Fishing the Woodland Caribou: Signature Site

By Bruce Ranta, Ontario OUT OF DOORS, June 2005

For weeks, Lil and I had been thinking about a canoeing and fishing expedition into Woodland Caribou Provincial Park, but hadn’t come to ground on exactly where to go. Finally, I decided to talk to my friend Gene Halley, a tourist operator who has camps around the park, for advice.

“Funny you should mention that,” said Gene, after I finished explaining our dilemma. “Wanda and I were just discussing a trip into the park with our friends Jon and Jodi (Ouellette), and were thinking it would be nice to have one more couple join us.”

That certainly worked out well, I thought. It took several weeks of phone calls and discussions to get everything organized, but finally our trip was a go for five days in early July.

Our plan was to fly into Gene’s outpost on Chase Lake and haul canoes by motorboats to the mouth of the Oiseau River (also called the Bird River). From there, at the edge of the park, we’d paddle upstream into the interior. We could fish walleye on Chase, Midway, and Eagle Lakes, but once inside the park we would be pretty much in trout and pike country.

Jon, Jodi, Lil, and I would go Saturday morning, so we’d have most of the day to relax and fish on Chase Lake. Gene and Wanda would meet us the next day around noon, when they’d be dropped off by plane at our departure spot on the park’s boundary. According to Gene, our only commitment, other than to be there safe and sound, was to have a pan of fresh walleye, home fries, and beans waiting for them upon arrival. We planned to spend three to five nights in the park, taking a circle tour up the Bird River and down the Talon River, which would bring us back to our boats on Eagle Lake.

Gene’s floatplane base – River Air – is north of Kenora on Pistol Lake, part of the Winnipeg River, just outside the town of Minake. On the morning of our departure the sun took a while to burn off heavy fog. When the skies cleared, the four of us, plus two pilots, all our gear, most of Gene and Wanda’s gear, and one canoe fit easily into and on the Otter.

Within minutes, the densely cottaged shoreline of Pistol Lake faded in the distance. I watched as we passed over the shimmering and island-studded waters of the English River, and then I recognized one of the big 1983 burns. Shortly after the forest fire had raced through, the area had become lush with new growth and was a moose mecca, but now it’s an endless sea of small Jack pine, not fit for man nor beast. Finally, we passed over a dark green mat of large spruce and pine and began our descent to Chase Lake.

Interconnected Chase, Midway, and Eagle Lakes have tremendous walleye fisheries. A few years back, I organized a caribou-collaring project from the same cabin we were now going to bunk in, and when we had time in the evenings, we fished. It was some of the best walleye action I’d ever experienced. So, after unloading gear, I was anxious to get out on the water and slam some yellows.

“Maybe we’ll see a caribou,” I told Lil, as we pushed the boat out from the dock. Chase had extensive areas of pondweed, and that’s where we found the walleye. While working a hot bite near a large island, where the deep edge of a weedline melded into a bouldery shoal, I glanced down the shoreline and noticed fallen trees in the water – including one that was moving!

“Lil, get the camera,” I whispered. “There’s a caribou swimming towards the island.”

I managed to start the motor on the first pull, but the caribou are great swimmers and the magnificent young bull was really moving. From previous experience I knew it was too far away to get real close, and I didn’t want to harass it, but a photo would be nice. We were lucky on both counts. It was the only caribou we saw during our trip.

After a good night’s sleep on a mattress, a solar-powered hot shower, and a hearty breakfast, we packed gear and headed for the north end of Eagle Lake, where we found a suitable place for the plane to land safely. To prepare shore lunch, Jon and I were assigned to the miserable task of catching fresh walleye for lunch, which we were able to do without difficulty or complaining.

For the first night, Gene was keen on making it to a mid-sized unnamed lake about a half-dozen portages and three miles into the park. We arrived with about an hour of sunlight left. The fire had burned right to the rock-rimmed lakeshore, and it seemed to offer little in the way of a campsite. We found one, but it was uneven and rocky. Oh well, we knew some nights would be rough.

I like canoeing, but have never been much into tripping. Most of my paddling comes about because it’s the best, most practical, or only way to get into some out-of-the-way places to fish or hunt.

So, when Gene used his satellite phone to get his boys to leave a foam mattress at our next destination (his air mattress had sprung a leak, so the night had been particularly unpleasant for Gene and Wanda), I wasn’t going to complain. As far as I was concerned, this wasn’t an endurance test. Besides, Gene promised there would be a “nice surprise” waiting for us at the campsite.

Gene hadn’t paddled through the park before, but was familiar with the route because, before the park was regulated, he used to snowmobile and trap in the area.

After breakfast and another four hours or so of paddling and portaging – all still within the old burn - we finally found ourselves surrounded by intact forest when we reached Lostboat Lake. Gene said we should troll to the far side of it, by which time we should have enough trout for lunch. Sure enough, soon Jodi and Wanda both had nice trout flopping in their canoes. It looked like Lil and I were going to come up empty, but a fish hit just as we were about to reel up. When I lost it, I took some friendly ribbing.

After lunch, it was back to the routine; paddle, paddle, paddle. Our goal was Aegean Lake. It was a long day, but the campsite on Aegean, where we planned on staying for at least two nights, was a welcome site. It was on a small island where the ground was flat and dry, with plenty of room for both tents and cooking.

That’s when we discovered what Gene had meant by a “nice surprise.” There was a cooler full of fresh shrimp, steaks, and bottles of chilled white wine. We feasted until our bellies bulged.

Waking up rejuvenated to another gorgeous day, it was time for serious lake trout fishing. The summer of 2004 was the coldest recorded in nearby Winnipeg in more than 100 years, but the weather for the few days we spent in Woodland Caribou was everything one could dream about.

Gene told us that, once we were about a mile to the west of our campsite, there was a big trough where we could count on catching trout. With only a slight ripple on the water, the paddle was easy.

I helped Lil get a three-way swivel rig in order and let her fish while I paddled, but the fish were uncooperative at first. After about an hour, she had a hit, but that was it. Gene and Wanda hadn’t done any better, but once again Jodi came through and landed a 5-pound trout.

Gene brought his canoe alongside Lil and I to discuss tactics and suggest we cast for pike in a nearby shallow bay. “There’s a good chance we will hook into a real monster,” he said. Although we did catch a couple of medium-sized pike, the big one that followed Wanda’s spoon refused to bite.

After working the bay, we tried once more for trout, and this time it didn’t take long for Lil to hook a 4-pounder. By then we were getting hungry and saw that the two other canoes were heading back to camp.

“I’ll try jigging by one of those points on the way home,” I told Lil. “They look like classic trout hotspots, and I just can’t go by them after all this paddling.”

I tried to make up my mind whether to try the sheer rock face or the point, given I’d probably only have time to hit one spot. I was leaning towards the cliff face. As we neared it the breeze died and the water went calm. I took it as a sign from above.

“Let’s try right beside the face of the rock,” I said.

“Okay, you can fish and I’ll just keep the canoe in place,” offered Lil. “What are you going to try?”

“The Cicada. It will get down to the bottom fast.”

We pulled the canoe to about 15 feet from the cliff face, where I dropped the lure and counted off line passes to estimate depth. To my delight, it was about 80 feet deep. Perfect.

On the second jig a trout hit. After a 5-minute fight I brought the dark laker to the canoe and Lil snapped a few quick photos before I released the fish.

“Should we get back to camp? I’m getting hungry,” asked Lil, as we watched the fish head into the darkness below.

“I want to try one more time,” I replied.

I dropped the Cicada back to the bottom and again jigged twice. Nothing. I reeled in and stopped about halfway to the surface. For a moment, nothing happened, then I felt a solid tap. Again, I set the hook and line peeled off the spool as the trout sounded.

“This is a good one Lil!” I said.

Wild lakers are hard fighters, and in my dreams I often find myself duking it out with a big one. This, however was no dream. I knew the fish could easily be the best one of our trip. I desperately wanted to land it and take photos. Finally, after a frantic 10 minutes or so, I tired the laker out. With the trout laying subdued beside the canoe, I managed to hoist the fish in without tipping over.

Lil quickly rapped off film using two cameras, just to be sure, and I gently released the trout back into the cool waters. Almost instantly, the fish revived and, with a thrust of its big forked tail, headed straight to bottom.

Although we had hoped to get to Wrist Lake – another trout hotspot where Gene figured we would have a chance to tie into a 20-pounder – time wasn’t on our side. If we got an early start the next morning, Gene thought we could make it back to Chase Lake before dark.

“It’s a long paddle, and there are quite a few portages, but most are short,” he explained. “If the weather holds out, it shouldn’t be too bad.”

Well, it was a hard day, with close to 20 portages and one big bear sighting, but we made it back to Chase before dark. We even had time to stop and admire a small bog full of pitcher plants in bloom. By the time we were in our bunks, though, we were all worn out. Tired, but happy. With good friends, in gorgeous country, and blessed with super weather, it had been a great trip. As I felt myself falling asleep, I imagined battling a huge trout in Wrist Lake. “Next time,” I thought, then drifted off.