outdoors

With Autumn offically arriving at 5:18 p.m. tomorrow, I'd like to share these late summer photos taken last week.

Purple asters and goldenrod are two of the more prolific wildflowers in the area.

Note the bumble bee at the top left of the goldenrod.

Asters close up.

Virginia Creeper with a headstart on the autumn foliage.

"Creeper" enveloping willow and cottonwood trunks.

Windmill marsh as seen from observation tower on Albion Road, Oakfield.

Backwater south of Windmill Marsh.

With autumn nearly upon us, and early goose season underway, I got to thinking about the late Albert Frieday. I decided to call his son Bill.

I was still in high school when Bill’s younger brother Steve introduced me to the sport of waterfowling. We mainly hunted geese in corn lots and later I came to relish the mileu of the duck hunter. Steve entered the Marine Corp after graduation, and upon his return, we took up where we left off. Steve wasn’t home a week when we headed off in search of new places to duck hunt. Our first day of scouting for new hunting grounds resulted in a hike through tall grass that left paper cuts on our legs. In our haste to leave the grassy overgrowth we soon found ourselves   stuck thigh deep in swampy muck.  

Not long afterward I met Steve’s father and brother, Bill, also a Marine vet. It was only a matter of time before I had the opportunity to hunt with the elder Frieday, a man I had heard Steve speak of a great deal. I remember hunting with Albert on two occasions, and both times I walked on egg shells. 

Albert Frieday while serving in China.

Albert was a stern man, a no-nonsense individual not to be crossed. He grew up in Oakfield and took to the swamps and woods in his early years where he wielded both shotgun and fishing rod, becoming handy with both. In 1926 he entered the Marine Corp and in 1928 took part in the Nicaraguan “Banana Wars” and later manned a machine gun in China. After seven years he left the Corp but was drafted by the Army in ’42 after Pearl Harbor which resulted in another four year hitch.  After the war Albert and his wife Mart Catherine settled down in Batavia.

The rafters of the Frieday garage were stocked with carved duck decoys, mostly wooden but some were fashioned from cork. There were also a number of goose decoys, hip boots, and of course, Albert’s foul weather gear. Inclement weather didn’t deter him one bit, the nastier the better. “The weather didn’t bother Dad at all”, said Bill. “He liked to hunt ducks & geese in foul weather.”  One of Bill’s earliest recollections of going afield with his father was as a 12 year old, helping Albert set decoys in the pre-dawn darkness. “I was too young to hunt, but I remember carrying burlap bags filled with decoys along muddy trails while it was pitch black outside” said Bill, who along with Steve eventually became an avid waterfowler for a number of years. 

Albert was an old-school duck hunter, shown below with his Winchester Model 12.  He would pluck every duck and goose by hand, right down to the last feather. Mary Catherine Frieday would place strips of bacon over the ducks and geese prior to roasting and many a wild duck and goose dinner was enjoyed in the Frieday home. The depression era fresh in his mind, Albert made it clear that no wild game harvested was to be wasted. But there were exceptions to this rule, much to Albert's chagrin.

The Friedays had a pair of Irish Setters, Freedom and Goldie, who were mainly used for hunting upland game, but Albert would often take one of the dogs along when he hunted ducks and geese in corn lots and winter wheat fields. Prior to one such hunt, having loaded our gear into the back of Albert’s station wagon, I hopped into the back seat alongside Freedom. In the pocket of my field jacket was a pack of Twinkies and a bag of M&M’s. I tore open the Twinkie’s first and with my right hand stuffed one in my mouth. With my left hand I extended the remaining Twinkie toward Freedom who was eagerly waiting with his maw wide open, his huge tongue at the ready. The cream-filled cake was inches from his mouth when Steve and Albert boomed in unison, “DON’T GIVE HIM ANY.” At the time I didn’t realize they were thinking of the dog’s dental hygiene – I just thought they were being mean. It was late afternoon when the first flock of geese came in. They passed by at close range and Albert dropped a double. Freedom promptly ran to the fallen birds, picked one up and – headed in the opposite direction. He eventually returned but without the goose, which we never did locate. For years I figured the dog was being vindictive, as a payback for the reneged Twinkie. Only recently did Bill Frieday tell me Freedom had a habit of running off with downed waterfowl.     

I was fortunate to have known Albert Frieday, if only for a short time. He was not only an old- school outdoorsman, he was a husband, father, Marine and Army combat veteran and a great American.

Had lunch at the Log Cabin at Indian Falls.

Huge fish fry...way too much, had to bring half home.

Mirror image on Oak Orchard Creek

More photos after the jump:

Purple Loosestrife

Musk Mallow

Chickory

Woodland Sunflower

Timothy & Oxeye Daisies

Where Needled Giants Nod

Fur bearer's wake in a swampy backwater

On the way home - the calm before the storm

Because wetlands are an important part of the environment, the Canadian-based Marsh Monitoring Program has been studying the effects of outside disturbances on the swamps, marshes, mini-wetlands and adjoining woodlands throughout the entire Great Lakes Basin.

 In their quest to determine the health of these wetlands as well as surrounding woodlands - the MMP enlists the help of volunteers who take a census of the amphibian and feathered inhabitants at selected locales.  A number of these volunteers work at collecting data for both birds and amphibians, others concentrate on birds alone while others focus on the frog population.

 Batavian Bill Moon is a local MMP volunteer who focuses on the amphibian population.  Waiting for a minimum air temperature of 60 degrees, he will select an evening during the months of April, May and June to visit nearby wetlands as dusk approaches. He waits for night to fall, then for a given time period, listens for spring peepers, green frogs and bull frogs, carefully charting the results. The nocturnal chorus, or lack thereof, speaks volumes for the Marsh Monitoring Program.

Due to the work of the program volunteers throughout the Great Lakes Basin, the MMP has established a ranking system, or report card so to speak, to evaluate the state of various wetlands stretching from Wisconsin to the St. Lawrence River. These wetlands range in size from vast swamps and cattail marshes to microcosmic wetland tracts.

Being among nature’s delicate species, the songbirds and amphibians serve as natural barometers, providing insight as to the health of the outdoors environment. As good indicators of air and water quality and other earth resources, such species are the first to be affected by various disturbances on the landscape such as Great Lakes water levels, housing or developmental sprawl, etc.   

The youngster in the above photo certainly seems to be enjoying himself. His cavorting may be the result of the adventurous week he put in – or it could be he’s merely thankful to be on shore. His name is Regan Miller, twelve years old when the photo was taken. Along with baby brother Ethan, mom Heather and Grammy, Cindy Stevens, Regan joined Claudia and I on a trip to Lubber’s Quarters, a small island in the Sea of Abaco.  Our stay would last a week and for Regan, the adventure turned into an eye-opening experience not long after he first entered the water.

Our rental home overlooked a protected cove. To the north and south were points of land where the cove meets the open water in the Sea of Abaco. Overlooking the south point was another home, with a large pier extending into the water a good ways.  Like all structure, piers attract fish and this one was no exception. Beneath the pier was a variety of fish, including a school of mangrove snappers. 

Swimming below the pier, I kept one eye on the snappers and the other on Regan.  Having passed through the pier, I noticed the visibility was suddenly reduced – no doubt caused by the constant wave action against the shore.  That’s when I saw a light colored flash streak through the water.  Though the water was slightly murky I was sure I hadn’t imagined the elongated, silvery flash. What I was unsure of was, had it rushed us, actually swimming in our direction with the speed for which the species is noted when ambushing prey? Were we being sized up? Or was the mad dash merely for identification purposes. 

That lightning quick flash was all I saw, yet it was all I needed to realize a barracuda had already staked out this area as its own. The water here was shallow enough to stand, and with my right arm I swept Regan behind my back, an action which signaled to the 12 year old something was up.  

Deciding the coast was clear, we backed off, swimming backward slowly, beneath the pier and toward the cove. We had emerged on the opposite side of the pier when the toothsome barracuda came into view, slowly, barely sweeping its caudal fin, its menacing teeth evident.  In the clearness of the undisturbed water we could see it was all of five feet long.  And he was persistent, following us, refusing to leave. About this time I turned to look at Regan. His eyes were big as saucers – and who could blame him.  Unlike big sharks, barracuda are not capable of biting off human arms or legs – but their razor sharp teeth can sever arteries in a heartbeat. And I was responsible for the 12 year old alongside me.

After a few minutes the barracuda came close – too close. I literally tapped the barracuda on it’s snout with the barbed end of my Hawaiian sling, hoping he would get the hint.  It did not, but rather turned slightly, staying close. Unwilling to yield its hunting ground, the menacing-looking fish wasn’t backing down. “Don’t shoot him” said Regan. The youngster was obviously reading my mind. “If I shoot this thing is it going to swim off or turn on me - or us?”  I wondered. With Regan beside me it was a gamble I would not take. 

Swimming backward all the while to keep an eye on the feisty fish, we were finally in knee-deep water. I signaled to Regan to head for shore. I don’t remember whether or not he took off his fins, but he made a B-line for the beach, the ‘cuda in hot pursuit. The toothy fish could have easily overtaken Regan, but it didn’t. Had it merely been curious? Or had it sensed the erratic heart beat of a frightened 12 year-old?  Perhaps it had been attracted by the flash of the stainless steel shaft of my Hawaiian sling?   Numerous documented reports of barracuda attacks show many of the victims had been wearing shiny jewelry. 

Two days later, we were swimming not too far from shore off a small point on the opposite side of the bay, and by this time, Regan had a negative outlook on barracuda in general.  It goes without saying there would be more barracuda. Though they were smaller in size, it didn’t matter to Regan. The teeth protruding from their mouth and menacing appearance were enough to make my young dive partner leery.  It was while looking to the limit of our visibility, expecting larger specimens to show up, we saw a pair of brown objects lying on the sandy bottom directly below us in less than six feet of water.  They were nurse sharks, so close we could see their gill slits opening and closing. 

The week wasn’t without its sublime moments. We were snorkeling off Sandy Cay, part of the Pelican Cays Underwater Marine Park when five spotted eagle rays swam past. They were some 12 – 15 feet beneath the surface, swimming in single file, the movement of their wings slow and deliberate, yet graceful. I dove to get pictures, frantically snapping and rewinding the underwater disposable. Its times like this I long for a Nikonos with a strobe flash.  On the way home we anchored the boat to dive for sand dollars when a pair of bottlenose dolphins swam past. 

One afternoon Regan and I were walking the north shore of the island at low tide. Walking carefully along an outcropping of dead coral, we saw a variety of smaller marine life in tidal pools. Then Regan, never ceasing to amaze me, asked, “Isn’t that an octopus?”  Sure enough, at the bottom of one of the tidal pools was a small, cave-like opening in the coral formation. And just inside that opening one could see a small octopus with its tentacles withdrawn. Directly in front of its lair were three conch shells. The shells were empty, their interior pink-orange. They had no doubt been the octopus’ dinner.  That same day it was time to depart and Regan had a seat next to the pilot. As we circled the island, I saw him gazing out the window at the turquoise blue water, no doubt thinking about the big barracuda.

This autumn Regan will be a sophomore at Batavia High where he plays football and basketball for the Blue Devils. Since our Abaco adventure he has grown at least a foot and filled out considerably. Not so surprisingly Regan says he’d like to return to the island, adding that next time he’d like to try his hand at actually hunting with a Hawaiian sling.  My question to Regan is this: armed with a sling, are you willing to swim back to the barracuda’s lair beneath the pier?    

Not too many years ago, on a sunny Father’s Day, I stowed an ultra-light fishing rod and my hip boots inside the hatch of the family vehicle.  I put two small spinners in a plastic container and headed for a stretch of the Little Tonawanda not far from our home. It was a low-key plan, intended to pass the time wading the Little T, and perhaps entice the bait fish population.

The action began right away, as strikes came one after another, with creek chubs and horned dace  wasting no time inhaling the tiny Rooster Tail as soon as I began a retrieve. Though the fish were small, the surroundings and the solitude were enjoyable.  The sole competition came in the form of a kingfisher and a slow moving snapping turtle, the latter easy to spot in the shallow water.

I came across a shaded area where a tree provided a respite from the mid-day sun. Here a few rusted strands of barbed wire spanned the narrow stream, remnants of yesteryear, lending more authenticity to the rural setting. Being careful not to puncture my hip boots on the barbs, I ducked between strands and continued on.  A short distance downstream was a riffle which emptied into a small pocket of quiet water.  

I cast the Rooster Tail directly into the riffle, allowing the current to take it into the small pool. I hadn’t turned the reel handle two or three times when something belted the tiny spinner. Whatever it was, it certainly hit much harder than the baitfish I had been catching.  The fish was on for a moment before the line went slack. I assumed it was a smallmouth, and made repeated casts with no results.  

I left the little pool, wading a few yards downstream when I felt another hard strike.  The fish provided a good tussle, and moments later I was pleasantly surprised when I beached a brown trout. The fish was vivid in color - dark brown along the back, a smattering of black spots across a golden brown flank. The fish was no doubt a holdover from the previous year’s stocking far upstream in Linden.  After inspecting and releasing the fish I began working my way back upstream, stopping at the little pool with the riffle. There I was rewarded with another brown, identical to the first and maybe the same fish I had hooked earlier.  It too was released. 

Before working my way upstream toward the car, I couldn’t help but savor the moment. Even the aroma from a nearby pasture added to the enjoyment of a Father’s Day in rural America. 

Originally the intent of the morning’s paddle was to get a photo or two of the otters known to inhabit Black Creek. Unfortunately, the semi-aquatic mammals were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they had moved farther upstream, into the Bergen Swamp.   There were numerous Canada geese on hand, adults, adolescents and goslings – and willing to have their picture taken.  

Bill Moon is a man with varied interests.  Since his retirement from the Genesee County Health Department, Bill divides his time between photography - he takes group photos of sports teams as well as nature pics – canoeing, camping and a bit of fly-rodding.  Through the years he has participated in at least thirty stage productions with Batavia Players, Batavia Rotary and the Forum Players.  But first and foremost among Bill’s endeavors is a lifelong interest in the sport of archery.

Bill was given his first bow by his Uncle John. Not long afterward, at the tender age of four, he scored his first bull’s-eye.  There was one minor problem – at the time he was standing inside a relative’s home.   With bow in hand and looking for a suitable target, he spotted a window. Taking aim at one of the small panes of glass between the mullions, Bill let fly and scored a direct hit. Despite having his bow taken away for a spell, Bill’s fascination with archery continued. A few years later his interest in the sport rapidly accelerated.

Bill was twelve when an uncle took him to see “Tembo” a movie featuring famed archer Howard Hill on safari in Africa. The footage made quite an impression, as Bill came out of the theatre with an infatuation for the sport of archery which has lasted to this day.  “Even if you had no fascination with archery or Howard Hill,” he said in reference to the film, “you will come away with an appreciation of the photography from the film,” said Bill in regards to the cinema work. He went on to explain, saying, “With no zoom lens available, they used an eighty pound camera mounted on a turret lens – 3 lenses in one.” 

Growing up in Hamilton, in New York’s Leatherstocking region, Bill made his first bow while still in high school. “It was a stick bow made from a hickory plank,” he stated. A forerunner of the bows he turns out today, that prototype proved to be a capable weapon afield. And it wasn’t far from home where he honed his shooting skills. ” There was a small woods down the street with rabbits, woodchucks, squirrels, snakes, tin cans, anything that presented a target,” he said.

Presently Bill enjoys attending various bow shoots, including the Great Lakes Long Bow Rendezvous and the Traditional Bowmen’s Rendezvous. Closer to home, he shoots with the Hawkeye Bowmen in Alden.  Needless to say, Bill also spends time shooting at targets in his backyard. Come autumn, it’s time to take to the woods.   

In addition to the longbows, Bill has crafted a number of recurves, and he also turns out wooden arrows, complete with turkey quill fletching.  Each piece of his equipment is – no pun intended - naturally good shooting. Conscientious and meticulous in his work, he’s been known to scrap a nearly completed bow and start from scratch.  The finished product speaks for itself. Well crafted and sweet shooting, Bill’s longbows are presently used by archers in five states – soon to be six as a Californian has one on order. Bill emphasized the making of bows is in no way a business. “Besides the desire to hunt, there was a longing to craft my own bow,” he said.  When friends and fellow archers saw the results, requests for a Bill Moon custom longbow began piling up. 

If you see a green pickup/ camper with a canoe loaded on top and a license plate reading “ARCHERY,”  its Bill enroute to a favorite getaway. And don’t let the canoe fool you – he probably has one or two bows along just in case.  

For the second straight year the Tonawanda Creek Carp Derby resulted in another good turnout. Ideal weather conditions attracted solo anglers as well as those who saw it as an opportunity for a family outing with upwards of forty entrants lining the creek bank for Saturday’s Carp Derby. 

Carp may not be much to look at, nor are they classified as a game fish.  However, once hooked they can put up quite a good tussle.  Several participants in Saturday’s derby can attest to that.  Shortly after the first lines hit the water, the Blecha brothers, Mike and Jeremy were the first to connect, accounting for three carp in a short time span. Their trio of fish ranged in weight from 7 to 10.5 pounds, with the latter specimen temporarily sliding into first place.  

Minutes later the Pietrzykowski brothers, Jake and Jeremy, got into the act.  Jeremy quickly set the hook after a carp inhaled his offering of corn kernels.  Minutes passed before he was able to lead the hefty bottom feeder into the shallows where Jake was waiting with the net. The fish pulled the scales to the 13lbs. 10 oz. mark.

Despite murky water conditions, there were numerous fish caught, all of them returned to the water after a brief weigh-in. The creekside camaraderie made the afternoon pass quickly and at the end of the day Jeremy Pietrzykowski  took home “Biggest Fish” honors, with the award for the smallest going to Randy Demers. 

There was quite a mix of folks lining the creek bank on this day, making for a festive atmosphere and a chance to renew old acquaintances and sample “chef” John Lawrence’s snacks hot off the grill - venison backstraps and pheasant tenders rolled in bacon.

FAMILIAR FACES IN THE CROWD: CARP DERBY PICS

 Joe Lawrence

 The Blecha Family

 Jimmy DeFreze, Jimmy, Sam, Bill & Mike Ficarella

 Dr. Joe Canzoneri with sons Nick & Mike

Mike DeFreze & Ben Buchholz

St. Joe's PE & Health Instructor Vin Romanotto

 Brian Jackson 

We went to the sandwash on monday.Jimmy caught a pretty nice fish.Is it a blue gill?

These obviously happy anglers are displaying a pair of crevalle jacks.That's my cousin Richard Silver in the stars & stripes windbreaker. Standing alongside is friend and fishing buddy, Ira Kanerick.

I remember hearing Richard once proclaim the waters off Montauk Point on the eastern end of Long Island, and area around Key West, as two of the greatest fishing grounds in the world. That was more than thirty years ago. But long before making that statement he plied the waters of Mill Pond and Black Creek in Byron, and the Tonawanda Creek where it flowed past Parker Grinnel's pasture on Dorman Rd.

Here the captain uses a cast net to collect bait fish.

Richard was born and raised in Brooklyn and it was always a treat to see him whenever he visited the home of our grandparents in fifties. He was a teenager then and I was but a little shaver and sometimes allowed to tag along with him to the above mentioned fishing holes. Later, after first serving with the U.S. Navy, then forming his own business, American Pipe & Tank Lining Co. Inc., Richard still found time to make the drive to Montauk Point where he fished for striped bass with Ira and charter skipper John DeMeo. I fished with this trio on a windy Monday morning in October of '77. We were after stripers but the waves were so bad we retreated into a tidal estuary. I wound up taking home several pounds of flounder from that trip.

Having been brought close to the boat, a shark decides to make bid for freedom.

After the hook has been set, a tarpon puts on an aerial display.

Still full of fight, the tarpon is worked carefully towards the boat.

Richard and Ira recently made a two day trip to Islamorada, in the Florida Keys and they were kind enough to pass along these photos. A variety of species, including but not limited to tarpon, shark, grouper and crevalle jacks, were more than accommodating. Along with the pictures was a note stating "The action was nonstop. If it swam, we caught it." Knowing these two long time friends, that's nothing out of the ordinary.

There’s been plenty of songbird activity around our home in recent days. The Northern Baltimore Oriole pictured here is nesting in the small woodlot next to our home, but each day makes numerous visits to our apple tree.

This mother robin is incubating her clutch of eggs in our mulberry tree

While the songbird nesting season is just getting underway, numerous waterfowl have already become new parents, as evidenced by a pair of geese keep a watchful eye on their brood of goslings.

The plane ride into the Northwest Territories revealed a barren wilderness interspersed with pristine lakes and brawling, turbulent rivers.  As the plane descended for landing we had a birdseye view of the local terrain. Visible through the windows of the twin engine Otter were endless rolling hills studded with boulders, some the size of small houses.  We had flown just beyond the fringe of the North American tree line, into the home of the barren ground caribou, ptarmigan and other tundra denizens.  The few trees that do grow here are stunted spruce and willow, the ground carpeted with caribou moss and lichen.    

The lakes and rivers here teem with lake trout, grayling and very few northern pike. Not surprisingly we failed to hook a northern during our week long stay. Not that it mattered. Our tent camp was located at Nueltin Narrows.  As the name implies, “the Narrows” is a bottleneck in 135 mile long Nueltin Lake.     

It was the third week of June, 1982, and much of the lake was still locked in ice, including a large bay in close proximity to our camp.  The remaining ice was honeycombed, and I’ll never forget the sound it made whenever a breeze picked up – like ice cubes being swished around inside thousands of crystal drinking glasses.

Because the water was deep and clear, we could look down into the lake depths, sometimes able to see the shadow of a large fish swimming by – probably a big lake trout. But the fish weren’t all that cooperative to start with. We caught lake trout, but not a great number. That would change once the cold front passed through.   Gray skies and chilly air temperatures required warm clothing – goose down and wool – and thermoses filled with hot liquid, usually cocoa or chicken broth.

After three days the sun returned, and the lake trout action heated up.  They provided great sport on light tackle, and one evening they put on an aerial display – very uncharacteristic of lake trout.  It was close to ten pm when we found a small bay full of six to eight lb.  lake trout. They went crazy for yellow and red wobbling spoons called Five of Diamonds. I don’t know how deep a one ounce spoon can sink in three seconds, but that’s where the fish were. We began reeling after a three count and the lakers wasted no time attacking the spoons. Within seconds they were on the surface, jumping, rolling and just giving a good account of North Country forktails.  By 1:30 a.m. we were feasting on broiled lake trout. After dining on all that fresh fish it was hard to fall asleep – we were wired on protein!

We found a great set of caribou antlers while hiking and saw a number of ducks including scoters, eider and several ptarmigan. One afternoon a solitary otter persisted in following us. He gave us a wide berth, staying thirty yards or more behind the boat. Once we began trolling, the aquatic mammal had no trouble keeping up and followed us for a quite a while.   

In the short sub-arctic summer only the top few inches of earth thaws.  For this reason camp food is kept in a small underground chamber and cooled by the perma-frost.  Our hosts had stocked the food locker with pork chops, chicken, etc. That didn’t stop us from dining on lake trout whenever possible.

During the sub-arctic summer the sun sets late at that latitude and we never experienced darkness. Lowest light was between 2 and 3 in the morning, a dusk-dawn setting. Today Nueltin Lake is no longer part of the Northwest Territories. In 1993 a new territory called Nunavut was formed. In Inuktitut -the language of the Inuit - Nunavut means “our land”, essentially any Canadian land north of the tree line.  On April 1, 1999 Nunavut officially became separate from the Northwest Territories.

Our last evening at North Knife Lake was spent fishing from shore where the North Knife River spills into the lake. I was fishing upstream of the others when I heard my nephew yell. Though I couldn’t see him due to dense brush, the urgency in his voice was obvious. So was the sound of splashing. Thinking he had fallen in I came running. It turns out the splashing was a big pike on the end of Chris’ line as it wallowed in the shallows. It was a dandy northern for a twelve year old, one of several he caught during our stay. All too soon it was time to board the float plane, the first of a series of plane trips that would take us back to New Jersey.

We managed to have great fun during our Jersey years, Chris, his sister Samantha and my own young ones, Jami and Sam. I’d like to think they looked forward to my ceaseless antics. Come Halloween time, they were often on the alert, waiting for me to appear out of nowhere – a closet, bushes or in a window - wearing a gnarly mask. Being the oldest of the kids in the family, Chris always caught on before the others, laughing as they ran amok, seeking an escape route.   

And what a unique laugh he had – it was a combination chuckle/cackle. Recently my son and I were remembering Chris, recalling those early years when Sam said, “What I wouldn’t give to hear that cackle one more time.”

Chris would have celebrated his forty-first birthday next month. And though I may not hear his cackling laugh, I’ll settle for a few of my favorites from our North Knife Lake photo album - Chris’ early years.

Chris' First Northern Pike

His Big Northern

Time To Head Home

Until We Meet Again........

Much of Northern Manitoba experienced early ice-out in 1980 and in early June a float plane carrying Charlie Pace, Matthew Guido, my nephew Chris Carr and I touched down on the surface of North Knife Lake, 600 air miles north of Winnipeg. It turned out to be a fisherman’s dream as the action grew hotter with each passing day.

 The afternoon of our last full day in camp found us drifting a quarter-mile upstream on a sluggish river.  Gilles Lord, who served as camp manager and guide, had pulled a jumbo northern from this spot a week earlier.He now referred to the place as “Hog Alley.”  

We were casting spoons when Chris pointed to a surface disturbance a considerable distance away.  Charlie and Matthew were in another boat close-by. They too had seen the commotion atop the water. “What s going on over there?” I asked, motioning toward the surface activity. “Otters” Gilles answered.   Due to the distance from us it was hard to make out details, yet there appeared to be several of them.  We would soon discover they weren’t otters at all.                                   

 Early that morning we stowed our gear in two boats before embarking on a twelve mile boat ride to a place called mid-camp. Along the way we motored into a shallow bay, stopping long enough to catch a few lake trout for lunch. At mid-camp Gilles needed to unscrew plywood covers from the window frames. During the winter one or more black bears had entered the cabin through the windows and devoured everything in sight, including plenty of canned goods. For good measure the culprit bit clean through a cooking pot. The only thing that survived was a can of aerosol bug repellent.

After a lunch of lake trout fillets we motored into Gilles hot spot, a widening in a narrow river that emptied into North Knife Lake. As we drifted closer to the previously mentioned surface disturbance we discovered the “otters” were actually tails - very large forked tails. What’s more, they would point straight up into the air for second or two before sliding below the surface. But another would take its place. There was always two or three visible, literally pointing to the sky.  They were huge lake trout!     

A school of big lakers had invaded the river to gorge on tullibee, a variety of whitefish.  Matthew was the first to hook up. The arch in his fishing rod and line steadily peeled from his reel signaled a big fish.  Whatever was on Matthew’s line never jumped, it just bulldogged, hugging the river bottom and giving up line grudgingly.  Because Matthew’s reel was loaded with 8 lb. test line, it was nearly an hour before a monster lake trout was visible in the gin clear water.                                                                   

Hog Alley lived up to its name on this day, yielding some mighty big fish, with Matthew Guidos lake trout earning him a listing in the 1980 edition of the Manitoba Master Angler Awards, provincial annals celebrating trophy fish.