Until a few years ago, all my travels in the far north had been vicarious experiences as I read books written by early travelers and journals kept by soldiers, explorers, and missionaries who spoke of this land as one of great beauty, yet with a savage and unforgiving environment. Through the words of these people, I put an aura about this far off land that I had to experience for myself.

Finally a chance came for me to travel far into the interior of northern Manitoba and Saskatchewan. As people do, I had preconceptions of what the far north would look like, how it would smell, and sound. My senses were acute as I stepped off the bush plane onto the sandy beach that bordered part of the Little Churchill River. Even though it was nearly ten-thirty at night, daylight was grudgingly hanging on and darkness would not fully settle for a couple hours.

The spruce trees made a jagged black line against the evening sky, and a white throated sparrow was making his last plaintive calls. The most lasting impression I had was the silence, the complete, foreboding silence. It was not a tranquil, soothing quiet that one might expect, but a heavy quiet that made me feel like an intruder, a stranger to this land.

As I shouldered my pack and headed to the cabin that was to be home for the next several days, I felt an urge to get out and feel the land, develop a relationship and become a part of it. Originally, my main purpose for being here was to catch fish until my arms fell off, but not now. Somehow that suddenly seemed greedy and selfish, something an intruder would do.

The next morning I awoke early enough, but the long summer day had begun hours earlier. The soberness I had experienced the day before waned somewhat as I busied myself with morning chores and got ready for the day.

The half dozen Cree Indians that lived on the point where I was staying told me about a set of rapids at the lower end of a lake and that they were very beautiful, yet few people went there. It sounded like the perfect place to do a little sightseeing and perhaps come to grips with this foreign feeling that stuck with me. The rapids were only a short boat ride away and you could hear their rushing noise long before I could see them.

At the lower end of the lake the moss and spruce gave way to rock and low bushes. The huge slabs of granite appeared to be Precambrian, just like the rocky shield area of northeastern Minnesota. At this point the land suddenly began to drop away and the river turned into a series of foaming cascades that disappeared into the woods once again.

At home, or anywhere in more a populated area, this beautiful section of wild river would have been turned into a park or tourist attraction. Here it was just another section of fast water to be portaged around and be admired by only a few lucky people.

This land was beautiful and was suddenly becoming friendlier as it almost urged me on to follow the rapids further.

Occasionally, the rapids formed huge side pools where I had to walk a considerable distance just to get around, but each turn in the river was an adventure. It was almost as if you could stop and hear the paddling and singing of merry voyageurs, or the lyrical language of the ancient Indians as they moved across the land in pursuit of caribou. I was beginning to feel a part of the land.

Finally the rapids slowly eased into a slower moving section. About half way across a huge rock cushioned the current and formed a slick eddy. It was too inviting. A spot like that just had to hold a fish.

I tied on a tiny jig and stepped out on a rock to get as close as possible. The first few casts fell short of the eddy and were carried away by the faster water, but with all the motion I could muster and still stay on the rock, I finally dropped the lure into the slick area.

No sooner had the jig begun to slip down to the bottom when it was grabbed by something alive. The fish immediately bolted for fast water in hopes of fleeing this confusing morsel that clung to it’s jaw. It zipped through the current with ability that only a river-born fish could muster, but eventually the rod won and the fish finned slowly near my feet.

To my sheer delight I saw this acrobatic fish was not a small pike or even a walleye, but a beautiful arctic grayling, the first one I’d ever caught. I gently picked it up. It’s long dorsal fin was spotted with neon turquiose, and it’s sides were iridescent purple.  

Admiring the small fish, I knew it had never been in contact with man before. It’s home waters were still unpolluted, and it’s delicate life balance was still unaltered by human encroachment. To keep the grayling would have been a crime. It belonged to the river, not on my wall or in a black frying pan. I gently released it. For a moment it sat in the calm water near my feet, but then quickly darted back into the current.

As I watched it disappear I felt good, all the ominous stirrings inside me left. It dawned on me that this beautiful land was not to be conquered, abused, or stripped of its resources, but that the only way to know was to become part of it, enjoy it for what it has to offer, yet take nothing from it.

As I headed back to the cabin I felt at peace with this land now far to the north. It was a good feeling, one which I know can be found just about anywhere people can get close to nature.

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I suppose there’s more than one way to catch a fish!

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I was on a camping/party excursion with some friends and acquaintances (no names will be mentioned to protect the innocent). The campground was on the Mississippi River. Some people had brought fishing equipment and I asked to use it for abit. Permission was granted and I grab a rod and some beers to head down the bank of the river to wet my line and my whistle. Reaching what I thought to be a good location, I set up shop. The afternoon/early evening was nice and I was enjoying myself even with no bites on the line. Now the bait/lure I was using probably had no business being on the line for where I was, but I didn’t care, I was just hanging out.

Time went bye and I heard some rustling behind me, as though someone was coming. I thought it was someone I was camping with, no big deal, hopefully bringing me some more beers. Well I was wrong, I looked over my shoulder as they approached and saw Mr. DNR Conservation Officer! We talked for abit about the fishing, weather, blah blah blah. He asked me for my fishing license. Well, I was in a pickle since I didn’t have one. We talked for awhile longer, with no way of me getting out of this one.

Results of this was a warning, confiscation of the rod (which wasn’t even mine) and humiliation going back to camp. I paid the guy who’s rod it was for my mistake. I’ve always, always bought a fishing/hunting license for whatever I’m up to.

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