Читать книгу Memories of Magical Waters - Gord Deval - Страница 12
ОглавлениеIn a four-hour drive from Toronto into eastern Ontario, lying almost halfway between Kingston and Ottawa, lies an area comprised of hundreds of lakes and ponds, many of which still do not have access roads. Shank’s mare,1 float planes, all-terrain vehicles, or snowmobiles remain the only methods of reaching these off-road waters. Remarkably, a few of the best lakes in the area, that is, best from a fisherman’s point of view, were accessible by automobile as far back as the thirties and forties, providing one was not overly concerned about the condition of the vehicle after the adventure.
I have probably fished twenty-five or thirty of these, but only a few could be legitimately described in my recollections as truly magical. A few of the more memorable appear here beginning with Brooks Lake near Plevna, north of Kingston, Ontario.
In 1949 at the age of nineteen, I had yet to fish for speckled trout in any body of water larger than a stream, river or pond, with my largest catch, a seventeen-incher. My Uncle Bob, also a small-stream trout fisherman, owned a used-car business and had an ancient army truck advertised for sale. A phone call from a gentleman in the Land O’ Lakes forever changed that status quo for both of us. The man’s name was Bev Woolnough and he operated Birch Lodge on Buckshot Lake, halfway between the villages of Plevna and Vennacher Junction located in the general vicinity northeast of Kaladar on Highway 7.
As I subsequently fished with Mr. Woolnough for more than twenty years, using his lodge and cabins as a base for our explorations of many of the nearby and not so nearby Land O’ Lakes waters, I feel free to refer to him here as he preferred to be called, by his first name Bev. Visiting relatives in Toronto for Christmas that year, he had discovered the advertisement my uncle had been running for the old army truck. After a lengthy discussion he agreed to purchase the vehicle, but because he had his own car with him, only if my Uncle Bob would drive it up to his lodge on Buckshot Lake. As incentive he suggested that he would take my uncle ice-fishing for brook trout on a small body of nearby water, appropriately named Brooks Lake, and not charge him for a night’s lodging. The lake was named after an old fellow whose family had homesteaded the area, not for the fish.
This advertisement for Birch Lodge ran in The Outdoorsman: Ontario’s Voice of the Outdoors, Vol. 2, No. 1 (1963). Courtesy of Barry Penhale.
An avid fisherman especially when brookies were the intended goal, my uncle struck the deal. Realizing he would be a couple of hundred miles from home with no way of getting back to Toronto, Uncle Bob easily convinced Curly, his fishing buddy, to follow them to the Land O’ Lakes in his own car, with the ice fishing for speckled trout proving to be the catalyst in the discussion.
The day after they returned I was summoned to see what they had brought home—their limit of big speckled trout, which back then was fifteen pounds plus one. The sight was mind boggling to say the least, seven or eight brookies between three and four pounds each. I could hardly wait to test the lake for myself, however, with the legal trout fishing running from the first of May until the thirtieth of September, we had more than three months to dream and plan our own assault on Brooks Lake.
Like many of the thousands of lakes in Ontario, the lake was also known in some quarters by a second name, in this case, Burns Lake. However, there was an old gentleman, Les Brooks, living on a clearing carved out of the bush at one end of the lake. Apparently his folks had homesteaded the area many years earlier and Old Lessie, as he was known to all, simply carried on the family tradition. As the last of the Brooks family, and living the life of a hermit with only a couple of horses and an old goat that appeared as old as he for company, Lessie existed with only his tiny vegetable garden supplying food for sustenance. That, along with the few staples that Bev, the owner of Birch Lodge, would occasionally bring him, were all he had going for him.
When we phoned ahead to the lodge to inquire about fishing and renting a cabin by the lake, we were advised to take a couple of cans of “chews” for the old fellow who lives there. Later, when for the first time we met him, we discovered the truth of the suggestion as his eyes searched our pockets, looking hopefully for the tell-tale bulge of a couple of tins of tobacco. We were fortunate that Bev had previously warned us about Lessie’s predilection for the “chew,” otherwise we would never have located the old trapper’s boat near the end of the trail. Originally Bev had told us that it was pulled up on shore under a couple of fallen cedar trees, right beside a big dead birch. Uh huh! It turned out that the shoreline of the mile-long lake was totally layered with fallen cedars and dead birches.
Gord and Johnny Finnegan making their way along the treacherous shoreline of Brooks Lake.
My fishing buddies back in the forties were Art Walker, Bill Taylor and Johnny Finnegan. Because Art had carelessly chosen the May 1, the first “opening day” weekend, on which to get married, the odious task of exploring Brooks Lake and its wondrous brook trout fishery was left to Bill, Johnny and myself. With my uncle’s scribbled directions clutched in Bill’s hand, an Ontario Highway map in John’s and mine firmly affixed to the steering wheel of my ten-year-old Buick, we left Toronto in the wee hours of the morning. The plan was to get to Brooks Lake in time to wet a line before dark. Uncle Bob had also suggested that it would be in our best interests if we were to drop in and introduce ourselves to Bev Woolnough and take a look at the lodge. We had previously planned on just finding the lake, fishing until dark, then going back to Birch Lodge to spend the night in one of their cabins or whatever.
Much later, after half a day of travelling and negotiating an unbelievingly hilly and twisting twenty-five miles of back road, which culminated in another ridiculously difficult eight miles of corduroy road (logs laid across the muck, supposedly to allow for automobile travel), we pulled up beside Birch Lodge. Having heard the old Buick approaching, Bev Woolnough was waiting outside to greet us. He gave us the final directions to the trail a few miles up the road that would lead us to our anticipated “pot of gold,” along with the instructions for finding the boat.
Several hours later, and already pooped after getting lost several times while attempting to stick to the semblance of a trail supposedly leading to the lake, we struggled through the tangles of shoreline brush, swamp and dead trees for another hour or so in a fruitless search for the, “old trapper’s boat under a couple of cedars, right beside a dead birch.” With the sun approaching the horizon, we were almost ready to throw in the towel, and get an early start the next day when we heard a voice emanating from somewhere in the bush behind us,
“You boys looking for the boat?”
It was Lessie, looking exactly as one might imagine a toothless old hermit living in the bush should look. We introduced ourselves, offered him his chews and thanked him for the instructions tossed idly over his shoulder as he retreated into the bush,
“It’s just back there a bit you know, beside the dead birch. You must have almost tripped over the old scow.”
Johnny was the first to report that he had found it as he hoisted an assortment of flotsam and jetsam to reveal the outline of the ancient trapper’s scow almost buried in the water and shoreline muck. Bills truly appropriate comment as we wrestled with the hulk to free it from the suction of the swamp and scoop out handfuls of mud and weeds broke the tension of our disappointment, “I think the goddamn thing’s taken root!”
Once the laughter subsided we were finally able to wrench the thing out of its temporary grave, then set about trying to make it seaworthy, at least sufficiently seaworthy enough to launch. The boat was necessary, as there appeared to only be one or two places where one could fish from shore and they were on the opposite side of the lake. Fly fishing would be almost impossible unless we could make the boat workable. There was only an hour or so of daylight left when we finally pushed off to the lyrical sounds of Johnny’s belting out, “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men…”
With our butts glued to the rickety seats, our fingers crossed and our weight centred in the tipsy craft, we used a couple of trimmed branches to pole the thing around while the fly rods were being quickly strung and flies fastened. The old waterlogged wooden floorboards were so slippery that we dared not stand, so our casting prowess was about to be thoroughly tested.
Nevertheless our feathered attractions hardly hit the water when we were fast to a couple of fine brookies, larger than any of us had seen before, at least on the end of our lines. Previously I had helped my uncle clean the catch he and Curly had brought back from their earlier ice-fishing trip to Brooks Lake. After the furious initial excitement, tallying three or four trout in the twenty-inch class and losing at least the same number, the action suddenly tailed off. Darkness was approaching anyhow and the possibility of our losing our way again on the trail weighed heavily on our minds. It was time to call it a day.
Later, back at our compact cabin with its upper and lower bunks, the trout were cleaned, then stashed on ice beneath the sawdust in the ice house. After a quick snack, our tired but happy crew hit the sack, all with grins on their faces in anticipation of the excitement lying in store for us on our next day of fishing Brooks Lake.
We were not to be disappointed. Within moments of pushing off in the sodden wooden hulk passing for the trapper’s boat, Bill had raised and lost two fabulous brook trout, both of which would have easily topped four pounds. Then, like the day before, as quickly as it began, the trout seemed to develop lockjaw. Once the three of us lost confidence in our favourite, feathered creations, our fly boxes were all being scoured, searching for a winning pattern—all to no avail.
Finally fishing on Brooks Lake: Gord (left) and Johny Finnegan in 1950.
A proud Gord displays his first big trout on Brooks Lake.
Between sips of hot coffee from his Thermos bottle, Johnny blurted out, “Dammit all anyhow, Deval, I told you we should have brought worms! Trout love worms, you know. This must be the first time I ever went fishing without them.” Then remembering the new spinning equipment I had obtained, he said, “Why don’t you set up that crazy outfit you bought? You’ve got some little spoons and spinners and stuff there that you showed us. Maybe that’s just what the doctor ordered.”
Other than an hour or so of practice in the park to see how the thing worked, the new tackle had yet to be put to the use for which it was intended. Nevertheless, I agreed immediately. While Bill and Johnny continued to flail away with their fly rods, mine was soon put away and the spinning tackle set up. One of the half-dozen lures that I had bought, the Halfwave, a tiny Swiss-made wabler,2 was fastened to the line and we were ready to do battle.
The day before, just locating and seeing Brooks Lake for the first time was definitely an unforgettable moment for all of us, but what transpired in the next couple of hours may be one of the most magical memories I have ever experienced in my lifetime working over all those streams and lakes. Although an entire book could be written detailing the thrills and excitement the three of us enjoyed on that tiny trout lake before we had to pack up, with so many other memories to relate I will only touch on the highlights of that memorable morning.
The brass Halfwave, hardly any larger than the Despairs and bucktail streamer flies3 with which we had been attempting to entice the brookies earlier, was flung out with little ceremony. I had barely begun the retrieve when the water boiled beneath the lure, followed by the line being fiercely ripped off the spinning reel. While Bill and Johnny were furiously snapping pictures, the battle see-sawed back and forth with the trout tearing off fifteen feet of line, then my managing to gain ten or twelve back. Eventually, the power of the cane spinning rod, together with the security of the slipping clutch on the reel, overcame the brookie’s resistance.
The results of the exceptional fishing at the “Hatchery” on Brooks Lake.
More photos—then the spinning rod was again put to work. As before, the Halfwave was attacked as soon as it broke the surface and the tackle was once again put to the test. Bill spotted it first—a strange phenomenon and one I have never seen since. He yelled, “Good God! Look at that, guys! There’s at least another dozen trout charging around the one hooked on your spoon—probably trying to wrest it away from him.”
“Somebody grab a picture. Quick! Before they spot the boat and disappear.” I yelled, “If we don’t have any pictures nobody will ever believe this.”
I needn’t have worried as the trout were not the least bit timid. They continued to follow and harass the gorgeously appointed speckled trout furiously trying to shed the annoying chunk of metal stuck in its lip. One after another was hooked, with most being released, but my buddies were still unable to seduce a single trout with their feathered offerings, so the spinning outfit was soon being shared among the three of us, with everyone participating in the fantastic action. Hardly a cast was made without a response from the fish, all with exactly the same result, a posse of others alongside the unlucky one with the lure in its mouth.
There were a few moments of panic, however, when the seemingly deadly Halfwave was almost surrendered to one of the many underwater obstructions near shore. Mostly trees that had been felled by beavers, they provided the cover where the trout seemed to disappear to when they were not chasing the lure or one of their hooked brethren. Luckily, we had been able to work the lure free each time when we discovered that the hook would straighten with a slow pull on the spinning line.
The frenetic fishing continued until noon hour when we decided to give the lake and our arms a rest, and eat the cheese sandwiches that had been thrown together in the wee hours of the morning before leaving the cabin. The spinning outfit was retired for the day when we agreed that perhaps the challenge of trying to entice and hook one of these so obviously plentiful brook trout with fly tackle would present a more interesting way to wind up one of the most fantastic days of fishing any of us had ever experienced anywhere, anytime. A couple more trout were taken, including the largest of the trip, a twenty-four-inch-long beauty that tipped the pocket scale at almost six pounds. Bill caught it on a Despair fly that he had tied, rather than on one of the fancy creations he had purchased back in Toronto.
As much as we would have liked to stay, there was much to be done before the long drive back to Toronto. I think it was Johnny who on the way home from that exceptional day on the magical waters of Brooks Lake, referred to the little bay where those few hours of frenzied action occurred as the “Hatchery.” I suppose it was truly like fishing in a hatchery and when recounting this story, as I am sure each of us has often done during the many years since, I usually begin with a question, “Heh, have you ever fished in a hatchery?”
The second most prominent memory of moments in the Land O’ Lakes area occurred on Mosque Lake. Originally called Mosquito Lake, Mosque was renamed by Russell Wells, a veteran of the Second World War who used his veteran’s grant to buy a piece of property on the lake then build a fishing lodge and several small cabins. Feeling that the existing name of the lake, would not be conducive to an operation that was dependent on attracting guests, he successfully applied to have the lake’s name altered and his camp became Mosque Lake Lodge.
During one of our earlier trips to fish Brooks Lake, we met Fred Day, an officer with the old Department of Lands and Forests. In those days, they were simply called game wardens. Subsequently, in those early years of fishing the Land O’ Lakes we ran into Fred a number of times, occasionally when being checked by him in his official capacity and once or twice at Birch Lodge. All the while making notes, Fred would pick our brains for details on our fishing in Brooks, Grants and one or two other lakes in the area. It was he who introduced us to Mosque when he inquired if we had ever fished there in our search for big speckled trout. He added, “If you boys want big specks then that’s the place to get ‘em. Greys up to twenty pounds there, too!” Grey trout was the prevalent moniker applied to lake trout in southern Ontario in the forties and fifties.
Don Petican, another fishing buddy, had a cottage on Mosque Lake.
He was absolutely correct. Our first visit to Mosque Lake with old buddy, Art Walker, was indeed memorable, from the trials of negotiating the trail recently carved out of the bush and barely adequate to drive a car on, to a couple of magnificent seven-pound beauties that fell to our offerings. EGBs,4 those superb little spoons made in Switzerland, were, along with the aforementioned Halfwave, our lures of choice and still are these days, right up there with the Crocodile wabler.
A rather imposing figure, tall and lanky with what looked like a permanent scowl etched on his countenance, Russ Wells strode down the hill toward his dock where we were unloading our outboard motor and fishing gear.
“Don’t you boys think you should get permission before you unload that stuff?” he barked at us from halfway down the hill. “This place is private you know—for our guests.”
I mustered my best smile and scrambled up to meet him before he reached the bottom, trying to mollify his hostility by apologizing for not having gone to meet him first. Justifying our actions by attributing our excitement at the possibility of doing a little fishing after the long drive up, I commented on the desperate state of the road, “Boy, that last couple of miles is sure one hell of a drive—at least in my old jalopy anyhow.”
Seeing him grimace even more threateningly, I realized, too late, that he probably had built the bloody road himself. Then, attempting to extricate myself from the predicament, I put my foot in my mouth once again by commenting on the adventure the drive on the road had given us, acknowledging that it must have been pretty tough building the last couple miles.
“Built it myself. Built this whole damn place myself,” he replied curtly.
His entire demeanour, however, suddenly changed when he saw us both reaching for our wallets, “Yeah, I’m Wells. Guess you want to rent a boat, right. It’ll cost you a couple of bucks. That okay? You need minnows? Got some for sale in that box in the water by the dock. A buck, a dozen. Worms don’t work worth a damn here if you’re after big trout. They’ll just catch you a bunch of little ones.”
After we introduced ourselves and thanked him for the live bait instructions, Art explained that we just fished with artificial flies and lures except when ice-fishing where minnows definitely seemed superior.
Chuckling heartily, Russell pointed to the dock and indicated the boat we should take. “The less leaky one,” he said, explaining that the boats had only been in the water a couple of weeks because the ice was late going out.
As a parting shot, he added, “Gotta soak up a little before they tighten up, you know. You’ll be back for minnows in a little while. Just help yourselves. There’s a couple of pails on the dock you can use. We’ll settle up when you come in. Just come up to the lodge. Okay?”
Don Petican holding a 1980 Mosque Lake beauty
We carried on unloading our duff as he tromped back up the hill, pausing for a moment to look over his shoulder and yell, “I’ll have Eva whip up some scones for you to knock down with a pot of hot tea when you come in. The wife makes her own jam, too.”
We did not have to go back to the dock and help ourselves to Russell’s minnows. As a matter of fact the next few hours produced one of the most incredible memories of all time—all my time, anyhow. Because fly fishing is always our preferred attack when trout fishing, that tackle was quickly strung together with the resulting wand-waving providing a variety of thrills involving specks in the three to four-pound class. Most were released in the hope that even larger trout would fall to our charms.
With our arms tiring and still hoping to find and do battle with one of the huge brook trout that the game warden, Fred Day, had alluded to, we had eventually switched to our new spinning gear with EGBs replacing our feathered offerings. The results were truly phenomenal and when we returned to shore a little later and casually flopped a six pound and a couple of seven-pounders onto the dock, Russell, who was busying himself filling paint cans with cement to serve as anchors for his “fleet,” dropped everything and came running with a yelp, “Holy Jesus! Mother of God! Bloody good, boy! Were you using worms, or what? You didn’t get them on goddamn flies, did you?” The two big ones gotta be about eight pounds!”
Art spoke first, explaining the actual size showing the lures we had used.
“On what!” he exclaimed.
“E.G.B.,” I spelled out for him, “They’re little spinning lures, made in Switzerland.” I left it at that for the moment while I placed our tackle on the dock and Art carted the trout to what was obviously a fish-cleaning table on shore near the foot of the dock. Then pointing to the spinning rods, I said, to the apparently still befuddled chap, “Heh, Russ, have a look for yourself. They’re still on both the spinning rods.”
He examined the two tiny Swiss spinning lures and said, “Pretty bloody small! What the hell does ‘EBL’ mean anyhow, Deval?”
This time I spelled it out determinedly, “They’re EGBs and damned if I know what the letters stand for, probably the name of the outfit in Switzerland that makes them or something. All I can tell you is that they sure work great on trout. All trout!”
When I asked if he would like to try the lures for himself, it became evident that he did not have a spinning rod. Luckily I had another inexpensive spinning outfit in the car as a spare in case one of our regular outfits broke down or something. We gave Russell a quick lesson on how to use the tackle as we had done previously with Old Lessie at Brooks Lake. After he made a few casts to get the feel of the strange equipment, he seemed to believe that he could use it well enough and offered to pay for it. When we said the rod was on us, he refused to charge us the regular five bucks for the privilege of fishing on his territory and even said our boat would be free too, the next time we came back.
Of course his prognosis was dead on. We have fished Mosque Lake hundreds of times since that splendid initial visit to one of the most magical waters I have ever wet a line in. The lake has created dozens of special memories for me and my fishing buddies. The fruits of several of those delightful labours now hang resplendently on my walls at home.
Grants Lake is one of the tiniest speckled trout waters that I’ve fished and deserves a place here, but for an entirely different reason. Only a half a mile long and at its widest, a spit in width if one possessed good lungs, Grants produced excellent fly-fishing catches over a couple years for us until a devastating winterkill5 applied the coup de gras to its fishery. Deemed unsuitable for natural reproduction, the Ministry of Natural Resources (formerly the Department of Lands and Forests) subsequently refused to stock it again after learning about the destructive exposure.
The lake is four or five miles off the beaten path, about ten miles north of Buckshot Lake where we used to stay at Bev Woolnough’s Birch Lodge near Plevna. There had been successive years of fine spring and summer fishing on Grants when, along with a couple of buddies, we decided to try a little hard-water fishing there one winter weekend. Al Jones and Norm Wallachy were invited to join me for what was expected to be a pleasant jaunt, with two of us on the Skidoo and the third in the attached sled with all the fishing and shore lunch gear.
It began snowing rather heavily during the four-hour trip from Toronto and had not yet ceased when we arose the next morning to pack and head off to the lake. Skidoos are vehicles designed to negotiate most snow conditions, but even the best of them quickly lose their efficiency if heavily loaded down and faced with extreme snow depths. Today’s more modern snowmobiles are better equipped to deal with those conditions than the narrow-tracked machines produced in the sport’s infancy.
Mrs. Woolnough of Birch Lodge was well-known for her culinary skills. From The Outdoorsman: Ontario’s Voice of the Outdoors, 1963. Courtesy of Barry Penhale.
With one and sometimes two of the fellows baling out every so often to lighten the load on hills, we managed to negotiate the seven-mile trip up the bush road. This was followed by a three-mile trail across an ancient farm and several frozen swamps that lead right to the edge of the lake. As is our custom when ice fishing, the first objective is to get the holes cut and the tackle set up. While important, but secondary, a spot has to be cleared for the ever-present dinner fire on shore and, accordingly, enough wood gathered to last the day.
On Grants there is a swamp several hundred yards down one side of the lake with a nice stand of dead birch and cedar where enough can easily be knocked down with the Swedish saw to serve our purpose. I had to pay my respects to the bush for a few moments and, by the time I struggled back through the deep snow, the fellows had the holes and tackle organized. It was left up to me to unhook the sled from the Skidoo to lighten the load, then head on down the lake, fell a couple of dead trees, rope them and drag them back to where we were set up on shore.
The holes were cut and the ice-fishing buzzers (Fish O’Buzzer) were set up in short order. I eased the old Skidoo off shore and onto the deep snow on the lake, moving cautiously because occasionally the combination of a severe load of snow with little ice thickness actually depresses the ice, forcing water up through various cracks in the ice. When this happens, the water and snow become slush, a sloppy mess as much as a foot or two thick. A peculiar spinoff of these conditions occurs when there is more water on the lake’s surface than the snow can actually absorb, at which time gravity enables it to locate the lowest point on the surface where a crack has occurred and it trickles back through the ice into the lake. As the water increases and the hole enlarges, like the water in your bathtub or sink back home, it swirls in clockwise fashion while continuing to drain. The swirling action of the water gradually creates an enlarged hole with a continuous whirlpool action as the eddy and hole constantly enlarge.
I’m not certain why, but most ice fisherman refer to these lake surface winter abnormalities as “sump holes” and treat them with the utmost respect as the swirling waters polish and narrow the edges making them precarious should one approach too closely for a better look. As the Skidoo forged its way through and across the deep snow down the side of the lake towards the swamp and dead trees, I could easily see several places where sump holes occurred. These were partially covered with newly fallen snow, which had appropriately darkened as it absorbed the swirling water.
Hearing a whoop of success from the lads back at the end of the lake spurred me into a “haste makes waste” mode. As I scrambled through the deep snow towards the first dead birch, an unseen branch buried in the drifts grabbed my foot, pitching me headfirst into three feet of snow. Shaking it off, I forced a laugh at my carelessness and carefully took down the birch and two slightly smaller dead cedars. The birch has better staying power, but the cedar is great for getting things underway by establishing a good bed of coals for building a fire. One end of the load was fastened with a couple of slip knots to the tow bar. Because the snow is almost always substantially deeper near shore and the machine now also had to contend with a couple of hundred pounds of dead trees to drag, I headed towards the middle of the lake. Oops! A huge mistake!
A rather large and ominous dark spot out there clearly indicated the presence of a sump hole, with the shading emanating from its epicentre four or five feet in all directions, clearly one to be treated with caution. However, the drag of the trees made jockeying the snowmobile from side to side, with my weight on the rear to prevent the skis from digging in, a necessity to avoid becoming bogged down in the deep snow. While wrestling with the machine I kept one eye on the threatening shadow in the centre of the lake.
Progress was slow, but steady until I suddenly discovered that the snow that I had been riding on was only a veneer on top of a foot or two of deep slush. The big machine bogged down. I had cautiously maintained what I felt was a respectful distance from the sump hole in the middle, only to learn that I was now very near to another nasty one, which because of a freshly driven snowdrift was previously undetectable. I slid off the seat and promptly found that the slush and water were well over my boot tops and rapidly wicking their way into my upper clothing.
There are various ploys that can be used to extricate oneself from this situation, such as elevating the skis then rocking the machine gently while pushing from the rear with mild track acceleration, or pulling from the front while another operates the throttle. The suspension, however, was so clogged up with the heavy, now-compacted slush that progress seemed impossible. I ignored the yells from the distant shore, not wishing for them to get completely soaked as well, and believing that somehow I could free myself from the mess without their assistance.
Eventually, after tilting the machine and scooping out handfuls of the heavy slush from the track, I was able to advance a few feet when suddenly I found myself going from the frying pan into the fire. Apparently the movement of the machine disturbed the snow surface sufficiently to cause it to be sucked in to the slush mass as well. The machine and I were helplessly sliding towards another, gaping, newly exposed sump hole. The thing appeared large enough to swallow both the Skidoo and me along with it. Soaked to the skin with freezing water that was rapidly forming a coat of ice on my sopping wet clothing, I could see the guys beginning to head towards me as inextricably I was being drawn towards an unpleasant dunking and, perhaps, worse! Much worse! I screamed at them to follow my initial trail near shore then approach me from the rear where the trees that had been felled were now suddenly serving as anchors, having been sufficiently jammed up in the slush to arrest my forward movement.
Although they could easily see the entire situation and the mess I was in as they approached, because it was the first time that either of the fellows had been up north in these conditions, it seemed necessary to scream to watch out for the sump holes. The Skidoo had come to a halt with the nose of the machine partly underwater, with the tips of the skis resting a foot beneath the surface. It appeared that only the trees anchoring its forward progress were preventing a disaster. The skis, fortunately, had not gone entirely under, or extricating the machine would have been impossible with their being caught beneath the edge of the ice.
By the time Al and Norman made their way to where I was hanging on to the back of the Skidoo, they, too, were soaking wet. Finally, the three of us, using the well-anchored trees for support, managed to drag the machine from the sump hole and a potential watery grave. The suspension was “de-slushed” and when we were safely clear, the trees were unfastened then placed on the fresh undisturbed surface in front of the machine to serve as rails to allow for a quick start. The Skidoo was revved up and we made our escape to shore without further incident.
On shore, the Ski-boose was rehooked and all the gear unceremoniously tossed inside, along with the nice brookie that Al had taken earlier. The three of us now completely ensconced in a layer of ice squeezed onto the Skidoo to begin the trip back to Birch Lodge. Although it sounds ridiculous to say it now, other than our faces and fingertips that were nipped with frostbite, our bodies were warm. The ice that encased us obviously allowed us to retain the substantial body heat that had been generated by all the exertion required in escaping from the sump hole.
However, we were still faced with the forty-five minute ride through the bush and down the back route to our cabin at the lodge. By the time we reached the road the temperature had plummeted to near zero Fahrenheit and, combined with the wind chill factor created by the speed of the Skidoo, we were close to passing out by the time we reached the cabin. Hypothermia had obviously overtaken our bodies and brains and only the innate sense of survival drove us beyond that point where our systems would have shut down.
With each of us concentrating on his own personal survival mode, hardly a word was spoken during the trip back. No one had enough strength left anyhow to shout loud enough to be heard above the roar of the old Skidoo’s engine. When we finally arrived back at camp it took the last vestiges of our willpower to disengage ourselves from the machine. To any observer we would have appeared to be walking like zombies but looking like King Arthur’s Knights of Old as the thick layer of frozen armour almost entirely prevented any movement.
After an hour or so of chopping and hacking off the ice and discarding our soaking wet boots and clothing, we began to shiver in earnest. We were not without a few tears, some of relief and some in response to the pain from the frostbite, as our bodies warmed in the heat of the cabin. Luckily, no permanent physical problems resulted from that trip to Grants Lake, but for some reason or another it turned out to be our last to those waters with its absolutely unforgettable outcome.
Butternut is another small lake with a difficult approach in the Land O’ Lakes. In order to partake of its brook trout fishing, one must access a hydro road leading north from the village of Ompah, then drive another five or six miles before branching off on a bush road for several miles, then finally hiking the last mile or so to the lake. As must be evident by now, we brook trout anglers, often seeking the most distant and inaccessible waters to ply our craft, are a stubbornly persistent lot whom most other fishermen would deem foolish. Nevertheless, having heard rumours that Butternut had been deliberately poisoned by the Department of Lands and Forests to kill the existing unwanted fish species, then subsequently stocked with yearling speckled trout, its allure became irresistible.
Another fishing buddy of mine, Bill Taylor, was recruited to join me for our initial attempt to find the trail to Butternut and check out the fishing. I happen to have a lousy sense of direction, even getting completely disoriented on occasion in large malls like the Eaton Centre in Toronto, whereas Bill always seems to know which way is out of the bush and back to our car when he and I are partridge (ruffed grouse) hunting. Tagging along behind him when we began the hike to the lake, after having located the trail with little trouble, was easy and the entire exercise rewarding.
It proved to be a lovely little trout lake with a great vantage point about half-way down the shore, a rocky promontory from which we were able to hurl our lures in three directions. A half-dozen sixteen to eighteen-inch brookies were landed in short order before the bite went off for the day. All were released to do battle on another occasion. Keeping them would have been foolish anyhow as the temperature had soared and the trout’s edibility might not have survived the hike back to the car in the oppressive heat.
My two sons, Randy and the older lad Ronnie, not yet teenagers, had become quite proficient with their own tackle and fished numerous streams and bigger, more easily accessible waters with me ever since they were able to flex a spinning rod. However, neither had been on one of our more exploratory junkets. After hearing the many tales about some of these escapades, the boys pleaded with me to be taken with us on the next “mission impossible” excursion, hoping to experience some of the adventures they had been hearing from their old man since, as they put it, they were kids. After much discussion, among the boys, myself and their mother, it was decided that they were now old enough, strong enough and big enough to endure a lengthy trip to Butternut Lake in the Land O’ Lakes where Bill and I had enjoyed a fine, not too difficult to reach, day’s fishing. When the lads were told that we had put back a half a dozen fat brookies their excitement grew even more. Seldom had they been on trips where we had actually caught more trout than we wished to keep for the pan.
The following weekend saw us heading once again for the Land O’ Lakes and while I tried hard to not display my trepidation, the boys were bursting with anticipation. I didn’t have old buddy, Bill Taylor, with us to help locate the final trail to the lake and thus keep us from straying. Although spotting where the bush trail branched off the Hydro Road proved to be no problem, with Ronnie interpreting the topographical map, my concern proved to have been justified shortly after we parked and struck out on foot in the direction of the lake. Every little game trail branching off our chosen course caused a momentary pause and discussion timeout concerning which path to pursue. After a couple of hours of fruitless wandering, it became apparent that if not lost, we were certainly well off course. After my third attempt at reassuring the boys that we were indeed moving in the proper direction, I noticed the surreptitious glances between them interspersed with disbelieving looks in my direction.
I finally had to swallow my pride, admit defeat and call for a “sit down” with a chance to study the top maps and discuss the situation before we continued any further. We broke out the sandwiches that had been prepared for our shore lunch at the lake. With our appetites appeased, the alternative strategies were kicked around: Should we call it a day and try to find our way back before we end up spending the night in the bush? Continue in the direction that the compass dictated for us? Or back up until we located a more likely trail branching off in the same general direction?
Ronnie finally came up with the winner. According to the topographical map, the esker6 we could see fairly close to our position in the bush was the highest spot in the area. He suggested that we head in that direction and climb the tallest tree on the hill, hoping to see the lake and our proximity to it. With two eager and athletic youngsters vying for the privilege of climbing the tree and the honour of discovering it, we agreed that Ronnie, whose idea it was in the first place, be given the opportunity.
We worked our way up the hill, selected the tallest tree and with a boost from us, Ron began to negotiate the difficult climb. At least, it looked rather formidable to me with little space between the branches, but he scrambled up as easily as climbing a fight of stairs. Even before he reached the uppermost branches he let out a yell,
“I see it! I see it, Dad!” Pointing back in the direction from whence we had just come, he hollered, “It’s just back there a little. We must have walked right by it without seeing it.”
That is exactly what had happened. The bush is so dense in those never-logged hills that we had actually passed within a couple of hundred yards of the lake. We were probably sidetracked by another game trail, plenty of which criss-cross the bush in all directions forming a lacy network that can easily lead to disorientation.
Ron and Randy Deval fishing at Butternut Lake in the early 1970s.
Fifteen minutes later after my having to endure a number of snide remarks from the “cheap seats” about their old man’s sense of direction, we stumbled out of the bush directly onto the rocky promontory which had been our intended target all along. While I sat for a few moments to collect my thoughts and recharge my batteries, the boys set their tackle up and were in action before I was even back up on my feet. Randy was the first to score—and he scored big time with a lovely twenty-incher.
Capping the day and the memories of the trip with my sons to Grants Lake was the thrill and excitement of limit catches of specks for the boys. None was kept, other than Randy’s first, which, as it developed, turned out to be the day’s largest. The old man was skunked—but did achieve a small victory nevertheless. We made it back to the car with only a bare minimum of miscalculated trail decisions.
Bearing the name of Lucky Lake there is no way that it could escape being included in this compendium of magical waters and memories. Lucky is a lake trout and a bass lake and has produced quite a few lakers for us, some weighing as much as eleven pounds, exceptionally large for a comparatively small lake, less than three miles long and a half-mile wide. Lucky is truly magical as it also produces some of the largest smallmouth bass to be found in the province—trophy fish, twenty-six inches long and eight pounds.
A particular memory comes to mind of a morning on Lucky when we were fly fishing the edge of a weed bed, searching for one of the lake’s behemoth bass but attracting only perch after perch to our feathered offerings.
It was near the end of June with bass season open, but the spring-fed lake was still quite cold. We had not given any thought to the possibility of the lakers, normally a cold and deep water fish, still cruising the shallows that late in the season as they do shortly after ice-out.
My old buddy, Art Walker, and I were tossing Mickey Finn streamer flies7 into the weed lines, attempting to entice one of the lake’s big bass into believing these lures were the lake’s predominant minnows, golden shiners. Just as I hooked another perch, Art thought he saw a leviathan boil just beneath the surface behind his fly. He had barely mentioned it when the water erupted under my little perch and Mickey Finn. I was fast to a racing locomotive of a fish streaking for the deep water in the centre of the small lake. Fortunately it hadn’t chosen the weed bed area to dive into, or we might never have had a chance to determine what it was.
“Gotta be a big trout!” Art yelled, as my reel screamed. “Bass never run like that and almost always head for cover, not deep water.”
Too excited to respond, I merely grinned and nodded in agreement while holding the rod high and upright to cushion the fish’s antics as it was now shaking its head violently in attempts to remove the constant pressure being applied by the rod, line and me. A meal of a small perch had never created this kind of a problem for the big trout before—only the odd foreign object stuck in its jaw, when it had once upon a time carelessly mistaken a fishing lure for a minnow. (The trout still wore a scar in its lip where a hook had penetrated before being torn out when another angler had applied too much pressure on that occasion).
“Whoa there, fish,” I pleaded, easing the pressure on the line in the sudden realization that the trout or whatever probably was not fast to my fly, but simply hanging on to and refusing to forfeit its meal. If I had had my wits about me when the fish struck, I would have given it enough slack to swallow the perch, but after all its contortions, if slack were applied to the line now the fish might simply let go and release the perch. I maintained a slight pressure and crossed my fingers, toes and eyes for luck.
The foolish fish, apparently not wishing to release its “catch,” hung on until fifteen or twenty minutes later we were able to work it alongside the boat and carefully slide the landing net under it—a thirty-three-inch-long, eleven-pound lake trout. To this day it remains the largest I have landed on a fly—pardon me, on a fly rod!
An earlier section involving Grants Lake, recounted a tale of horrendous conditions during a winter ice-fishing trip. Exceptionally deep snow, heavy slush and dangerous sump holes, all combined with Arctic-like freezing temperatures, were the nemeses on that occasion. Similar situations occurred several times and in a number of areas. A few that come to mind occurred on A/B, Limit and Beanpole lakes in Haliburton, but without doubt the most memorable and possibly most dangerous incident in my sixty-plus years of ice fishing and snowmobiling occurred on little Lucky Lake in the Land O’ Lakes.
That year, as well, was a winter with an exceptional snow load on the frozen waters of the Land O’ Lakes, with temperatures below zero on many of the weekends that were chosen by us to test our hard-water fishing skills on the various trout lakes in that area. Lucky Lake was selected for a couple of reasons: gorgeous, large and plentiful lake trout and an interesting and challenging cross-country and cross-lake Skidoo trip to get there from our cabin on Buckshot Lake. Conquering adversity on these trips is for us half the pleasure in a sort of masochistic manner. We were supplied with a great deal of that “pleasure” after a memorable winter day on Lucky Lake.
Getting to Lucky from Birch Lodge in the winter required either a lengthy, time-consuming drive trailering the machines, two of them and the Ski-boose, around a number of country back roads, or snowmobiling three or four miles across Buckshot. From there we would pick up a trail at the far end of the lake that leads to Brule Lake, then it’s a good mile and a half run across Brule to another trail and, finally, a half-mile run through the bush to Lucky. Disregarding the challenging conditions, of course, we chose the latter.
On trips of this nature it always behooves one to leave word with others of the intended destination and course of action in case of difficulties. Having experienced several of these winter ice-fishing junkets that bordered on the brink of extreme peril, word was left with Bev Woolnough, the proprietor of Birch Lodge, that we would be heading out in the wee hours the following morning (Saturday) and crossing both Buckshot and Brule in order to get to Lucky to fish for lakers. Bev told us what we already knew, that the ice and snow conditions were rotten and suggested fishing Brooks Lake, smaller and much closer by, for specks. But our minds were made up and Lucky it was to be. After all, we surmised, our experience with these conditions would stand us in good stead and actually we were looking forward to the difficult snowmobiling as much as we were the fishing. We left instructions that even if we were not back by dark, not to send a search and rescue party as we felt quite confident in our own ability to look after ourselves, no matter what the situation. It would have been dangerous and foolish for others to head out in darkness looking for us in those conditions.
“However,” I did suggest, “heh, if we’re not back by morning, then maybe help would be appropriate.”
We began the trek across Buckshot in the wee hours just as the sun was creeping above the horizon. There was a decent crust on top of the snow and few watery areas, but with the prospect of the slushy conditions on the lakes, we had wisely decided to use backpacks instead of the heavy sled, so both Skidoos travelled the length of the lake only kicking up slush in two or three areas. The crust that had formed overnight stood us in good stead, providing support for the machines in all but the worst places. Occasionally we would break through, but only momentarily, as our momentum carried us on without our becoming stuck.
On this trip I was partnered by another old fishing buddy (who shall remain nameless for reasons that will become obvious later in this story) and my Brittany Spaniel, Jamie, who loved to tag along with us whenever possible. Where appropriate, Jamie would run behind us on the track the machines created in the snow, or if not, he would sit on the seat in front of me with my arms around him while I steered the machine.
There was a swamp to negotiate leading to a large ridge that we had to climb before working down the other side to Brule Lake. Unfortunately no one else had recently crossed between the two lakes so it was left to us to break trail in the deep snow. On another earlier trip through there, my Skidoo’s track, the rubber belt driven by the motor that propels the machine, had been torn up by an unseen sharpened base of a tree trunk, whittled into a weapon by a beaver. Beneath the snow, it had lain there just waiting to inflict its nastiness on a wayward snowshoe or carelessly steered snowmobile. Remembering that incident when we were forced to limp all the way back to camp with the snowmobile track barely able to function, we proceeded cautiously with Jamie leading the way this time and seemingly able to determine the trail’s correct path beneath the snow. Other than once again breaking through the surface several times in low, wet areas where the suspensions took in a load of slush, we made it through the swamp. Up the hill we sped and down the other side to Brule, passing Jamie who leaped out of the way.
Before striking out across the next lake, the machines were tipped on their sides and as much slush as possible was scooped out of the tracks. Then, with the dog firmly seated in front of me, we raced across the lake towards the final lap, the trail leading through a half mile of bush to our goal, Lucky Lake. The lake appeared virginal, untouched by other snowmobiles. Startlingly beautiful in the bright sunshine now creating the illusion of a million diamonds sparkling on its unblemished, pure white surface, the lake was inviting. But unbeknownst to us, a trap lay in store, one which I know will never be forgotten by either of us.
The shoals where we wanted to set up were three-quarters of the way down the lake. Driving the more powerful and heavier machine, I volunteered to lead the way in order to compress the track. That was the second mistake (the first was getting out of bed that morning and planning to go and fish Lucky Lake). Because of the deep snow, Jamie would ride with my buddy a cautious distance behind my machine, in case I bogged down or whatever.
In very short order I realized that we were in rather serious trouble! Less than a quarter mile from shore my track was no longer riding on top, but digging in to an awesome layer of slush. Knowing that I was about to become completely bogged in, with one hand I waved furiously attempting to halt the second machine’s progress before it, too, fell into the trap. Too late! The roostertail of slush it was discharging out its rear was proof that we both were in dire straits. When the Skidoo sputtered to a stop, Jamie jumped off and damn near disappeared in the depth of snow and slush. My buddy, now enmeshed like me (our lower bodies rapidly soaking up the freezing water), picked the terrified dog up and sat him on his Skidoo where he seemed quite content to wait until we extricated the machines. I looked at my watch. It was not yet nine o’clock.
Looking beyond our position, further down the lake, we felt that if we had had a good head of steam we would probably not have bogged down. Also the remainder of the lake looked so inviting it didn’t seem possible that there would be other areas as precarious as the one we were stuck in. We set about freeing the machines from the clutches of the slush. The first thing to do in these situations is to get the machine up on to a firm, higher base of packed-down slush and snow, then allow it to drain its excess water and scoop the slush from the suspension.
This sounds easy enough but calls for much patience and hard work. The machine is left where it is until a ramp is constructed as moving it out too soon exposes it to the freezing air causing the compacted mess in the suspension to freeze, whereas if kept down in the water it won’t solidify. The ramp is constructed by shovelling (we always have a small collapsible one strapped onto the side of the Skidoo), then kicking the snow and slush into a pile before stomping it into submission. The process is repeated many times until we have constructed a launching ramp of at least twenty, but preferably thirty feet, high enough to clear the snow-covered lake surface. Such a ramp would normally supply one with sufficient room to accelerate smoothly, but rapidly to escape the slushy area.
A couple of hours later, both machines were draining on their newly constructed ramps, Jamie was de-iced to the best of our ability and the lead machine, mine, revved up for the launch. Avoiding the temptation to apply full throttle, otherwise the track would simply dig right in and we would be back to square one, I got it moving smoothly and firmly accelerated until it shot ahead off the launch pad. Triumphantly I raised one fist in the air as I shot at least a hundred feet down the lake—then bogged down once again.
Impatiently, my buddy had already begun his own launch and, driving the lighter machine, he roared past me for a few feet then also bogged down. Jamie somehow fought his way up to us and desperately attempted to climb up on the seat of my Skidoo on his own. All three of us looked at each other in disgust, before the freezing temperature spurred us into action once again. A formidable layer of ice had already begun to form on our exterior clothing and we chipped the ice that had built up between Jamie’s toes. His incessant licking in attempts to warm them only made matters worse for him as it melted the accumulated snow and slush that promptly froze in place.
A glance at the watch showed we were now well past noon hour and approaching two o’clock. Needless to say the three of us were not happy campers! Throughout the ordeal there had been a dearth of conversation with the concern, pain, extreme effort and exertion all taking its toll on our brains and bodies. Finally we agreed to call it a day, forget the fishing, the thoughts of which for all intents and purposes had already been shelved, and get our asses out of there while we still could and before darkness overtook us. At that time of year, the sun sets around five.
Forcing our sore and tired muscles into action, we once again almost drained the last bit of energy left in our systems, but before the exhaustion completely overwhelmed us we had both machines up and draining on new rapidly freezing compacted slush ramps and pointing in the direction of the trail that had brought us to this frightful situation. Sore, tired, half-frozen and probably already hypothermic, we had taken until darkness to complete this last set of launching pads.
On these trips I almost always wear a down jacket over top of a down vest, a heavy, woollen Jack Shirt and insulated underwear. Of course I was still cold, but only my face, hands and head were worrisome. Hence it was an easy decision, when my buddy pointed out that Jamie, scrunched up in a fetal position on my Skidoo seat seemed to be in big trouble—bigger than we were. We chipped the ice off his feet and wrapped him snugly in my big down jacket.
It was then that we realized that the lake was so badly chewed up by all our machinations and efforts to overcome the slush that, in reality, all we had done was draw more of the surface water off the lake and into the area that we had already butchered. We were now faced with more than two feet of water and another foot or so of slush that would have to be conquered if we were to escape the clutches of “Lucky” Lake. Just walking in the mess was scary, but with darkness and the temperature now plummeting, a solid crust was gradually forming over the entire football-field-size mess. It would have been impossible to negotiate the quarter mile or so that was still left to us to get off the lake, and then there would still be the sections we had chewed up just getting there from Buckshot Lake. With nothing left with which to build more ramps, even if we were somehow able to muster the necessary strength and energy to do so, there were absolutely no alternatives if we were to survive until morning when a group of machines would be coming out to look for us. We had to remain in the area until they arrived.
While I only briefly pondered this situation, my buddy, his brain now befuddled and his body hypothermic, began to plough through the crusty surfaced water and slush towards the distant shore. I yelled at him as forcefully as I could, “For Christ sake, hold on—where do you think you’re going, man?”
He turned, looked at me quizzically and paused, while as quickly as I could, I caught up to him. More frightened than I have ever been in my life, I said through chattering teeth, “I don’t know what you had in mind, old fellow, but whatever it is, forget it. We have to stay together if we are going to beat this thing.
“You do what you want, Gordon,” he muttered, “but I’m walking back to the cabin. I’ve had it with this shit! Gotta get outta here! Do you read me?”
Grabbing his arm as he turned, I yelled, “Forget it! You’ll never make it. It’s going down below zero and you’re already half-frozen and completely exhausted.” I repeated my words, this time shouting every one.
His eyes were glassy.
“Do you hear me, old buddy! For God’s sake, and yours—and mine and Jamie’s, listen carefully!”
Barely able to talk, he whispered as I still held on to his arm, “Never mind. I’m going—gotta get outta here…”
There were tears in my eyes as I realized what I had to do. I slapped him on the face hard. Once, twice then as he winced and shook his head, once again. He, too, then took a deep breath and placed both arms around me and shook violently for a moment or two before taking another couple of deep breaths then with a tear or two in his own eyes backed off a little and said, “Okay, okay, I’m fine now. What do you have in mind, Deval? We build an igloo or something?”
I knew then that we were all right and would make it out together all right. “Not a bad idea,” I replied, “but I’ve got a much better one.” Continuing quickly, because simply standing still was causing the cold to permeate my inner core, I said, “Listen carefully, please. The ramps and all this water will freeze up solid overnight. We leave the machines right where they are, up on their ramps. They’re both starting and working well, so we will easily be able to drive off when the slush freezes over and get the hell out of here in the morning. Remember where we picked up the trail to here back at Brule?” I asked. Continuing, I said, “There’s a big cottage right there—you probably didn’t see it because it was pretty well buried in snowdrifts. Getting there’s going to be tough slogging, but I know we can make it if we get going and don’t stop. We’ll take turns carrying Jamie.”
I figured that once we got there, we’d find a way to get in, jimmy a window if necessary. Once inside, we would get a fire going in the fireplace, thaw out and hang in until the sun came up the next day. With luck there might even be some food.
That is exactly what we did. After we pried open a boarded window, my buddy crawled through and I passed Jamie through next. There was a stack of firewood buried beneath the snow outside the cottage. A couple of dozen split logs were dug out then tossed through for the big fireplace, matches were located, along with a candle or two, a can of beans and even a can of dog food, all frozen of course. Both were opened with my Swiss Army knife and, without waiting for them to completely thaw by the fire, they were devoured by man and beast.
We had no money with us to leave for the owner, but found a notepad and pencil. An apologetic thank-you note with my name, address, phone number and explanation was written and secured with masking tape on the kitchen cupboard. Although we were utterly exhausted and managed to nod off briefly several times, only Jamie actually slept.
At first light, still soaking wet and not looking forward to the cold trip back to the cabin at Buckshot, we nevertheless struck out for the now tightened-up Lucky Lake. Without further incident and with no problems at all, we got the machines underway and left the lake with only a momentary pause to look back over our shoulders at its ridiculously chewed up surface. It was no longer the magnificent pristine view we had been treated to almost twenty-four hours earlier. We got as far as Brule Lake when a convoy of about fifteen machines, following our now frozen tracks from the day before, were spotted heading towards us. Wisely they had brought blankets and extra, dry clothing. Luckily, there were no permanent ill effects suffered by either Jamie and or ourselves. Now thoroughly bundled up, we drove back along with our escort to the cabin at Birch Lodge.
Several months later I made a special trip to Brule Lake, not just to fish for its plentiful lakers, but hoping that the cottage’s owners would be there so I could thank them personally, pay for the damage to the window sill and recount the story of our escapade. They were wonderful and refused to take any money, even for the beans and dog food, completely understanding the necessity of our actions. Their generosity of spirit is now also part of this particular memory on the frozen water of Lucky Lake.
