Fishing in the Far North of Canada, 1964 - Part 2

We set up the trailer, launched the boat and mounted the outboard. The next morning, with scattered white puffy clouds against a beautiful blue sky, we set out boating north across the mouth of a bay that was formed by a long peninsula jutting east into the open lake. There was a slight breeze and small waves as we passed the end of the peninsula and headed on across the channel that lay between it and a long island that ran parallel to the peninsula.

We passed the end of the island and were surprised by a strong wind blowing big waves at us from the north west. In what seemed like an instant the conditions changed from mild to menacing. We were suddenly tacking head long into 4 foot waves. Our boat, with low gunnels and only14 feet long, was too small for such seas. I was piloting the boat; Dad was in the front seat and our large tackle box sat on the floor between him and the middle seat.

The urge to turn the boat around and head back was compelling. I didn’t yet have a whole lot of experience in boats, and I very much wanted to throw the tiller sharply to the left and start a quick turn, but it seemed the boat would probably broach in the trough and swamp as the next wave hit us broadside. It was best to just head into the waves and attempt a landing on one of the many islands that lay ahead.

We continued into those waves for forty-five minutes. I aimed for one island, couldn't make it, and then went for the next. We were catching a lot of spray and the bottom of the boat was starting to fill. Dad was catapulted skyward by a large wave. He landed hard on the aluminum seat, bending it in and leaving a three inch impression of his backside. I missed the first few islands, but was finally able to beach the boat. There was a shallow rocky bottom to the approach so I pulled up the engine and rowed to shore.

We were soaked and the boat had about four to six inches of water in it. We gathered wood, built a fire to dry off, and waited for the wind to abate. A hour or so later we set sail heading back south. We found ourselves in an archipelago of small islands, and tried to maintain a southern bearing while weaving our way past one island and around another. It seemed like there might be hundreds of them, and they all looked alike. We were soon hopelessly confused, but the lake was placid - not even a ripple, so we didn’t much care; we were alive, and only a little lost.

After an hour of wandering we came upon and guy who was standing in his boat while fishing with a long fly pole. He told us how to get back to camp. We didn’t get any fishing done that fist day, but we did strap the boat back on top of the car and rent a bigger one for the rest of the stay.

Fishing in the Far North of Canada, 1964 - Part 1

Our old friend, Lamar Hammer, had been on a fishing trip up into northern Manitoba and returned full of big fish stories and praise for the area. His enthusiasm for a subject could border on infectious, and anything dealing with fishing usually grew to epidemic proportion. So, after hearing Lamar’s often repeated tales of Reed Lake, giant Northern Pike and five pound Walleye, Dad was mesmerized by a fish-eyed contagion that could only be cured by a trip to the infecting area. Brother Don was in his second year of marriage, so Dad enlisted me as a willing participant. Reed lake was at the end of the road with northing much in the way of civilization as we knew it - no lodges, no restaurants, no stores.

Lamar brought over his maps and information showing that the only thing on Reed Lake was a Provincial Camp ground, which included both a boat dock and an outhouse - all other amenities had to be brought in. We didn’t own a tent so Dad went down to the local rental agency and rented a small camping trailer, a 14 foot boat and small outboard motor.

We drove up there in the fall of 1964 and spent what was mostly an enjoyable week of nice weather, good fishing and great adventure. Lamar’s map showed us that Reed lake was big - twenty miles long on an east-west axis, and ten miles wide. The camp was mid-way along the southern shore. The western half of the lake was dotted with many islands, and the eastern end was open water. Lamar instructed us to stay on the eastern half and to fish the river flowing into the western end of the lake.

We drove north into Minnesota, then west across the rolling plains of North Dakota and then on north into Canada. We followed Canadian Highway 10 to a point halfway between the villages The Pas and the end of the road at Flin Flon. From there we headed east on Hwy 39, a gravel road, more that 60 miles long, to the camp at Reed Lake. It was the longest gravel road I’d been on, and it seemed to go on for ever. It was rough enough that the back bumper on the trailer shook loose and broke off on the way back over it.

GO TO: Part 2