Fish Out of Water

“Sure I can’t put a minnow on that for you, Mark?” It was the fifth time my guide, Gareth Fequet, had offered to beef up my hook with live bait. Gareth was used to aggressive trophy anglers; he didn’t know fly fishermen. For us, bait is out – that’s cheating. Spoons and spinners are out – cheating again. More than one hook is out – cheating, also barbaric. The fly-rod cast, meanwhile, is about as easy to master as a golf swing. It’s all about pride in skill over strength, the moral superiority of difficulty. Often this self-imposed constraint leads to the happy result of catching no fish at all.

“Mark, I’ve got a minnow right here.” Gareth’s big red hand, chapped from water and weather, was cupping a small silver comma. “I’m fine, Gareth.” I cast my streamer out again, trying to punch the five-weight line into the breeze blowing east across Tetu Lake; the rod, a nine-foot Sage, weighed just 3½ ounces. But a bad habit of letting go too soon sent it fluttering to the lake surface, knocked down by the wind. So far, no fish.

My brother Sean and I had driven up the day before – east from Winnipeg, then north at Kenora, up past Catastrophe Lake, spying bald eagles, grouse and a black bear before hitting a boat landing near the Whitedog reserve in Northern Ontario. Crossing to the boat- or fly-in-only Tetu Island Lodge, we cut into the heart of old voyageur routes: the confluence of the Winnipeg and English rivers. Their sloshing flow creates wide expanses of choppy, open water, with coves that harbour muskie, northern pike, walleye, smallmouth bass and perch.

Local still-water fishing is legendary. Sportsmen drop down to throw big manta plug lures into the water, regularly hauling in pike a yard long.

Local still-water fishing is legendary. Wealthy sportsmen and corporate groups from California, Minnesota and New England fly up in float planes. (On our trip, substantial men in outdoor gear would congregate around the bar at Tetu Island Lodge, drinking whisky and smoking cigars while talking football, fishing and money.) They drop down for a few days of throwing big pigs and manta plug lures, two or three treble hooks on each end, into the water, regularly hauling in pike a yard long. This isn’t the kind of fishing Sean and I are used to. We go in for fly-fishing’s solitary Zen-like prowl, stalking spooky half-pound brook or brown trout in felt-sole waders on the shoals of a winding river, flicking tiny midge or caddis flies near their noses. But this time – perversely, perhaps – I wanted to try for a trophy northern pike using the lightest possible fly gear. My “flies” would imitate frogs and leeches rather than insects, but each with just one small hook. And no minnows.

A strong tug bent the tip of my rod almost down to the water’s surface. I saw the splash as a pike hit the fly 40 feet away, slashing up in its characteristic savage arc. Pike are freshwater barracudas: fat, strong, prehistorically beautiful. Line ripped from the reel as the fish ran on the set hook, hurling its big head from side to side. Three big runs and most of my line was stretched across the water. Slowly, I struggled to regain ground, using the rod’s willowy flex to bounce off sharp dives and explosive bull runs. My wrist was burning from the strain. I tucked the rod butt under my rib cage for leverage and lifted as the fish ran again. A quarter of an hour later, it was tired enough to drift along the gunwale. Into the boat it went, careful removal of the hook from its razored jaw and back into the water. It paused, gills pumping, then the big lurch away. Twenty-eight inches. One of just two fish in a long day.

My brother instantly abandoned my fly-only caper, and, unlike me, hooked a steady  number of fish using our guide’s supplied spinning gear.

Sean, no fool, had instantly abandoned my fly-only caper. Unlike me, he hooked a steady number and variety of fish over three days using Gareth’s supplied spinning gear. I had patiently managed to land two dozen pike, most of them no bigger than 25 inches. Neither of us had come close to the 36-inch minimum needed to get one of the lodge’s coveted “master angler” certificates.

On our last day, the weather turned bleak. Even under five layers of clothing, I was cold to the bone. Worse, bending to pick up my Sage rod, I didn’t notice it slide under a steel cleat on the boat’s gunwale. I lifted it and saw the cold graphite catch, crack and splinter. My lunch was sombre, enlivened only briefly by the sight of Sean rolling out of his camp chair and down the beach, spilling beer all over himself. But soon after, he restored his pride by securing his certificate. He’d landed a monster 38-inch pike on a six-hook spoon. Bastard.

Time was growing short for me. Was it possible to catch a trophy pike on Sean’s borrowed Cahill fly rod, which was as frail as my broken one? An hour later, just as I was slumping into chilled stasis, my back to the stiff wind, there it suddenly was: the big pull.

The rod smacked hard enough to feel like the fly was snagged. I pulled up and back firmly, setting the hook. A weight like a log began to drive down, slinging the line left and right, the reel’s spun handle rapping my knuckles. It ran and ran, then doubled back, diving for the boat, down and under, out again. The hooped rod was bruising my ribs at the butt, the tip waving crazily from side to side near the water. Every second leaked fear, of breaks or tangles, of desperate pulls into weeds and disaster. I toiled to bring in line, to shorten the distance. “Take your time,” Gareth said. “You’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Just this moment, this water, this fish. No time to take; no time at all. I reeled in line. I don’t know how long it took. I do know it was 36 inches long and weighed 14 pounds. Gareth took a picture of the fish before we slipped it back into the water. He was smiling.

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