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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Now I will be the first to say that all good fishing is not gone. However, rarely will you have great fishing without plenty of effort and good old fishing savvy, the latter being the most important. Understanding game fish, their habits and biology in general will help you catch more fish than any fishing rod made from the latest space age material or fifty tackle boxes filled with the latest lures.

A number of years ago, a few friends and I decided we were going to go to Lake Superior and take in a little steelhead fishing. None of us had ever fished these overgrown rainbow trout before, but we were willing to learn. I decided the first thing to do was to read up on Great Lakes steelhead fishing. At that time there was very little information available and I ended up ordering a book from Michigan. It was the best thing I ever did.

Several months later, I was in the Brule River along with several other runny-nosed, shivering anglers methodically drifting spawn bags through deep holes. The fishing was as cold as the air; not a single fish moved.

I decided to leave the crowd and do a little exploring upstream. Perhaps there were some undisturbed fish that just might hit. After a few hundred yards the river got shallower-looking more like the rivers referred to in the book I’d read.

“Ah! This looks good.” I said to myself as I slid down the bank.

Slowly, like it was my last chance on earth, I cast toward a spot where fast water dropped into a deep hole. I could feel the imitation spawn sack skip along the bottom. Then it stopped. My first reaction was frustration. Stuck on the bottom again and it was one of my last baits, but just then I remembered a phrase from the book I’d read “…always set the hook when your bait stops. It may be a rock, or it may be a trophy steelhead.”

“What the heck!” I lifted my rod and held tight. For a moment there was a dead weight.  Then it began to move upstream. There attached to my line was the prettiest fish I had ever seen. Through the clear water I could make out it’s olive green back and vivid pink sides. At first the rainbow seemed oblivious to the hook embedded in it’s jaw, but the realization soon set in. With a flip of it’s broad tail, it was into the fast current, with me stumbling after. Three sets of rapids, a borrowed net, and several close calls later, the big fish slid into the net.

Even though I’ve caught several steelhead since, this is still the most memorable fish of all. Why? Because even though I was as green as they come, I was able to take a trophy fish when everyone else caught nothing but colds. I had caught this fish on book learning and the experience of those before me.

Today there is an array of educational fishing material beyond belief; books are written about every specie of sportfish there is, televison shows feature fishing experts imparting their sage wisdom and sportshows tout big name fishing professionals giving instructional seminars. Not to mention the internet, where it all is.

Before you think you already know so much that the experience of others won’t help, think again. I’ve met many of the best anglers in the country and they still study extensively.

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Like most young boys, I loved to catch fish, and I still do. In fact, I enjoyed reeling in fish so much I used to occasionally land a fish, give it a chance to rest, rehook it and land it again! While that may seem a little extreme, it was, but I learned something from it. Most fish have incredibly hard mouths. It was difficult enough to push the hook into the fish’s jaw with my hand let alone doing it with a flexible rod and several feet of stretchy line!

Let’s take the northern pike and muskie for examples. These big brutes are perhaps the most difficult to hook because their mouths are made up of hard boney parts with patches of tender flesh and skin between the bones. This means the hook either hits hard bone or easy to tear flesh. No wonder so many big northern pikes and muskies are the “ones that get away.”

Without a doubt, the best way to handle these big fish is with a good stiff rod. It takes real power to drive the hooks home. Many times I’ve hooked a big northern pike while fishing bass with a light rod and I’ll set the hook as hard as the rod can stand without breaking, but generally not one hook will sink home. The proper gear is a major thing to consider.

Secondly, it is important to always keep a tight line on the fish. Many times, when a big northern pike or muskie chomps down on your lure (primarily speaking of wood baits) their teeth will sink right into the lure and there is no way you can slide the lure through their jaws to set the hook. The hooks usually find a hold during the fight sometime when the fish relaxes its jaws enough for the lure to slide. If you don’t keep a tight line, you may miss the only instant you’ll have to set the hook.

Finally, one of the most important things you can do is something I’ll bet many folks have never done. That is to sharpen your hooks.  More big fish owe their lives to dull hooks than to any other reason.

A simple test for sharpness is to drag the point of the hook across your thumbnail. A sharp hook will scribe a fine white line across the nail, while a dull hook will just slide.

To sharpen your hooks, use a jeweler’s file or small sharpening stone. Make the strokes toward the point of the hook, being careful you don’t exert too much pressure and bend the point. Then just use the previously mentioned test to see if the hook is ready.

If you take all the precautions and get prepared for the time when that one big monster finally hits, chances are it’ll be yours, rather than just another “one that got away.”

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However, in the middle of a jump is when many fish make their real bid for freedom and throw the hook disdainfully back at the hapless fisherman.

What should you do when a fish jumps? In the excitement of the moment it seems there’s not much anyone can do but let the fish jump and pray the hook stays stuck.  However, many a fish has been lost in mid-leap that could have been caught had the angler been prepared.

What you do depends largely upon whether you hung the fish on a weighted lure, such as a plug or an unweighted one, such as a fly or baited hook. A keeper bass with a 5/8 ounce spoon rattling around its jaw will come out shaking its head violently, thrashing the lure from side to side.  The weight of the lure often provides enough leverage for the fish to toss it away, especially if the hook is not firmly embedded. So when you find yourself hooked to an acrobat, lean back on the rod when it erupts from the water; tighten up on the line and try to tip the fish over, thus preventing him from tossing the lure around and flinging it free.

A fly or baited hook, on the other hand, has little weight and there is little danger in the fish throwing it free. The danger lies in the possibility that the fish may hit a taught line with its tail or fall on it and either break the line or tear the hook free. Therefore, when a fly-hung fish leaps from the water, lower your rod tip quickly, lean forward and throw as much slack into the line as possible. That way the line is slack if the fish falls on it. After the fish is back in the water, lift the rod tip with a sweeping motion to pick up the slack again.

Should you try to prevent a fish from jumping in order to increase your chances of landing it? I don’t think so. In fact, as I mentioned earlier, most people love to see a good old, water spraying, gill flaring fish jump. First of all, it is pretty, and secondly, jumping tires a fish quickly. Finally, if I am going to lose a fish, I’d like to go down in style-right in the middle of its jump!

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My wife and kids (two boys 10 and 13) wanted to go Salmon fishing, as there was a Coho window open in front of the beach. My dad came and we took the boat north, around Bush Point, then close to the beach and anchored up.

It was a late afternoon trip, more to enjoy the scenery than anything else. We had two salmon rods and two trout rods fishing with “buzz bombs” aka Pt. townsend darts. Nice. Sunny. Warm. Took the trout rods ’cause they were in the boat, and figuring they would be a nice match for the small resident coho.

Well, a school of Chinook swam through the darts, inhaling two of them. My wife had one on a Salmon rod, and my 10 year old had one on a trout rod. I didn’t know who to help first…..wife who had never caught anything larger than a trout in her life, or my son, who loves to fish.

My son reeled the Chinook to the boat….a lot of times these fish swim up to the boat, take a look, then take off….and this is exactly what happened. He was holding the rod up, had the drag cranked down, but the fish was swimming away like a train. I tried to apply additional pressure to the fish by pinching the line between my fingers, but as soon as I had done that, and was starting to mention to my dad that we better chase this fish, the line reached the bottom of the spool and “PINK” (this was the sound of the line breaking at the knot attaching the line to the spool). My son had this shocked look on his face, and I thought he was going to cry. I said “I’ll be right back….

Went over to my wife that was fighting the Chinook salmon on the salmon rod, she was doing a great job with my did helping with instructions. Several time she said “it’s gone…” but you could see the line getting closer to the boat, and we’d shout “reel! reel faster!”. After a bit, my wife was getting tired, but she brought the fish to the boat and my dad netted it. The fish was about 18 lbs, a nice fish, but the season for Chinooks was closed, so we couldn’t keep it. I looked at my dad….and we read each others minds….should we keep it? Is anyone looking?…but then made the decision to let the fish go. I gently removed the hook from the mouth of the fish, kept it in the net for a minute, took the picture in my mind, and let the fish go. She (it was a hen) swam away healthy.

Gave my wife a hug and said congratulations on her first salmon, then remembered I still had a job to do with my son. I went over to him, and said that it was a privelige to hook one of these fish, and an honor to be spooled by one. There will be more.

To this day, we still laugh about the fish that got away.

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