2MoreMiles…

For some reason or another, there is no early rising this morning.  The sense of urgency to get out on the water has wained a bit.  As we ate last night’s dinner, grey and gloomy clouds enveloped the lake.  Looked like a storm was a brew’n.  By lights out the lake’s surface was covered in 2-3 foot chop.  Sleep came quickly as the dark clouds cloaked the pesky moon, and the wind howled with a hypnotic rhythm.  When we finally rose for the mornings “rituals” the wind had abated, but the lake’s surface was still littered with ridges that made a boat ride less inviting.  Pancakes and bacon beckoned, a summons we accepted.  Breakfast was followed by a round robin of cribbage, some light reading and cabin chores, accented with a round or two of Toasted Caramel whiskey, all in an effort to at least feel busy doing “nothing” while we waited and hoped for the weather to improve for us to be enticed outside  The problem is that we have been spoiled with fantastic weather and water conditions, so anything short of slick glassy water was “unacceptable”.  As if on cue, and at the moment complete boredom was starting to raise it’s ugly head, the lake surface “relaxed”.  To “change” things up, we switched up the boats.  Paul would fish with his cousin Sparky and I would fish with Mike. Last night while doing our best to assist with the filleting of our cabin mates and my parents catch (this consisted of me rinsing fillets as Paul pumped the water) I noticed a map of the lake with colored marking nailed to the fish cleaning enclosure.  The green lines appeared to indicate where to “find” walleye, and the brown where to “find”, or in our case avoid, pike.  Figures it would be the next to the last day that we would notice/discover this.

This “treasure map” would have been useful yesterday!  We mention this morning that we should make it a point to hit all those places we saw on the map that we haven’t fished yet.  We wonder if our host has a copy of that map, and ponder what we should do.  Ah, use the cameras on our phones, duh!  Why this took so long for us to come up with this, is why our children roll their eyes at us when we discover a “new” feature on our phones, or rip it out of our hands when we are attempting a “long” text, and fininsh it for us.  For Mike and I, our plan is to find and land a bigger fish than Sparky.  So far, his first day, first hour walleye is the “tournament” winner.  Everyone in camp is rooting for someone, anyone, to bring in a bigger fish than Sparky.  Mike and I discuss the possible use of rocks to “enhance” the weight of a nearly similar size fish.  We hit the water and it’s Fish On! in a matter of minutes.  We let that one go as it does not meet our minimum size limit of 16 inches.  We refer to our map and try out a new area.  We drift past the areas assigned “green” with Walleye and are not impressed.  We spy a cove and drift past its point and WHAM, a 22 incher.  We have found the spot, and it is NOT on the map (nor will it get on the map).  We drift again and again.  It reminded me of going to the fishing convention shows with my dad when we were little and they would have these onsite fishing ponds with fish “trained” to hit your “fisher price” set up.  For the sake of being “sporting”, we decided to bring it in and find the others and see how they were doing.  Apparently not as good as us, but they weren’t fishless.  This lake would be awesome with a sweet suped up bass boat.  Imagine cranking up the motor, flipping our hats backwards and racing at ridiculous speeds to spot after spot after spot.  You’d have to make up spots.  With only two fish left to fill our days’ limit, we decide to try our luck at finding the allusive perch that are said to also dwell in this lake.  We find the bottom a little too snaggy and ditch that idea in favor of moose hunting.  There are several rivers and streams that feed into and flow out of Oba lake.  We find one whose opening has lilly pads lining the “river’s” edge.

We snake our way gingerly up the narrow river passing massive beaver lodges.  We get drawn deeper and deeper into the “abyss”.  No sign of moose.  We are suddenly aware of how still our surroundings have become.  The quiet putter of our 9hp engine breaks the eerie silence.  The skies start to cloud up again.  Mike starts to get a little worried and wants to turn back.  No one knows where we are, and if the motor craps out on us, or we actually find a moose (or a bear) and they are not happy about being discovered, it will be a long paddle back to camp…for one of us.  The adventuring side of me wants to continue, but the Murphy’s Law “app” in me sides with Mike and we turn back. We head back to our honey hole and fish like the fools we are till it starts to drizzle and we are satisfied with our catch for the day.  Nothing that will win the ‘tournament”, but some damn Nice Fish.  We return triumphant with a full stringer and retreat to the warmth of our cabin.  Paul and Sparky are already in, as well as my parents.  Mike hastily and with the finese of a neuro surgeon fillets our catch for tonight’s fish dinner.  Tonight we prepare fish tacos and eat until we are past “thanksgiving full”.  One more day remains to beat Sparky.  We have caught all we can bring home, so tomorrow will be catch n’ release until someone lands a “Hog”.

(This is the last “mini adventure” post of our trip to Oba Lake. Seeing as we are less than 2 months out for leaving for Spain and our trek of The Camino, I will switch to Camino mode, our prep, gear, travel and logistics challenges and remedies…and now we return to our previously scheduled post)

Up early this time with a quick bite to eat.  This is it.  The last day to pull in something good, and today I have decided to increase the degree of difficulty and fish exclusively with my (only intact) fly rod whose reel is set up with a sinking line.  I figure that mostly I will catch pike, but I don’t care.  I also figure however, that if I catch a decent size walleye approaching the size of Mark’s on a fly set up, I’m sure to dethrone him, or at least get honorable mention.  I set up with a greenish minnow that resembles the lead head we have been landing walleye with and try my luck.  Two old codgers from another camp motor by and see my set up.  “Fly rod, eh?”  Yup.  I thought I’d make it sporting for the fish today, I tell them.  They laugh and say, “Can’t wait to see you with a pike on the line.  That’ll be a good fight.”  Looking forward to it, is my reply.  I get a few hits, but nothing “sticks”.  Paul on the other hand is reeling them in like gangbusters (whatever that really means).  I change it up to a silver minnow fly in a last ditch effort, and WHAM, Fish On!  Ha! They told me at Bass Pro when I went in to pick up some flies and additional leader that I would be hard pressed to catch walleye on the fly.  Take that boys!  I land a combo of walleye and pike, but nothing worthy of mention, until…

Drifting past Buzz Island I get a hit.  A hard hit.  It runs with my line.  Do I have bottom?  Don’t think so.  Bottom doesn’t change directions or pull back.  My rod now resembles a thin horseshoe.  I strip my line and pull him in bit by bit.  He runs with it again.  He’s fighting like a pike, maybe a big enough pike to win with.  The fish is now near the surface.  It is NOT a pike.  It’s a walleye, and a HOG of a walleye!  It spans at least 26 inches based on the  measuring device convienently plastered on the inside of the gunnel the fish has saddled up to on the outside.  Paul has already retreived the net, and exclaims, “Holy shit, It’s a walleye!” and starts to dip the net into the water to capture this hog before he dives again.  In a split second the fish turns sharply and severs the line.  What the F@%#!  How does this happen?  Just a mere TWO more seconds and that fish was ALL MINE, but NO the bastard snapped my 12 lb test line like an uncooked piece of spagetti.  Noooooo.  So close.  We spend the rest of the afternoon trying to lure that bad boy back onto my line to no avail.  I do however, land a 32″ pike that I bring in, just in case.

(One of the guys, Gary, had orders from his wife to bring home a big pike and he hadn’t filled that order yet. I give this guy to Gary) On the way in we tried one more spot.  My honey hole.  Maybe, just maybe we’ll get lucky.  We arrive at the honey hole and it starts to drizzle.  We are prepared and determined to fish until we can’t.  We land a few, but nothing resembling the hog I nearly had.  I did however actually land a small perch, a fish I’ve never eaten before, so he came home with us.  By the time we got back to our cabin it was raining cats and dogs.  We were soaked to the bone.  We were greeted by the other anglers who had failed in topping Sparky, and were hoping we had prevailed.  Sorry, we told them, but I got a perch.  “A perch?”  Yup, and showed them my “trophy”.

Sparky cooked up a ginormous stack of Saltine cracker encrusted fish, and we finished off our remaining adult beverages and shared our last days’ adventure.  In addtion to consuming a healthy plate of fish, it is “Spa” night. As Paul and I skipped this luxury monday night, we are feeling “gamey” enough to try this thing out. The camp’s host has made a sauna and shower room, complete with “hot” water, but it is only open and available until 10pm. We carefully make our way down a narrow and now muddy path leading away from the cluster of cabins to its end point and discover a crudely constructed wooden building.

One end toward the lake is the sauna, with a steep ramp complete with a rope “rail” to help you climp back up the ramp to the sauna again.  The other side is a shower room with two enclosed stalls. The place looks a bit rickety and we wonder how they are heating the water. We slide around the back of the structure and discover a unique feat of back country engineering.

We consider opting out, but then think, ‘What the Hell. It’s been a good trip so far.’ The sauna is AWESOME! We have it all to ourselves. (Truth be told; I was dreading the thought of sharing the sauna with 10 farmer tanned, beer bellied, pre-showered fishermen) A large, potbelly, wood-fed stove sits just to the right of the heavy plywood door. Large rocks are piled in a “basket” adjacent to it with green pine bows atop it. A bucket of water with a ladel sits near it. We clamber onto the 12 ft long cedar benches. Paul pours a ladel of water onto the rock/pine bow stack. The rocks hiss loudly and release a thick cloud of steam, that smells like a combination of Christmas and a warm summer’s rain. Absolutely glorious! We bask in the warmth and serenity of the cedar box. For fear of dozing off and waking up like dried prunes, we decide, after a while, to hit the showers. As we entered the shower area, we were reminded of the rudimentary showers we had a Kennedy Meadows on our hike of the PCT last year. These however were a step of above, as in the enclosure was solid. No milk boxes to stand on here, and certainly no worry of the door or shower curtain swinging open with each puff of wind. The shower temperature however, was reminiscent of our showers at Kennedy Meadows in that the water was a little above tepid, but in both cases this was because so many others had gone before us. Not complaining, just remarking that one would think that by now we would know better. We finish cleaning up and tread gingerly back to our cabin. Paul has to hold me by the seat of my pants as I keep losing my footing and almost take a serious fall into the mud now bracketing the single track trail thereby negating any good the shower provided. We pass the common area “Clubhouse” and discover that all the anglers have gathered to reveal this weeks “tournament” Jackpot winner.  We duck into the Clubhouse.  Sparky has accepted his award and the host (Michael), upon being asked, is telling how it is that he came to be owning a fishing camp in the middle of nowhere.

In short:  While of college age, he and his wife escaped communist newly occupied Czechoslovakia and caught a boat (which he thought was going to be like the Queen Mary…it wasn’t) to North America.  He ended up in Canada, went to college and became a Geologist.  While doing land surveys through the Ontario area for useable resources, he and his colleges  came upon Oba lake.  While rich with reasources they collectively decided it was too remote and (more importantly) beautiful to “use”, so they basically wrote ‘nothing to see here…move along’.  They had also come upon a small “fishing camp” and he fell in love with the place.  He would return year after year (he and his family settled in Vancouver) to visit and explore the area.  The owner of the camp would always ask if he wanted to buy it.  ‘No, can’t afford it was the answer’.  Then one day the owner called and said he had to sell the place, and if he ever wanted to buy it, this was the time.  Michael then dropped everything, pulled out all his savings, hitch-hiked across the nation and then because the train was not running the day he arrived, walked the 17 miles on the tracks to the camp and paid the man. Once the transaction was complete, he wallked the 17 miles back to town (Hawks Junction), called his wife and told her that he just bought a fishing camp.  That was nearly 30 years ago.  His son Andre, his wife and their young son spend their summers working at the camp.

What an amazing time we had.  Time to pack and head back to what most people call “civilization”.

Up with the sun for another day of angling.  Today we split up the boats a bit.  My father goes with Mike and Jill fishes with Sparky, in hopes of getting them into spots where they’ll land some walleye.  We on the other hand are doing fine on our own and set off to explore new areas.  Before we shove off, Sparky asks us if we’ve seen his minnow bucket.  We tell him we saw it last night dangling in the water at the stern of his boat.  “Well it’s not there now”, states Sparky.  Interestingly enough the line that was attached to the bucket is still there.  Paul thinks that because Sparky can’t tie a proper knot to save his life, it just worked itself “free” and floated off.  We help him scower the area.  No buckets adrift.  I climb in his boat and inspect the line, suspecting nefarious activity.  The line, although still tied to the stern, is much shorter and does not fully extend into and onto the water.  The knot tied to the boat is nothing similar to Sparky’s “double square” knots.  A smile curls around the corners of my mouth, I begin to chuckle.  It appears that retribution has been swift and in this case harsh.  Sparky’s ability to fish, at least with live bait has been halted.  It appears to be sabatoge, I tell Sparky.  You have been paid back for last  night’s prank in full it seems.  (Which is a relief, as we were dreading the next coming days)  Sparky is indignant, and can’t possibly figure out how they (cabin 3) knew it was him that created the breach in their mosquito barrier.  Really?  Mr. Prankster?  Really?  We leave Sparky in a quandry as he sets off to inquire from our host as to whether he has a “spare” minnow bucket and whether he knows the wherabouts of his.  Later in the day we are told that Sparky’s bucket was found clear across the lake, when our host went to dump last night’s collection of fish guts.  Interesting.  We try an area where a swampy river feeds into the lake.  Within less than a minute, I announce, Fish On, to which Paul proclaims, “me too”.  We both reel with vigor.  Who’s fish will be bigger?  Will it be Walleye or Pike?  As our fish breaks the surface, we discover that our fish is just that, OUR fish, as in singular.

 In this vast and seemingly chock full O’ fish lake, that is Oba, we have both managed to land the same fish, a pike.  WTF?  Sure enough, that little glutton chomped on my lure and then bit on Paul’s.  Pike, we hate pike.  We are greated by his Joker-esque grin and blank stare.  We net the bastard, which triggers a pike’s signature version of a crocodile death roll resulitng a two line entanglement.  These guys are overachievers when it comes to being slimmy, and their teeth are viciously sharp and plentiful.  Little did we know that this would be the fish dejour of the day.  We could not help but catch pike, even in the areas known for walleye.  Pike after Pike, after Pike.  Maybe this is where the term ‘Pike’n it’ stems from. What was worse, was the fact that they were all relatively small, not a monster amoung them.  It’s as if the pike shoved the walleye out of the way and said, “move on, nothing to see”, and then promptly chomped on our lures.  We went through most of our arsenal and at days end returned dejected with just one 14″ walleye that we caught near Buzz Island and that we almost threw back in.  Luckily the others faired better than us.  Sparky and Jill slayed it, and were in by noon.  Mike and my father faired well, but not as good as Sparky and Jill.  No worries.  That’s fish’n they say.  Sometimes it’s hot and mostly it’s not.  But it sure beats working.

I am up a little past sunrise.  I dress warmly and trod out to the “powder room”.  The sun is just cresting the treeline on the horizon and an eerie mist floats atop the mirrored lake.  Odd sounds of cooing loons, belowing moose, howling wolves and screaching bald eagles peppered the previous nights air.  It is now quiet and serene.  It is like I’ve walked into a giant empty magestically decorated cathedral.  One can not help but feel at peace in this moment and time.  The sun rises fully and I retreat to the cabin to get the coffee going.  I can already tell today is going to be an awesome day.  Paul and I break from “tradition”, skip breakfast and are on the water by 8am determined to have a stringer full of fish by 10.  Sparky and Mike throw “tradition” to the wayside as well, and leave a little after we do.

Paul and I head south, back to where we caught the big guy.  Problem is, with the lake being so serene and the fact that it is bright and sunny, we have difficultly returning to the “scene of the crime”.  We try numerous spots that look like they may, and should, be “fishy” to no avail.  We explore the entire south end of the lake.  Maybe Sparky is right, we are at it too early.  We currently have the lake to ourselves and discuss how lucky we are to have this experience and how genuinely sad it is that most people will never have, let alone take, the opportunity to enjoy such blissful splendor.  Fishless but happy, we make our way north in search of Sparky and my parents to see how they are faring.  We find Sparky not far from where our cabins are, stringing their fourth fish.  We drop a line and drift with them for a spell.  We snag bottom, while Sparky and Mike are catching fish after fish.  We can’t understand how we are not raking them in as well, as we are using the same lead-head configuration, and drifting through and over the same hole.  The only thing different, is that they are both smoking.  We consider asking them to toss us a pack of smokes.  They string their 8th, and last, just under 18″ walleye.  With cigarettes bouncing out the sides of their mouths they chuckle loudly and annouce, “Later, Smalls!  We’ll go make breakfast”.  It is 10am.  Disgusted, and with only one measely 14″ walleye that I caught down south, we abandon this hole and head further north.  After an hour, with not even a hit from a pike we surrender and head in for breakfast.  Sparky, we are told, made a point to do a slow and deliberate “drive-by” of the other cabins whilst standing develishly proud with their days’ limit out stretched stringer between his arms, displaying their 8×10 haul, and loudly proclaiming their fishing prowess.  This of course sent the late rising anglers scrambling for their boats.  We are dejected upon our return to camp, but it’s nothing a hearty breakfast and coffee laced with Toasted Carmel Whiskey can’t repair.  After a food coma inspired nap (maybe the whiskey had a little to do with it as well) we clamor into our aluminum water chariot and head to Buzz Island for another attempt to fill our stringer.  The only ripples on the lake are those caused by the wake of our boat as it skims merrily across the mirrored freshwater surface.  We reach Buzz Island and in the dead calm we are soon engulfed in a fog of mosquitos.  Behind the veil of our headnets we watch biteless (both fish and insect) as what appears to be a well  choreographed flashmob of mosquitos glide upon the surface of the water like a saturday evening “all-skate” at the local ice rink.  Above us more mosquitos circle like planes backed up for landing at Chicago O’Hare.  On a whim we decide to give “fireman’s hole” another shot.  We drift once, then twice through the hole, and the third time proves to be the charm.  Fish On!  Drift again, Fish On!  It now becomes a game, and we have marked the exact spot and countdown with what proves to be uncanny accuracy the moment we feel a tug on our line.  In a matter of 20 minutes we have our days’ limit, and they are Nice Fish.  It’s nearly 5pm and we motor triumphantly back to camp.  I ride in the bow of the boat with outstretched arms leaning slowly side to side as Paul matches the boat to my movement.  I feel like a little kid again (and probably look like one too).  With the boat shifting left and right, I feel as if I am flying.  Life is Good!  We approach the porch of our cabin (#4) and are greeted by Sparky who bellows, “Well?”

We display our fully loaded stringer.  “Nice”, he exclaims.  Mike examines our catch as well.  We will not go hungry tonight!…not that we could anyways.  Dad and Jill remain virtually fishless, with only 3 walleye and lots of bites from pike.

We have so much in fillets, seviche has been prepared as an “appetizer”.

Mike is on deck and prepares a crushed salt n’ vinegar chip, parmesean cheese coating for tonight’s fish and bakes it to perfection.  Our gang of six are the only ones in camp.  All others have yet to have met their “quota” and are fishing into the night air and the long setting sun.  Sparky who has imbibed to the point of mischief, decides to prop the door of our neighboring cabin open.  The guys in this cabin are Woods Cabin regulars and have been coming up together the same week each year for 30+ years.  This particular week is also the week that Sparky and his family (to include his father) have been intermittently coming as well.  Sparky’s opening of their door signals to the swarming mosquitos that there is a party in cabin 3.  They crowd in and mill about in the hundreds, waiting for their “hosts” to return.  An hour later, the blood donors have yet to return, so Sparky decides to now close said door, trapping the mosquito horde inside.  Sparky is chuckling and near tears at his “brillance”.  We are dreading the potential fall-out from this prank.  We are all sworn to secrecy and plan to deny any and all knowledge of said prank.  Another two hours pass and the faint and distinctive sound of single prop motors grows louder.  They allight onto shore, and gruff murmuring voices can be heard outside.  We have all retired, with lights out and our hushed voices acknowledge their return and impending discovery.  Wait for it…wait for it…”What the FUCK?!”  “How the HELL”.  “Oh MY GOD!” can be heard echoing from our neighbors.  We bury our collective heads in our pillows and laugh hysterically as the sun sets on another perfect day.

 
Morning comes earlier than we’d like, as we still haven’t gotten used to the time change.  Into the town of Wawa for fishing licenses, booze, beer and eggs.  If it wasn’t so green, we’d expect to see tumble weeds rolling down main street.  We can’t help but notice that they’ve already got their Christmas decorations up.  From Wawa we head to Hawk Junction where we will unload our gear onto a box car and take a slow, scenic, train to rail stop #212, to Oba Lake.  We get there early with several hours to kill before the train arrives.  Lucky for us, there is a resturant/bar in what will prove to be staggering distance for most of the patrons.  Word has gotten out that tommorrow will be our 29th wedding anniversary, and shots of fire water appear at our table. This place is classic, and doubles as the area “library” and “town center”.  Burgers are gigantic, but I order chicken tenders.  Our waiter, who appears to be older than my dad, asks me what “dipping sauce” I want (mild, blue cheese, honey or hot).  Hot, I tell him.  “You sure?”, he asks.  Yes.  “You really don’t want the hot sauce”, he tells me.  Well how hot is it? I ask, knowing that what they consider “hot” sauce in the Northeast is not the same as the Southwest.  “Oh, It’s really hot.  You don’t want it”.  Two things are going through my head, #1 – Is this a joke?…Did Sparky put you up to this?, and #2 –  Okay, if you don’t want me to have the hot sauce, then why have it on the menu?  Yes, I want hot, I say semi-firmly.  “No you don’t want to do that”, he counters, like I’m a kid about to put a penny in the light socket.  He then looks at the rest of our group and says, “she really doesn’t want the hot…it’s really hot”.  I am beginning to feel like I’m in an episode of Seinfield.  Suddenly I realize that his Jedi mind tricks are starting to take effect as now I am secretly beginning to reconsider, and switch to honey or mild.  Realizing what’s happening, and with the chants of “hot, hot, hot” from the peanut gallery I’m traveling with, I’m  now firmly commited…Hot it is.  Take that Yoda!  After what seems like an eternity, several drinks later, and a somewhat dangerous round of darts, our food comes.  The burgers are enormous.  If we were on the trail these would be considered hiker worthy.  I’m glad that I didn’t order one.  My chicken tenders arrive, complete with said infamous hot sauce.  A few minutes later, our waiter, who doubles as the bartender, taps me on the shoulder, hands me a bottle, smirks, and says, “Just in case that hot sauce isn’t hot enough for you, little lady”.   

 The bottle says it all…”The Hottest Fuckin Sauce”.  I try it, and it’s hot, but not “Fuck’n Hot”, more like “that’s got a kick to it, hot”.  Alas, the land of the North does not understand hot sauce, but they do get burgers.  Eventually the train arrives.  The train station is something out of the wild west.  The train saunters into the station stop, and everyone (myself included) grabs their assorted camera phones and records it’s arrival, as if this is a new fangled mode of transportation.  The platform is piled with gear, and includes 30 other fisherman.  The fishing camp (Woods Cabins) we are headed to is an hour and a half to two hour ride.  From what we are told, camp is somewhat “primative” and requires us to bring in all our food and libations.  They do however provide shelter, privies, aluminium boats with 9Hp motors and minows.  I am further told that there is an opportunity to “shower” and use the “sauna” Monday and Thursday evening.  This should be interesting, but frankly it’s a step up (with regard to amenities) from our previous 5 1/2 month adventure.  Cargo doors open and suddenly there is a flurry of activity.  

 The train will only stop for so long, so if your gear isn’t loaded in time, too bad for you cuz the train has a schedule to keep.  Complete strangers, who just minutes before had little to no communication with eachother, suddenly become a well coordinated and coehsive group as the gear is loaded with uncanny efficiency.  Once on the train, in the passenger cars, the groups drift back to their “own”.  The train ambels along at 30mph which allows one to gaze out the dusty windows and admire the scenery.  When we arrive at our “whistle stop” #212, the high pitched squeal of metal on metal brakes slowly grind this iron horse to a stop.  “Watch your step”, says the conductor (who sadly is not wearing conductor hat, let alone a pocket watch).   

 We step off the train, just this side of the trestle that stretches over a portion of what I assume to be Oba Lake and are welcomed by a tall (6’6″) smiling man standing next to a dilaptated building with a seriously sagging roof that reads ‘Welcome to Woods Cabin’.  Holy SHIT Sparky, what have you gotten us into?!  Paul and I look at each other, we smile, look at our parents and begin to chuckle.  This should be, oh hell, forget should be, this WILL be interesting.  About 17 other guys get off the train with us.  Jill (my step-mom) and I are the only females, whch means no line at the porta potty for us.  I hear one of the men grumble, ‘it’s not gonna be the same with women in camp this year’.  Sparky hears this as well.  He promptly “stands up” for us, and announces,  “Don’t worry”, pointing in my direction, “just think of her as one of the guys.  She can cuss, drink and fart with the best of them”.  Whoa, wait a minute.  I do NOT fart.  A nervous laughter fills the air.  Thanks, Sparky.  Now I’m gonna have to out fish the whole lot of them.

This place takes some getting to.  Something like, planes, trains and automobiles, not necessarily in that order but close enough.  Oba Lake is an out of the way lake in Canada in the province of Ontario.  When our neighbors saw us prepping our fishing gear in the garage, they’d ask, “Going on another adventure?”…”Where ya goin this time?”  To a lake in Ontario to fish for Walleye.  “Didn’t know there where any lakes in Ontario.” Oh you thought Ontario California, we’re actually going to Ontario Canada.  “For how long?”  Two weeks.  “Must be nice”, was the general reply, meaning ‘wish we could be retired and galavant around the country, and world for that matter on grand adventures.’  We had recently gotten back from another 2 weeker in the picturesque land of enchantment that is southern Utah.  So back to Oba.  Rather than drive across country, or walk, we opt to fly.  This trip will include family, which is to say, my parents,  Paul’s cousin Mark (Sparky) and his friend Mike.  Now just to preface this, any trip that involves Sparky (think Chevy Chase), is sure to involve hillarity and often mishap.  First stop, Michigan to visit more family and then hook up with Sparky, his fishing budddy Mike, and my parents.  From Sparky’s we will drive north for what should be an 8 hour drive to the quaint town of Wawa, Canada.  Yes, Wawa, as in I’d like a drink of “wawa”.  An 8 am leave time turns into 10-11am, not because we weren’t ready, but because Sparky forgot to put his current and valid plates on his truck, so back home we go for a do over.  After some (actually alot) of ribbing we are back on the road.  My parents are riding with Sparky and Mike.  Not sure how good of an idea that is.  We follow behind.  We notice after we stop for fuel and a quick bite to eat that Sparky’s truck starts to, and with regualrity, drift toward the center divider and sharply back into the lane (think Wally World). What the hell?  What’s he looking at?  Is he on his phone? (He refuses to connect his phone to the hands free option on his radio, even though I offfered to show him) Food coma?  The truck drifts again, then suddenly pulls to the right and off the road.  Next thing you know Sparky’s is out of the truck and my step mom is switching to the driver’s seat.  Yep.  Food coma.  No sooner than Jill gets in the driver’s seat and starts down the road, it starts to pour wildly.  This is not California rain.  This is northeast rain, and a lot of it, so much so that you can barely see the road.  Meanwhile, Sparky and Mike I’m told are in food coma slumberland, oblivious to the deluge outside.  We reach the final bridge on our approach to Canada, we switch drivers and my parents join us in our car for the border crossing.  Before we had left his house (the first time), Sparky announced that they ( the Canadians) may not let him into Canada (due to some youthful indescretions) if they decide to do a background check.  Plan “B” is we switch vehicles and take his truck and all the gear to Canada and he sits out this trip, which seems rather ironic as he was the one that put this thing together.  By now he’s smoked a pack of cigarettes (he had recently quit), and is beginning to visibly sweat (per Mike).  In some ways we think it would be hilarious for him to be stopped, and see if he can “talk” his way into Canada, as apparently you can (and he has on a previous trip).  On rare occassions you are able to get a temporary “Queen’s pardon”, for a price.  Miraculously Sparky makes it in, but our 5 dozen (free range) eggs do NOT.  Apparently due to the bird flu in the midwest of the US, no poultry products are allowed into Canada.  The irony here is that when we were shopping for food, and Sparky started loading eggs,  I told him we should just wait till we get into Canada, as we’ll need to stop at the market for adult beverages anyways.  “Naw, let’s just get them here.  It will save us the trouble of getting them there and packing them up”.  Fast forward to a dumpster just this side of Canada, and what is Sparky now doing?  Pulling out the large cooler, unloading said cooler, to retrieve the 5 dozen eggs to deposit, with apparently all the other egg afficianotos into a nearly full dumpster.  Better the eggs than Sparky I guess.  First stop into Canada is to exchange our money for Canadian “funny money”. They have one and two dollar coins called “loonies” and “toonies”.  We’re told they’ll take our American dollars at the markets…at our face value, so we get to the process exchanging our cash.  The first place we go, we (as in Paul and I) clear them out of cash at $1.19 per American dollar.  As we are doing this, Jill is telling us that we’d get a better exchange rate at the bank.  What? Grrrr.  Off to the bank we go.  Rumor has it now that the exchange rate is $1.25.  Crap!  With the amount we exchanged already, this would be alot more “extra” coin, which equals more beer or in this case extrememly overpriced spirits at the liquor store, because we failed to drop into the duty free shop.  As a rule, you can only bring into Canada a quart a piece, and Mike came loaded with two 1/2 gallons of flavored whiskey (Toasted Carmel…danggerously awesome). Turns out the exchange rate at the bank is $1.21.  Sparky, being the big teaser, makes it a point to rib me about the $40 bucks we “lost”.  Back on the road once more, we are about 2 hours from Wawa now.  We skirt the shore of Lake Superior.  Everywhere we look is post card worthy, and littered with provincial parks.  We are so used to seeing lakeshore and coastal property being lined with homes and densely populated comminities, that we are in awe of the vast stretches of pristine shoreline devoid of human encroachment.  Raging turbid waterfalls and rough rivers with rootbeer colored water puntuate the landscape to our right as we make the drive to Wawa.  Compared to the coastal desert we live in, the amount of water and greenery is intoxicating.  Sparky is racing ahead of us, anxious to get to our hotel, when he drives right by it.  We flash our lights at him to no avail.  About a month ago my parents, the planners, asked where we were staying in Wawa.  ‘Don’t know’ was the reply, Sparky has that information.  We call Sparky and he tells us ‘not to worry’ there are always openings, “it’s Wawa”.  Knowing my parents, we press further.  Sparky tells us that they always have stayed at a motel that has “cool cabins” on the lake, but he can’t remember the name.  Before we even get back to my parents they tell me they’ve called a few hotels in Wawa and most are already sold out.  What?!  This is NOT good.  Paul frantically calls just about every hotel/motel in and around Wawa and by shear luck secures three rooms at the Great Northwestern Motel, which just happens to have an authentic Polish resturant attached.  Score!…we secretly hope.  Fast forward to Sparky driving right past it.  The only thing we can think of is that the liquor store closes early and that’s where we are headed.  Nope.  Sparky pulls into the Wawa Motel (how he couldn’t remember the name, I cant even venture to guess) and announces, “we’re here”.  Now keep in mind that we have passed several other hotel/motels that seem to have been recently boarded up and/or look to be in serious disrepair.  This one that he has pulled into, actually looks pretty modern, which I would surmise is the reason there was no vacancy when Paul called…it was the first one on the list he called.  Sparky is beaming.  We tell him that this is not the place.  He laughs heartily, then raises his eyebrows in the “what you talk’n about Willis?” way.  We explain that we passed it a few miles back.  “You shitt’n me?” I wish we were, but we’re not.  He doesn’t believe us that this one was all booked when we called and made reservations for the hotel we are staying at.  Even if this hotel now had rooms, we weren’t about to cancel the plans we had made, as we did not want to eat the late cancellation charges which are equal to the amount we are paying for the rooms anyways.  Sparky reluctantly follows us, at minimum trying to at least coax us into eating at the resturant attached to this motel.  We stand firm and tell him that the resturant at the Great Northwestern Motel has “authentic”Polish food, to which Sparky relpies, “Polish food, what’s that?”  Serious?  You’re Polish ya goofball.  Back from where we came, we head.  We discuss, and consider, pulling into one of the seriously “divey”, (as in they probably rent by the hour) motels, getting out and grabbing our bags, just to mess with Sparky, but we don’t.  We pull up to a quaint motel well off the highway (The Great Northwestern Motel), with I’ll admit, a little trepidation.  This could be really good, or really bad.  Especially considering we are no where near the “Great Northwest”.  We’re in the French/Canadian province of Ontario…on the Northeast side of North America.  If it’s bad we will never hear then end of it, as in NEVER.   We walk into the lobby.  This is esssentially a “mom and pop” operation.  The entrance door boasts of “Free WiFi”, with a computer in the lobby.  Hmm.  No one is at the desk.  Hmm.  Sparky rings the “service” bell and begins to grumble.  A woman appears, not much older than us.  “You have reservations?”, she asks in a thick Polish accent. (Okay, now is where I understand calling it the ‘Great Northwestern’.  Not because she’s Polish, geez.   It’s about perspective.  If you look on the map in relation to Poland, it is the ‘Great Northwest’…and way back when, when everyone lived on the east coast, it WAS the Great Northwest)  Anyways, I digress.  “Yes, three rooms.  A queen, a king and a room with two queens”, replies Paul.  Paul looks over his shoulder,and motions to Mike and Sparky, “two Queens right, or did you want the King?”  An inordinate amount of banter ensues, something about queens and spooning (think teenage boy humor).  The gal at the desk asks if we are related.  Laughter and more verbal josting ensues.  Paul explains that he and Sparky are cousins.  Sparky then starts asking a plethra of questions, which seems to obviously annoy the gal.  She hands us our keys and we head to our rooms.  Sparky comes charging back, jaw clenched and red in the face, as we are heading to our room.  Appparently the key he was handed was to the room with the single queen bed.  Priceless.  Belly laughs followed by tears overcome everyone. Sparky thought we had switched the keys on purpose.  We wished we had but we honestly couldn’t claim this one.  Turns out the gal at the front desk did us a favor and switched the keys for us.  Turns out this place was a great find.  Rooms were good and the food was simply fabulous.  Tomorrow begins the next leg.  Hawk Junction for a slow train ride to Oba Lake.

Once all the gear has been unloaded from the box car.  A bucket brigade, of sorts, forms relaying the enormous pile of what is supposed to be “essential” and “necessary” gear and supplies onto a well worn and seriously tired looking pontoon boat, and an equally worn large metal boat that will ferry us and our “stuff” to camp.  Apparently for one cabin, 10 cases of Molson bottled beer is “essential” to the fishing experience.  The ferrying of all the gear requires two trips.  It is nearly 5 pm.  The skies are somewhat overcast and the air is cool, but not cool enough to dissuade hordes of the Canadian national bird, the mosquito, from attempting to exact a pint or so of blood from any and all exposed extremities.  This now explains Sparky’s generous purchase of “industrial” size cans of “Deepwoods Off”.  It appears our head nets will come in handy as well. The boat ride to the camp is uneventful, in that we and all our gear made it to the “dock”.  The shoreline is devoid of human habitation with the exception of several square box red cabins with small decks.

We pull up to the dock which is made of a 10×10 ft. platform with a floating ramp about 4ft wide that tapers to a little over 2ft wide gangway resting on the soggy shore.  I make a genuine attempt to help unload the gear, however the dock and said ramp from shore to the dock are a bit of a challenge for me, and my balance issues.  Were it not for the long arm(s) of the host, I would have been swimming with the fishes on more than one occassion.  After the second “catch”, I was banished to shore.

The cabins are quaint.  Paul and I will share a cabin with Sparky and Mike.  My parents will have their own.   Each cabin has an assigned outhouse. There is one designated for women. Thinking this one would be the least “visited”, I check out my ” powder room”. Holy crap, this is not as “pristine” as I envisioned, but it’s better than digging a cat hole. We survey the cabins and take inventory.  Our cabin is broken into three distinct areas.  Two “bedrooms” with two single beds and a main area which includes a propane powered refridgerator and stove.  The stove is and old style circa 1930’s style stove and doubles as our heating vessel via a port for burning wood, of which we are told we have to split…What?  The air temperature has now dropped significantly, which is good in that the mosquitos have seemingly gone “home” (wherever that is), but bad in that it’s nearly teeth chattering COLD for this SoCal girl.  We unpack and attempt to organize our provisions, and realize now that we have brought WAAAAY too much food.  Now it’s time to start a fire.  I volunteer to collect some wood and quickly find out that it requires more labor and skill than bending over and gathering pieces of wood in my arms.  I am greeted with short logs that require spliting, into several smaller pieces if there is any hope of getting them into the stove.  I return to the cabin with a load of kindling and solicit help with the logs.  Mike offers to help, but was under the impression that he was      just needed to carry the logs.  Umm, doesn’t work that way.  If I’m a danger to myself on dry land, imagine me weilding an ax.  Although comical, it is not pretty, nor safe (been there done that).   Mike is somewhat dissapointed and offers to teach me how to split wood.  Luckily Paul arrives and assures him that me splitting wood is a bad, really bad, idea.  Mike is then relegated to the wood splitting and creates a sufficent pile in no time.  Back at the cabin, we quickly get to lighting a fire.  Glorious heat eminates from the stove, and I no longer feel like I am standing outside.  Now it is time to break out our fishing arsenal and prep for tomorrow.  Sparky assures us that unlike most fishing events, there is no need to arise early.  Here, we are told that the fish will bite ALL DAY.  The pattern of the day(s) will require us to arise at our leisure, have a full breakfast and then fish for two hours or so, return for lunch and beverages, nap, fish again (if you want), prepare dinner (if it’s your turn to cook), consume more beverages, accented with a card game of sorts.  This shouldn’t be hard to adjust to, but it is.  Mike is an early riser, like 5am, and I awake once anything but total darkness brushes my eyelids (thanks to the PCT).  We continue to prep our gear.  I have brought two fly rods with me, to better hone my skills.  I am considered a fool for wanting to fish on a fly, and am told, “if you know anything about walleye, you’re not going to catch any fly fishing for them”.  Wanna bet, I say to myself.  My plan is to use my more responsive rod and switch reels from my other set up equipped with fast sinking line, and one of several assorted minnowey looking flies.  I break out my favorite rod, only to discover that for some unknown reason one of the four sections is missing.  WTF?  And I was so meticulous in prepping my gear, and picking the flies and line to bring.  I freak out a little and rack my brain as to where the essential piece (it holds the reel) could be.  Hmm, I now realize that it is safely resting on the lid of my trunk, in the garage.  Perfect.  Sparky is now laughing, great belly laughs at me.  “You’re killin’ me Smalls!” he snorts.  And so it begins.  Shit.  This is not good.  It is never good to give Sparky any ammunition with which to fuel his cajoling.  Never fear, my father the ever over packing planner, has a spinner rod and reel for me to use, which I accept reluctantly.  I rig up my sole fly rod for pike, darnit.  We retreat to the drafty sections of our rooms and college dorm style single beds with visions of “fish ON” looping through our dreams.  I attempt to get to sleep before the boys, and the start of the snoring fartfest, but alas, sleep alludes me.  As a result, I am “treated” to an oddly rhythmic “symphony” of bodily sounds that eventually require ear plugs.  This is going to be a LONG week, I think, and then suddenly I am shaken by Paul, who says “Wake up and roll over!”.  What’s the problem, I reply. ” You’re snoring!”, he exclaims.  Sweet.  Soon, we are all deep in slumberland and in no time morning arrives with the distinctive smell of fresh coffee permiating the cool air.  Outside it is grey and misting, and the wind looks to be building.   Waiting till after a hearty breakfast now seems like a brilliant idea.  Near 10 am, and after securing a generous supply of live minnows to attach to our lead-head lures, we are shoving off the shore in our respsective 14ft aluminum boats powered by 9hp motors.  Sparky will be our “guide” and has offered to show us all the “hot” spots on the lake for walleye.

We head to the south end of the lake, bundled like we are fishing the artic.  We ARE approaching summer, right?  I thought “global warming” required actual warming.  Our first spot we stop and wet our line, and within minutes Sparky gets a bite and lands a decent size walleye (16″).  I then pull in a 16 incher as well.  This is going to be fun!

Paul and I venture off a bit and he pulls in a 24 inch hog.  My father, The Fisherman, who consistently out fishes EVERYONE, is not doing so well, and based on his body language is definitely frustrated.  I can’t help but snicker, as this is the first time in my life, I get to tell him how to catch these slimmy creatures.  We pull up and head north to another spot called “fireman’s hole”.  We drift over the hole a couple of times to no avail.  Sparky tells us to be patient.  Paul and I decide to break out on our own and explore other areas.  We wander out to an island nearby “fireman’s hole” and immediately load two more fish on the stringer.  Four in 40 minutes!  If this is the trend, we definetly did NOT bring enough adult beverages!  As we drift by the island, we can’t but help but notice a loud and intense buzzing sound eminating from it.  It is reminicent of a swarm of bees.  We see no bees, but there is no shortage of mosquitos.  Because we are curious, we move closer to the island, to determine definitively what is making that noise.  We can now see a grey cloud of swarming mosquitos that engulfs the island.  Because it is overcast, we could not see this from afar.  We hold our breath, and quietly shove off shore hoping beyond hope that our “scent” has not been picked up.  Too late, they are on us like flies on poop.  Quick, break out the bug spray!  Where are our head nets?!  Luckily there is not much exposed skin, due to how cold it is, and they (for the most part) return to their island.  We christen this “Buzz Island”.  Meanwhile, Sparky, who scoffed at us for breaking from “fireman’s hole”, has now joined us.  No sooner does he drop his line off of Buzz Island, he lands the biggest fish of the day and what may be for the week…a 26 inch 6 lbs whopper!  Here comes the gloating and day one no less.  Fishing wise, our luck does not hold and we only land one more walleye.  Now pike is another story.  There seems to be no shortage of pike, but we are NOT in search of pike, who are teethy, bony and coated in slime as viscous as1040W motor oil.

Having worked up a thirst and ironically needing to pee like a racehorse, we return to our cabin with 5 good sized walleye on the stringer, two of which are 22 and 24 inches respectively, with the other three just under 18 inches.  Sparky and Mike have already returned and have caught their limit (4 each), for a total of 8 good sized fish.  My dad and Jill are fishless.  A first, I’m sure, for my father.  Now comes the cleaning part.  Paul and I are a more than a little rusty with our fillet skills, which pains Sparky who declares that we are “mutilating perfectly good fish”, attempts to coach us, and in short measure gives up in disgust, and commandeers our fish.  Tonight’s dinner will be fish, as will be the next five nights. Yum.  Sparky takes over fish prep for night one, and what we thought was an insurmountable pile of deliciously prepared walleye (saltine battered) is to our suprise, effortlessly consumed.   Day one complete.  Nice!