Now that we are all geared up for ice fishing, I have an open water tale to share. Why now? Quite simply, advance planning helps to keep things sane. I started planning this trip in September of last year, booked our reservations just before Halloween. As you will see, a little planning and a bit of luck goes a long way!
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Brook trout fishing has always been a special treat. Dad still talks about the trout Grandpa brought home when he was too young to go. I remember the fish my Dad brought home when I was too young to go. Best of all, I have had the chance to fish with both of them. In Grandpa’s later years he would just bring me to a creek, give a few pointers, and wait for my return. It is a passion shared through the generations.
Grandpa is long since gone now. Giving the eulogy at his funeral, I related the story of a trout trip he just had to take, and how after we reached the stream he sat back, lit up a forbidden cigarette, and told me he’d drive the car around and meet me and my cousin in a few hours several miles downstream. He wasn’t interested in catching the trout himself anymore, but he was making darn sure his grandsons got every chance they could. Grandpa went home with a meal of trout - but cousin Mike and I both got a much bigger gift that day.
From my earliest memories, Dad had always talked about the Monsters of Nipigon – the World Record – and then we would get back to reality…. Nipigon was a far-off and shining land, teeming with large brookies - accessible only to a chosen few, and certainly out of reach for the likes of us – it was just a dream.
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“Dad’s turning 75!” said my oldest sis on the phone “We need something big!”
Doggone if I hadn’t been researching brook trout trips already, and after a respectable few days wait (so I wouldn’t be too obvious) I asked the sis’s if maybe buying Dad a brook trout fishing trip wouldn’t be a fine and noble effort. Of course, a chief cook and bottle washer would be needed – so I would accompany him on his quest.
We were going to Nipigon.
I booked a cabin and a couple of days charter through Onaman River Resort out of Beardmore Ontario, and we waited through the winter – hoping and wondering and praying for a good trip. Dad’s Christmas present was a small Plano box stuffed with Mepps and Cyclops and Panther Martins in the colors suggested by Robert, the owner of Onaman River Resort. It was strange to be the tourist for a change (both Dad and I have spent a fair bit of time guiding in the Boundary Waters). This time it was us not knowing what we were getting ourselves into, and hoping we had the right equipment.
The drive from Ely up to Onaman River was worth the trip. Deer and moose as we headed towards the North Shore, the cliffs and bluffs along Lake Superior, the area around Thunder Bay – and heading north from the town of Nipigon was simply incredible. Fish were now a bonus.
About 20 miles after we left the blacktop of the TransCanada, the power lines vanished. The road got a little rougher, and the bear sign was noticeable. I don’t think our grins could have gotten any wider. The streams looked incredible – and we could hardly wait to get a line wet.
The resort is a remodeled logging camp, sitting on a bench above the Onaman River, which pours into Nipigon a few miles downstream. After checking in, we unloaded the truck, stowed our gear and food, and decided to chase the native brookies in some of the small streams. A brief visit with the owner, a hastily drawn map on a sheet of notepaper, and we headed out to sample things.
Within the first hour, we learned a couple of valuable lessons. The large brookies we could see weren’t interested in our feeble efforts, but the bugs were more than happy to greet us. Finally finding a stream with some interested trout, we caught enough for supper, but the sand flies (black flies) were truly a force to be reckoned with. Dad bailed after a bit and retreated to the truck. When I returned an hour or so later he chuckled, held his shirt open, and exclaimed “Hey – I went quail hunting with Dick Cheney!” He was a bloody mess – and although I had used a bit of bug dope, things weren’t much better for me.
We headed back to the resort, and tucked into our cabin for supper and a good night’s sleep. Depending on weather (Nipigon is a beast of a lake, and you simply can’t count on going out) we were scheduled for a charter the following morning.
The second day dawned clear, and after a good breakfast we got our gear together and prepared for The Dream. Robert and his father launched his charter boat while we watched, and we traded introductions - “Hi Robert, as you know, I’m Rob and this is my Dad Bob”.
“Doggone – if a Robert catches a fish we’re in good shape, eh” said the owner, as his Dad rolled his eyes and my Dad and I smiled. As we started downstream, the motor started acting up, and we headed back towards the dock. A bit of putzing, and the Dream was put on hold. Robert had some issues with the engine, and we weren’t hitting the big lake that day.
Robert seemed even more disappointed than we were, and spent some time going over a few alternatives with me – giving us a few thoughts to catch some fish that day while he repaired the engine. There are a number of smaller lakes with native brookies nearby, and we decided to hit one of those. Although there was world-class walleye fishing right within minutes of where we stood, it was trout we were after. We loaded a canoe on our truck, grabbed some lunch, and headed out to do battle.
The “road” into the little lake was driveable, but you wouldn’t want to try it in a car. Dad shuddered a bit as I put the Silverado into 4WD, and we bounced down towards the lake. At the base of the hill, an abandoned and thoroughly stripped snowmobile chassis greeted us, and after a bit of inspection, we got the canoe out and hit the lake.
We spent the next several hours trying to catch a trout. We caught exactly one.
Around the lake we went, me trolling with a paddle, and trying to figure things out. We weren’t figuring things out. Finally a second trout was caught, but the afternoon was wearing on, and it wasn’t looking good for the bug-bit Dreamers.
“Lets head over towards the inlet and check out that flooded brush” I suggested, and we reeled up and paddled across the small lake. As we approached the flooded brush, a trout surfaced ahead and to the right, Dad quickly grabbed his rod, cast a nightcrawler in the general direction, and had a trout on just that quick.
Less than a half hour later, we had our limit of nice brookies on ice, and went to catch and release. I’m thinking every trout in that little lake was sitting in that small area of flooded brush, and we were catching a fish on every cast. They were beautiful fish – averaging 11 inches and they fought like demons on our light spinning rods. We had a blast.
It had been another hot day, and we were beat. I quickly cleaned the trout while Dad loaded our gear into the truck, and we headed back to the cabin for a cold drink and some supper.
Arriving back at the resort, we checked in with Robert, and he assured us that his boat was good to go. We chatted a bit about the little trout lake, and then watched the bears as they made their rounds. The bears at Onaman River roamed the grounds like a bunch of mischievous Labrador retrievers, looking for a treat and pretty much unworried about the humans.
The resort was hosting its weekly fish fry and social gathering that evening, and the guests all gathered in the shop building while the owners served up fried fish, smoked fish, potato salad, onion rings and French fries, chips and other picnic goodies. Much of the fish was provided by the guests, and we dined on walleye and lake trout. A great many lies were told, and we returned to the cabin with big smiles – this was truly a fishing camp, not a spa or pretentious resort where you dressed for dinner.
We turned in shortly after sundown, still adjusting to the massive one hour time change between Ontario and Minnesota.
Day three dawned clear and windless, and the humming of the bugs on the windowscreen made me grateful for indoor plumbing. Dad was up and rummaging around the cabin, and we repacked our gear for about the seventh time while I put together some pancakes and sausage. Around 8:00 a.m., there was still no sign of Robert, and so I strolled over to his place and discovered he was in the shop getting the boat ready. “Oh yeah – I’ll be down at the landing around 9:00, eh?”
Dad and I sat back and finished off our coffee, and Dad remarked that we had entered a new reality, a place where clocks weren’t how things are done. “Its Nipigon Time!” he announced, “We’ll have to adapt.”
The ride down the River and out into Humboldt Bay was simply breathtaking. Robert kept a running commentary, pointing out the site of a WWII German POW Camp, a couple of old cabins and logging camp areas, the now-defunct fire tower, and of course there were the fish.
We were after brook trout. Specks, as Robert called them. Arriving at a large island, he instructed us to tie on a spinner, pinch down the barbs (Nipigon has a barbless rule) and attach a nightcrawler. The water clarity is unbelievable. Like some of the remote lakes in Quetico Provincial Park, you could see down 20 feet or more. Robert trolled us along the very edge of the shore, using his trolling motor – a 25 hp Honda.
It took us a while to catch on.
Dad missed a couple, I missed a couple, and Robert just smiled and said “Oooooh, they’re crafty!” As we rounded a point, Dad finally hooked one, and after a pretty good tussle we got the net under the fish. It was by far the largest brook trout either of us had caught, but after a quick picture, back in it went. The minimum size for keeping a brook trout in Nipigon is 22 inches, and with a daily limit of one, we were in a catch and release mode.
We caught six or seven more extremely respectable fish that day, munching sandwiches and slugging back water and Gatorade to keep our strength up. Somewhere along the way, both Dad and I started adding “eh” to the end of our sentences, and it seemed as if we had known Robert for years. We had slipped into Nipigon Time.
Later that evening, as the bears made their rounds and I prepared a feast of trout and hashbrowns, Dad looked up from the fishing regulations and said “the advertising here is misleading.”
“HUH?! WHAT?!”
“It clearly says on their website “Fishing in Lake Nipigon usually rewards the patient trout fisherman with a catch in the 2 to 6 pound range….” Now I don’t know about you, but when they use the words “patient trout fisherman” I was expecting we’d be lucky to catch even one!” He paused, took a sip, looked up with a gleam in his eye, and said “Rob, this exceeds expectations”.
The following morning we were up with the sun again, and this time relaxed, ate a large breakfast, enjoyed our coffee, leisurely repacked our rods and gear, and moseyed down towards the river around 9:00. Our goal this day was to try for lake trout, and we did try. Yes we did. We were not successful. As one of our trolling runs brought us past a rocky island, I asked Robert if he had ever caught specks there.
“YES!” he replied quickly, almost hopefully “What are you thinking?”
“Think we can catch some more specks?” I asked and there was no answer, just a general rush as we quickly pulled in the trolling rods and stowed the downriggers, and put together our regular rods for another run at the Monsters of Nipigon.
The fishing that afternoon was phenomenal. In the next several hours we caught more and bigger brook trout than we had the day before, and we each caught “keepers” over the 22 inch limit – and put them back after pictures. The look on Dad’s face when I put the net under his first big one was worth the price of admission, and we both choked a bit in putting it back in the lake. Less than a half hour later, he caught an even nicer one, and as it finally swam away Dad looked at me and confessed “I don’t know – I almost wish that one wouldn’t have made it.”
“We’ve got pictures and measurements” I replied, “you can always get a replica.”
More fish, more laughter, and the sun was getting lower. Dad and I were well past the point of being satisfied, and Robert was a bit startled when we told him it was time to head in. “Are you sure?” he asked, and Dad clapped him on the shoulder.
“It just can’t get any better” said Dad, “Its time to head in.”
The late afternoon winds on Nipigon are impressive, and the waves made the ride back in both exciting and slightly painful. The jarring actually sheared off a support bolt on the bracket for the kicker motor, and we bobbed around for a bit while the three of us rigged up a rope harness to insure that the motor would make it back to the dock. “This is tough country on equipment!” I said to Robert, and he looked at me with a pained expression.
“That bracket was brand-new this spring!! Oh well, let’s see if those ropes hold, eh?”
The rest of the ride in was uneventful, and arriving back at the dock Dad and I grabbed our gear, clambered up the hill to our cabin, and settled in for our last night at Nipigon. While dinner cooked in the oven, I worked on replacing the broken eyes on a couple of trolling rods (it is tough country on equipment!) We sat up late that night, visiting, reliving the day – hanging out.
Dad and I spoke little the next morning as we packed up our gear, cleaned the dishes and straightened up the cabin. After settling up our bill and visiting with Robert for a bit, we reluctantly pulled out of the driveway and headed back south. As we went past Pasha Lake about a half hour later, Dad finally turned and said “this has truly exceeded expectations – when are we coming back?”
Hmmm! I guess a return trip is in order!
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Topic: Living a Dream (Read 9606 times)
