Growing up on Bear Creek, in the beautiful Ozark Mountains of Southern Missouri, I had a chance to learn many different disciplines of angling ranging from the grace and finesse of fly fishing for Rainbow Trout to the patients and power required to fish for river catfish. Having been taught both, and everything in between, by my Father and Uncle Bill I felt equipped and knowledgeable to handle anything that might arise on our upcoming yearly family trek to the "Great White North" of Canada.
My Parents have always been fascinated with Canada and every year they would scrimp and save to pull off the perfect family vacation. Every year was a different location, once to British Columbia, once to Banff, Alberta, twice to Quebec and on and on. I even have a certificate that was presented to me by the Great Lakes Society following our complete circumnavigation of the Great Lakes, proclaiming myself as "Captain ‘O’ The Great Lakes...arrrggg"…and I know what you’re thinking, yes, it did actually say "arrrggg!" No kidding!
This year’s trip was to be a fisherman’s delight as it was planned to spend three glorious days in a northern Ontario fishing lodge. Accommodations would include room and board, a guide, the proper license and all the rigging needed to fish for Canadian Lake Trout, the Rainbows overindulgent cousin, which was said to reach weights of over 10-20 lbs. Even the trip to Canada would take us through one of Americas fishing playgrounds, the 1000 Lakes region of Minnesota.
As usual, I would be allowed to bring a friend and this years lucky recipient would be Terry, one of my river fishing buddies. Terry and I had spent many a night on the banks of the swift Sac River fishing for catfish. Unlike trout fishing, there was no finesse in catfish angling. Heavy lines and heavy tackle was the plan of the day when fishing for these powerful animals and Terry was well versed in these disciplines.
Having been to Canada before, I knew there would be little need for steelon leaders, heavy sinkers and barrel swivels in the cold mountain streams of Minnesota and Canada. The lodge would provide anything heavy, so I opted not to pack my heavy tackle. I stuck with my trout flies, light test line and hip waders.
The trip north through Iowa was uneventful and free from mechanical trouble and soon we were in Minnesota at a beautiful roadside park to stretch and enjoy some campfire food. It was at this small roadside park that an incident would happen that would be the subject of many jokes for years to come.
This particular roadside park situated on Minnesota’s picturesque "North Shore Drive" was indescribably beautiful. Saturated with secluded hiking trail, these footpaths seemed to beckon the traveler to discover even more hidden beauty just beyond the bend. Downstream just mere yards and you would find yourself at the mouth of the stream as it dumped into Lake Superior. Documents and maps greeted the traveler with information on all that awaits upstream. So, armed with our best walking shoes, some bug spray, a canteen of water and our guide maps we headed off promising to be back for breakfast in about an hour.
Once on the trail, the grandeur and beauty of Mother Nature in all her glory was more than expected. Deep blue pools, rushing waterfalls, and a tranquil green forest seemed to offer thanks to the adventurer for their efforts. A split in the trail offered something for everyone. One way was an easy walk across a footbridge and a quiet stroll back to camp down the other side of the stream. The other trail however was meant for the more adventurous. Attention signs warned hikers of the extreme nature of the trail ahead. Long uphill grades awaited the daring visitors that challenged themselves on this trail.
"You feel froggy?" Terry asked with a sheepish grin knowing full well that he was in better shape than yours truly and would fair much better during the arduous walk ahead.
"You bet, I’m in!" I said almost regretting the words as they left my mouth.
So off we went! The trail started off tame enough, but soon turned ugly as described in the warning sign. Steep gradients and loose gravel made going tough. Every step I took made regret every donut I had ever eaten. Terry, however, didn’t seem winded at all. Just between you and me, sometimes I really dislike skinny people!
After what seemed like hours the trail ended at a beautiful point overlooking a hidden stream below only visible from that very spot. The trek had been long but the view was wonderful and made all the sweat seem worthwhile. Below us about 30 yards were what seemed like dozens of trout swimming about without a care in the world in their secluded mountain home. The distance down was too far to tell exactly which kind of trout they were but there was no doubt they were trout and it was enough of a taunt to make it worth the long haul back to camp for my tackle.
When we got back to camp, breakfast was ready and after a hearty morning breakfast of eggs, bacon and camp coffee we set off to the small trading post we had passed earlier to purchase the necessary licenses to fish.
Back at camp, breakfast clean up was about finished and, desiring a little peace and quiet my Mother decided to pass on the fishing adventure. My father however, was ready and raring to go. Having never passed up a good fishing trip, Dad was a fishing junkie and if anyone within an earshot even mentioned fishing he would be the first one in the truck honking the horn and wondering what was taking so long.
Once back at the point, I could hardly rig my tackle from breathing so hard. My plan was simple. We would gently lower our flies down to the waters surface just as if we had cast it there. It was a beautiful plan but one that evidently I had not fully explained to Terry. I could already taste the fresh mountain trout, cooked up light and flaky with just a touch of lemon. Each man feverishly worked on his tackle in preparation for the slaughter. It would be like shooting…well fish…in a barrel.
Bzzzzzzzzzz….KER-PLUNK!
I looked up from my tackle just in time to see Terry launching the trout fishing equivalent of an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile at our unsuspecting aquatic prey. The screaming projectile even seemed to pick up momentum as it hurled itself down the cliff side at ludicrous speeds. I can still see the bobber waiving violently behind the heavy load.
What was he planning on doing, clunking the trout on the head?
Now, it’s been a few years since that day and things get foggy with time, but I have this picture burned in my mind. I see Terry standing there with rod and reel in hand looking dumbfounded that the trout would disappear quicker than a biscuit in a boarding house.
I can’t be sure, but I could swear that I remember that fishing reel smokin!
