Muskoka Outdoors

Catch The Fish of a Lifetime at QCL!

Several guests at Queen Charlotte Lodge have been catching chinook over 40 pounds last week! The question is, when will you be hooking into YOUR monster chinook or coho? Better yet, between the fish battles on QCL’s guided boats, you could get a chance to snap some photos of the other behemoths of sea, Humpback whales.

The great folks at at QCL like to keep me updated as to what their guests are experiencing at their Lodge. Here are some of the highlights from The Kingfisher Report at Queen Charlotte Lodge:

August 14
Greg McCoach boated a nice 44 pounder Friday but it wasn t quite enough to beat Joe Phillip’s 46 pounder.  Paul Reid released a beauty that taped out to 37 pounds – great job Paul!  Ross Wilmots 45 was the big fish on Saturday. Nice flat water on Sunday should see lots of boats offshore after Halibut and schooling Coho…

August 18
With sunrise coming a little later these days there is a certain urgency in the dining room at breakfast.  The staff is hustling just to keep eggs in the pan! Everyone wants to be on the water as soon as possible to capitalize on an awesome morning bite.  We are getting Chinooks just a little farther from shore this week, usually down about 40 feet in 140 feet of water…  First timer Andrea Dietel and her husband Chris, fishing with guide Mike Borelli have had a great time catching Tyees – a 35 & 37 on Monday, 32 & 48 on Wednesday.  Jeff Lund boated a beauty 40 pounder early in the week while Jessica Eussen, fishing with her dad Remy and guide Mike McLennan, landed and released an awesome 43 pounder off Parker Point.  Well done Jessica!  Burmah Martin has 3 big Tyees so far in her trip with 39, 40 and a 33 pounder which she chose to release.  Lots of fish in the mid 30s are keeping the Tyee bell ringing every evening…

August 21
The flat water and blue sky combination provided one of those dream days to be out on the grounds.  Some anglers took advantage and ventured offshore to watch the Humpbacks feeding steadily on needlefish and krill, a totally awesome experience that really should not be missed…Gonzalo De Braganza took the lead early on Friday, choosing to release the biggest salmon of the weekend, a chrome bright 45 pounder at Parker Point.  Great job!  Tony Vigini boated a nice 38 while Preston Kelts managed a 33 and a 38 pounder on his first day.  Tia Walsh celebrated a beautiful 37 lb Chinook on Saturday and Brent Lobson came to the scale with a fat 40 pounder.  The perfect water conditions had everyone fishing Halibut and Tom Levesque found a 69 pound reward Saturday with guide Derek Poitras out off of Eagle Rock…

Now, I trust you understand why QCL is at the top of my ‘Bucket List’. Contact the Lodge and book your next trip. Please tell them Muskoka Outdoors sent you…

*photos and report content used with permission from the QCL Blog

Catching a walleye (or pickerel to some) on Lake Vernon was said to only be possible in stories of legend and past lore. On an evening fishing venture last week, dad and I hooked into some of these elusive fish.

First catch of the night - walleye

We are not exactly sure what initiated the fish’s return to the lake. It has been said that a dam upstream broke or water levels peaked causing the pickerel to escape from lakes further upstream the watershed. Whatever happened, I dare say the walleye are making a welcome return comeback into my favorite lake.

I should have felt the winds of change into our favour when dad asked to stop and buy some worms before we hit the water. Any event that rarely happens unless we are taking the kids fishing.

As the sun began to set, we trolled around to the dark side of a Vernon island and hit a 12 foot stretch of water. That was when dad’s walleye rig, with a golden spinner and worm, began to shine. Within a few minutes he had hooked, netted and released two 16″ – 18″ walleye. The walleye would have made excellent meals, but we wanted to ensure that these spawning sized fish would help their species’ make a comeback.

Dad's second fish

We trolled back and forth in the 12-foot trough and had numerous near ‘catches’ and several worms slurped off the hook. I tried using a white Gulp twister tail in place of worm, but the pickerel did not seem to bite at it with the same intensity as the worms.

This night, at least, the pickerel enjoyed staying at 12-feet. Anytime we ventured out of this zone, the fury stopped or slowed. The surface temp was 66F and troll speed was set at 5 on the Minn Kota dial.

I hope to see you all out there this summer. We’ll be hovering off an island point to the left – legend hunting!

Tigerback. A term of endearment given to a particular smallmouth bass that haunted the docks of children’s camp I use to work at. Only, myself and 6 other campers, know his name. Until now, only the 7 of us knew his secret.

I first met Tigerback while practising some swimming lengths at the camp’s waterfront. Something caught my attention in the shallow end of the waterfront while I exited via the the deep-end ladder. A large smallmouth bass was swimming very close to the surface of the water. I could clearly see the ‘tiger-like’ formations (at least they looked like that to me)on it’s back as it swam back and forth between the docks.

I named it Tigerback and it soon became legend!

After a few minutes of swimming, he disappeared into the murky depths.

Later that week, I managed to call mom to bring me fishing gear. I was going to go Tiger hunting. For three afternoons I threw everything I had in my tackle box to try to entice a return visit from ‘Tigerback’. I casted spoons, plugs, jitterbugs, and Mepps around those docks with not , so much as, a swirl from its tail. When I was not working  - I could be found at the docks casting like a mad man.

Captain Ahab would have been proud.

After several days defeat, I visited the waterfront again – without my fishing gear. I thought some swimming would get my mind off the behemoth fish. After a relaxing swim, I started to towel off my hair when I noticed Tigerback swimming some victory laps in the shallow end again.

Oh, if I only had a harpoon!

I left the waterfront in disbelief as I watched the wary bass swim back out into the river.

Two weeks later I returned with a new battle plan. Six of my campers wanted to try fishing. They had never done it before. We raided the craft cupboard and found some 20lb test line and a package of hooks.

It seems destiny favored the creative.

Then, we found some sturdy sticks that we could tie 6ft lengths of fishing line on to. The final touch consisted of some worm hunting in the camps flower beds. With a dozen, or so, worms in a coffee mug we marched down the waterfront hill and started fishing with our rustic equipment.

The kids loved it. Their eyes were wide with amazement as perch and sunfish would swarm their hooked bait. I would spend several minutes that afternoon going over the parts of fish, identification, and hook removal procedures.

I forget which kid it was, but suddenly, we had an issue. One of the kids said, “I am hooked on something!”

As we peered over the edge of the dock I saw old ‘Tigerback’ with a hook coming out of his mouth. The 6ft line did not leave room for a fun fight. I simply helped the kid pull the brute out of the water and on to the dock. The kids swarmed around the lucky angler and watched with gaping mouths as held ‘Tigerback’ by his bottom lip and unhooked him from the small hook.

One of the kids remarked that they swim with that thing and hinted that his final afternoons at camp may be spent canoeing and not swimming. With some more questions and pointing, the kids waved to ‘Tigerback’ as I released him to the dark depths.

These kids became hooked on fishing from that day forward. That was the secret of old ‘Tigerback’.

No one has seen him since.

I suspect he is still out there.

Somewhere.

If you want to catch him. Take a kid fishing.

*My reloaded blog posts are some of my favorite previous posts made current again.

Two weeks ago I took a day trip down a remote section of the Big East River. The vistas were fantastic and the speckled trout were biting.

Craig and I found that the trout did not start to bite until we reached and area of shallow to medium rapids that were impassable without portaging. The specks were hunkered down in the riffles and ambush points found within the fast moving sections. We used light cahills and casted upstream of potential hiding spots and watched them drift down with the current. IF the drift was right, we were rewarded with great aerobatics from the leaping specks.

To change things up in this post, I have put the photos together in a video slideshow format. The pictures should speak for themselves. Regrettably, there are no fish photos. It seems I could not juggle 6 to 11 inch trout and work my camera very effectively. Craig’s fish seemed to always be out of range for me to get to him quickly. We felt it was better for the trout to ensure quick releases.

Within moments he had tied on a small brown nymph, waded effortlessly into knee deep water and hooked into an an acrobatic, speckled trout. After he released the ‘chromed-out’ trout, he looked my way upstream and pointed to the dark pool I should land my fly into. I took a hesitant step into the cold stream as he continued downstream like a modern day fishing Moses.

The fast moving water seemed to retreat around him with every step. It was at that moment I knew that I had entered the water with a real Streamwalker.

Craig Releasing a Big East Brookie

When the fly, I tried to cast into the chosen pool, got hung-up in the branches on shore behind me – I knew my journey to becoming a Streamwalker was just beginning.

While untangling my fly line from the offending bush,  my eyes tried to ‘take-in’ where I was. I had never fly fished in an area like this before. It was like the pages of my favorite  fishing magazine had come to life and I was wading in a western Canada whitewater river. I was only 40 minutes from home and wading in a virtual trout paradise – somewhere on the Big East River. It was the kind of place only a Streamwalker would know about.

When I was ready to try a second cast, I noticed that the Streamwalker was already releasing a second trout. Amazed, excited and almost discouraged the words of another master came to mind,

“Do or do not. There is no try…”

I started my backcast and methodically started working the deep pool with a small Adams. Slowly, I began to work my way towards the angling master. It took me awhile to notice at the beginning, but I am pretty sure he would watch and anticipate my route down the noisy river. He would leave some pools and underwater ledges untouched by his fly. He at least hoped that the trailing rookie moving, clumsily, toward him might be able to tempt a wary trout.

That was the only mistake I saw him make. I could not catch anything but suspended branches behind me and hidden rocks in the babbling stream.

Halfway through our journey down this section of the Big East River, we both stopped and rested on rocky boulders. He asked me what I was using and hesitantly I showed him the tattered fly barely clinging to the hook.

“That’s no good,” he said. “Use one of these.”

Craig - Streamwalker

I think he slowed time as he reached for my fly rod with its shortened tippet. The route downstream had been hard on it.

Before I could protest with any kind of significant resistance, he placed the reel back into my hands with a new marbly, green-beaded nymph and fresh section of fly tippet. This time our adventure continued with the Streamwalker showing me how to read the water for ambush points, rocky ledges, and depth changes. He reminded me to start my casting close and finish towards a 12′oclock position when I approached a new section of stream.

“The least amount of times your fly hits the water before you let it drift increases your chance for a strike,”, he instructed while I struggled to get my nymph to reach a suspended tree trunk on the far side. My friend made his way upstream to me and kindly gave me a lesson in false casting. My casting distance improved slightly after that but it became quickly apparent to me that I may not ever become a Streamwalker.

With a looming sunset on the horizon, we decided to make our way back to our vehicle. The walk back upstream was silent and tiring. The problem with fishing in a spot chosen by a Streamwalker – is the walk back. I found myself wanting to make one last cast back into the pools we had fished hours earlier. It did not help that I had not hooked any trout. Despite this fact, the experience of fishing in such an incredible and seemingly remote area made this trip very memorable.

Later that evening, I tried to explain to my father where I had just been fishing. It seemed my description of area landmarks triggered some old and almost forgotten memories in his mind. He shared some stories of, some 50 years past, how he had spent time on that very section of the river with his father. He then proudly announced that his dad had once caught some nice speckled trout in the very pool my adventure today started in.

It would seem that my grandfather was once a Streamwalker…

It would be hard to detect now, but if you looked closely, you might be able to see the evidence. I am referring to a small, short lived war that occurred on the shores of Tim Lake in Algonquin Park. I was only a kid.

The story you are about to read is not for the squeamish at heart. That’s probably why you won’t find it in any Canadian history book. I assure you that it really happened.

I was there. I started it.

It all began with our annual father/son fishing trip into Algonquin Park. None of us wanted a war – we just wanted to fish ’till we dropped. We set-up our campsite on a very large portion of the island that you see (in front of you) as you exit the Tim River. It was flat and sprawling. This made it ideal for a large group like ours.

After camp was ready, dad and I explored the surrounding area. Behind the campsite was a hill. A trail led up to this hill and at the top of it you could overlook the campsite. The rest of the guys were sitting around a campfire. If you followed the trail further, you would come to the outhouse that ‘serviced’ the campers.

It would have been a great photo-op, but dad and I never intended to bring the camera with us. After admiring the view, I took a small step back from the side of the hill and something crunched under my foot.

I looked down.

I had just stepped in a big pile of crusty, aged moose pellets. Dad chuckled. Upon further inspection, we noticed there was a ton of them in various piles at the top of the hill. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe, it was because we held the high ground. Perhaps, I was still enough of a kid to think it would be funny. I grabbed a moose pellet and launched it toward the guys sitting around the campfire. I thought dad would take issue over what I had just done. Instead, he grabbed a couple of pellets and fired a volley.

That’s how easy wars can start.

It took a few seconds for the guys to realize what exactly was falling from the sky towards them. Their reactions varied from, “What is that?” to “WHO IS THROWING THE MOOSE POO?!”

Their payback was swift and quick. We were quickly dodging falling moose dung. I remember laughing so hard my stomach and jaw hurt. For about 25 seconds all you could observe were grown men, and their sons, diving and dodging to avoid being hit with ungulate pellets.

I was glad Dad and I held the high ground. We were spared from the guys’ full fury.

As quickly as it started, it was over. I think the reality of what were doing finally hit us. The sounds of war subsided except for various flare-ups of laughter. We all washed our hands (that was for your sake mom) and returned back to maritime civilian life.

The war was over. The battle became known as Moose Hill.

* my Reloaded series of posts are old posts that have been enjoyed by MO blog visitors in years past. They may be buried in my blog to be easily found.