The months and weeks leading up to that first wilderness fly-in fishing trip can be a time of great anticipation. It’s been thirty years since my first trip via float-plane, and countless thoughts drifted through my mind while counting down the days to departure. But of all the wilderness scenarios I envisioned, none included the sight before my eyes on an afternoon in late May pf 1979.
A fourteen foot, semi-V hull fishing boat containing two wide-eyed fishermen was teetering precariously atop a beaver dam. Johnny Plasko sat in the stern, Phil Albanese occupied the bow. Both were wearing the “what do we do now?” look.
Friends since the fifties, growing up and attending school together in Newark, New Jersey, Phil and Johnny were beginning to understand life in the Canadian wilds was a far cry from metro New Jersey.
In the moments before John and Phil’s boat became airborne I was attempting to lead a second boat around the dam. In this boat were Basil Pizzuto and Dave Ryder. Holding the bow line, I moved slowly through a flooded backwater. When we heard the roar of the outboard we looked downstream. We saw Phil leaning forward, both his hands clutching the gunwale. Behind him was Johnny, one hand on the throttle and his head held high, trying to see around Phil.
I worked side by side with Johnny in those years, and there was no doubt in my mind what he was about to do.
Johnny had the throttle wide open when they made contact with the beaver dam. They nearly cleared the barrier but the prop shaft caught in the mixture of mud and sticks.
I just shook my head and continued leading the second boat around the dam. That’s when the bottom disappeared. I may have found the underwater entrance to the beaver lodge. Big Dave reacted quickly, reached over the side of the boat and with one hand snatched me out of the drink before my chest waders completely filled with water.
BURNTBUSH RIVER
The beaver dam spanned Soucie Creek, a narrow waterway that meanders through muskeg country for three miles before spilling into the Burntbush River.
Basil and I located the head of the creek three days earlier, barely an hour after the float plane dropped us off. Thanks to the Canadian Ministry of Mines & Resources, we had been studying topographic maps of the area several weeks prior to the trip.
That first trip down Soucie Creek saw us in a square stern canoe with a 10 hp motor – and we nearly swamped it several times. We returned to camp and decided to return another day – this time in a boat.
Three days later we left our camp on Soucie Lake early in the morning, negotiated the creek with no problem, portaging around the beaver dam before coming to the river.
A day’s fishing on the Burntbush had been quite productive. There would be several fish to clean for supper. And it was Phil and Johnny, who caught the largest pike and walleye, respectfully. Both fish came from the same pool at the head of a stretch of rapids. Unfortunately, Phil’s pike – a real trophy - didn’t make the return trip. I’ll explain why.
Within minutes after entering the river the fish began to cooperate. Whether spin casting or trolling we caught fish. After a lull in the action Phi said he had a fish on. It looked to be a good one, judging by the arch in his rod. We watched his line zig-zag back and forth for several minutes before he brought the fish alongside the boat where Dave was waiting with the net. With one deft scoop of the net the pike was lifted from the water. To say the fish was big would have been an understatement. No one had a scale, but in pike fishing circles, this was the size of pike referred to as a “slob.” Lying in the bottom of the net, the big fish curled itself into a U - shape, straining against the mesh.
Phil attached the pike to an old fashioned chain and clip stringer which already held a few fish – more pike and walleyes. No sooner was the fish back in the drink when it started thrashing to beat the band, banging the stringer repeatedly against the boat and creating a racket. Every few moments Phil would lift the stringer to look at the giant pike – and who could blame him – the fish was that impressive. And when he eased it back into the water the racket began anew. Soon the fish quieted down – or so it seemed. The next time Phil checked on his fish it was gone. At the end of the stringer were the two clips he had stuck through the pikes mouth. They were pried open. All that thrashing had been the pike repeatedly twisting and turning, in the process prying open the clips and freeing itself.
NORTHERN LIGHTS
After dinner that same evening, the lake was mirror calm and here and there one could see surface rises. Casting a surface plug resulted in a strike which turned out to be my first pike caught on the surface. When I caught another there was a mad dash for the boats. “Let’s take this one, John,” said Phil as he stepped off the makeshift dock and into the previously mentioned canoe. Phil should have stepped to the canoe’s center but he didn’t and the canoe rolled, sending him into the lake. Phil stayed in camp to put on dry clothes and never did fish that night. As a result he and John missed an incredible light show. That’s Phil with the net trying to retrieve sunken belongings.
We had seen the northern lights the first few evenings in camp, at the time they appeared as ghostly vapors high overhead, there one second - gone the next. But on this night Basil, Dave and I were in for a real treat. By the time total darkness enveloped the lake - about 11 pm and the fish had long since retired. We were still on the water when we saw a small speck of light overhead. Within minutes that speck grew in size until it covered most of the northern sky. Three of us sat in the boat for a considerable time without talking, staring upward at spectacular shades of blue-green, pastel-red and brilliant white draped across the heavens.
All things considered, it was an eventful trip. We lived on fish and potatoes that week, save for the night Phil cooked spaghetti and concocted a sauce using ketchup. Our coffee was made in an old style percolator pot. Sipped outdoors in early morning amid the aroma of evergreens, it was amazingly tasty.
THE RETURN HOME
It would be a seventeen hour drive from the float plane base to North Jersey, including a stop at Timmins, Ontario, where Johnny and Phil caught a commercial flight. There was an additional stop at Customs on the U.S. side of the Thousand Islands Bridge. Here I need to add that Dave Ryder lived on the Jersey shore in a town called Neptune – well known throughout New Jersey, but certainly never heard of at the U.S.-Canadian border.
We pulled up to the U.S. Customs booth in the wee hours of the morning, unkempt and disheveled looking as could be. The Custom’s Agent looked at us and asked Dave, who was driving, “Where ya headed?”
“Neptune,” replied Dave.
Quickly realizing the mistake, Basil and I whispered in unison, “Say New Jersey! Tell him New Jersey!”
Dave explained by showing his driver’s ID. Eyeing us warily, the Customs Agent let us go without incident.
Basil, Johnny, Dave and I worked together at the Meadowlands. Three years later our group – along with Phil - would make a trip to a desolate outpost in the Northwest Territories before a return to the James Bay Frontier and adventure on the Detour River.
Before either of those trips nook place I was fortunate enough to visit northern Manitoba and experience some exceptional shallow water lake trout fishing. Stay tuned!
