight of the lake, we saw a moose. A
cow, with no
antlers stood in the
swamp about 60 feet away. We
froze. The moose saw us and did the same. Normally they run, but she stopped dead and looked at us, mouth hanging with
weeds. My brother then decides to make a
moose call. Imagine the deep rumbling call of a moose, like a really loud and forceful
moo from a
dairy cow. Now, imagine the sound an eight year old can make with his
hands cupped comically around his mouth.
A
strangled gurgling yell from my brother, easily the funniest noise I have ever heard him make,
sounds out across the lake. I figure the moose will definitely make a run for it. Nope. The
massive wet ears of the cow swivel towards us. She takes a step to the side, looking ready to turn, but then steps forward towards us. Encouraged, the next
more urgent and highpitched yell sounds beside me. The cow snorts, chews her weeds, still staring at us, and comes 2 long steps closer. Our eyes
bug out. A moose is a huge creature, and we are two boys in our bathing suits. Laughing my brother goes again.
MOOOOOOORAAHHHAH! The moose bows it head, snorts and moves up out of the water to about
10 feet of us in all of about 10 seconds. At this point, both parties
freak out. We scream, the moose see that we are not, in fact,
another moose, and proceeds to
turn tail and
disappear into the woods beside the swamp. It is amazing that something that weighs
600 pounds can slip into the bush with almost
zero noise. To this day I am convinced that it thought
a calf was calling for help. We ran back to the camp and reported our
close encounter. It has since been brought up at a few family gatherings as the "
Crazy Moose story". The real classic fishing story happened the next day.
McGregor Lake and the Competition
At 7:30 in the morning we drove down the
logging road a bit to another lake. We slid the
14 foot aluminum boat off the top rack of the truck and hauled it down to the shore. A small
9 hp Evinrude motor was strapped on the back and we putted out to catch some fish. Now, most people have gone fishing. What most people don't know is this: most
human accessible lakes are very
over fished and
underpopulated. Fish learn what
lures are. If you ever have the opportunity to get into an area where no one has dropped a line before,
go. You will have the experience of a lifetime. Fish that have
a chance to mature can get to be huge!
As we settled in, I put a
Red Devil spoon lure on my line. My brother saw this and put a
Blue Devil spoon lure on his line. These are essentially the exact same lure, just different
colors. This will be important later. He made a point of telling me that
blue was much luckier than red. I wagered that I would catch the biggest fish with mine. Thus, a
heated competition between brothers was born. We
trolled for about an hour in the sun before the first big hit. My brother, using an actual
Fisher Price brand
fishing rod, had a bite that almost
yanked him over the side. He fought and struggled and reeled and
let out line for a good 6 or 7 minutes, finally pulling a monster
Northern Pike up to the side of the boat.
Seeing as we had been, up to that point,
urban fishermen, my brother and I where shocked to find a huge fish staring up at us, its
alligator-like head in plain sight. Just as my dad reached over with the net...
SNAP! The line broke. Seeing as he had
5 pound test line on his reel, it was amazing it had gotten in this far. An argument over if
it counted began, as he claimed
victory, robbed of his trophy only by
faulty equipment. My Grandfather, the
impartial judge, decreed that it "had to be
in the boat to count". Sticking to his guns, my brother returned to rod and said
smugly that even if I did get a fish first, it wouldn't be as big as his. As he was probably right, I didn't argue.
A half hour passed. For a snack, a few
peanut butter and jam sandwiches are passed around. I turned them down and stuck to my rod. As fate would have it, I got a bite. THE bite. Jerked forward, I struggled to keep hold of the reel. My line squealed of the
spool, the
tension buzzing like a
bee. I yanked back,
set the hook and started reeling in. It seemed for every
crank I took, the pull reeled out more line. This fish had fight! Being yanked around like a
rag doll and
laughing like a fool, I fought and pulled, reeled and twisted. Looking at my rod bent over like a
arch, I was sure it would break. Luckily, I had
30 pound test line spooled. Finally after about a 10 minute fight, the fish seemed to stop fighting. I exhaustedly reeled in the last of the line and finally
saw the fish. My dad, not wanting to lose another monster,
scooped as much as he could into the net. There, hanging over both sides of the net, was the
biggest fish I had ever caught.
13 3/4 Pound
Northern Pike, 3 feet 2 inches long, 10 inch
circumference body and a head like a
gator.
Ugly as all sin.
My dad started laughing before I saw
it. My brother sat and
gapped wide-eyed. My lure was jammed fully into the fish's mouth, bent a bit and scratched by hundreds of
little razor teeth. Prominently displayed on the monster's top lip, for all four of us to see....
was a pristine Blue Devil lure and 3 inches of line.
Needless to say, we still argue about who won the competition.
My true story entry in iceowl's Adventure Quest