Memories of Magical Waters. Gord Deval
not the least bit timid. They continued to follow and harass the gorgeously appointed speckled trout furiously trying to shed the annoying chunk of metal stuck in its lip. One after another was hooked, with most being released, but my buddies were still unable to seduce a single trout with their feathered offerings, so the spinning outfit was soon being shared among the three of us, with everyone participating in the fantastic action. Hardly a cast was made without a response from the fish, all with exactly the same result, a posse of others alongside the unlucky one with the lure in its mouth.
There were a few moments of panic, however, when the seemingly deadly Halfwave was almost surrendered to one of the many underwater obstructions near shore. Mostly trees that had been felled by beavers, they provided the cover where the trout seemed to disappear to when they were not chasing the lure or one of their hooked brethren. Luckily, we had been able to work the lure free each time when we discovered that the hook would straighten with a slow pull on the spinning line.
The frenetic fishing continued until noon hour when we decided to give the lake and our arms a rest, and eat the cheese sandwiches that had been thrown together in the wee hours of the morning before leaving the cabin. The spinning outfit was retired for the day when we agreed that perhaps the challenge of trying to entice and hook one of these so obviously plentiful brook trout with fly tackle would present a more interesting way to wind up one of the most fantastic days of fishing any of us had ever experienced anywhere, anytime. A couple more trout were taken, including the largest of the trip, a twenty-four-inch-long beauty that tipped the pocket scale at almost six pounds. Bill caught it on a Despair fly that he had tied, rather than on one of the fancy creations he had purchased back in Toronto.
As much as we would have liked to stay, there was much to be done before the long drive back to Toronto. I think it was Johnny who on the way home from that exceptional day on the magical waters of Brooks Lake, referred to the little bay where those few hours of frenzied action occurred as the “Hatchery.” I suppose it was truly like fishing in a hatchery and when recounting this story, as I am sure each of us has often done during the many years since, I usually begin with a question, “Heh, have you ever fished in a hatchery?”
The second most prominent memory of moments in the Land O’ Lakes area occurred on Mosque Lake. Originally called Mosquito Lake, Mosque was renamed by Russell Wells, a veteran of the Second World War who used his veteran’s grant to buy a piece of property on the lake then build a fishing lodge and several small cabins. Feeling that the existing name of the lake, would not be conducive to an operation that was dependent on attracting guests, he successfully applied to have the lake’s name altered and his camp became Mosque Lake Lodge.
During one of our earlier trips to fish Brooks Lake, we met Fred Day, an officer with the old Department of Lands and Forests. In those days, they were simply called game wardens. Subsequently, in those early years of fishing the Land O’ Lakes we ran into Fred a number of times, occasionally when being checked by him in his official capacity and once or twice at Birch Lodge. All the while making notes, Fred would pick our brains for details on our fishing in Brooks, Grants and one or two other lakes in the area. It was he who introduced us to Mosque when he inquired if we had ever fished there in our search for big speckled trout. He added, “If you boys want big specks then that’s the place to get ‘em. Greys up to twenty pounds there, too!” Grey trout was the prevalent moniker applied to lake trout in southern Ontario in the forties and fifties.
Don Petican, another fishing buddy, had a cottage on Mosque Lake.
He was absolutely correct. Our first visit to Mosque Lake with old buddy, Art Walker, was indeed memorable, from the trials of negotiating the trail recently carved out of the bush and barely adequate to drive a car on, to a couple of magnificent seven-pound beauties that fell to our offerings. EGBs,4 those superb little spoons made in Switzerland, were, along with the aforementioned Halfwave, our lures of choice and still are these days, right up there with the Crocodile wabler.
A rather imposing figure, tall and lanky with what looked like a permanent scowl etched on his countenance, Russ Wells strode down the hill toward his dock where we were unloading our outboard motor and fishing gear.
“Don’t you boys think you should get permission before you unload that stuff?” he barked at us from halfway down the hill. “This place is private you know—for our guests.”
I mustered my best smile and scrambled up to meet him before he reached the bottom, trying to mollify his hostility by apologizing for not having gone to meet him first. Justifying our actions by attributing our excitement at the possibility of doing a little fishing after the long drive up, I commented on the desperate state of the road, “Boy, that last couple of miles is sure one hell of a drive—at least in my old jalopy anyhow.”
Seeing him grimace even more threateningly, I realized, too late, that he probably had built the bloody road himself. Then, attempting to extricate myself from the predicament, I put my foot in my mouth once again by commenting on the adventure the drive on the road had given us, acknowledging that it must have been pretty tough building the last couple miles.
“Built it myself. Built this whole damn place myself,” he replied curtly.
His entire demeanour, however, suddenly changed when he saw us both reaching for our wallets, “Yeah, I’m Wells. Guess you want to rent a boat, right. It’ll cost you a couple of bucks. That okay? You need minnows? Got some for sale in that box in the water by the dock. A buck, a dozen. Worms don’t work worth a damn here if you’re after big trout. They’ll just catch you a bunch of little ones.”
After we introduced ourselves and thanked him for the live bait instructions, Art explained that we just fished with artificial flies and lures except when ice-fishing where minnows definitely seemed superior.
Chuckling heartily, Russell pointed to the dock and indicated the boat we should take. “The less leaky one,” he said, explaining that the boats had only been in the water a couple of weeks because the ice was late going out.
As a parting shot, he added, “Gotta soak up a little before they tighten up, you know. You’ll be back for minnows in a little while. Just help yourselves. There’s a couple of pails on the dock you can use. We’ll settle up when you come in. Just come up to the lodge. Okay?”
Don Petican holding a 1980 Mosque Lake beauty
We carried on unloading our duff as he tromped back up the hill, pausing for a moment to look over his shoulder and yell, “I’ll have Eva whip up some scones for you to knock down with a pot of hot tea when you come in. The wife makes her own jam, too.”
We did not have to go back to the dock and help ourselves to Russell’s minnows. As a matter of fact the next few hours produced one of the most incredible memories of all time—all my time, anyhow. Because fly fishing is always our preferred attack when trout fishing, that tackle was quickly strung together with the resulting wand-waving providing a variety of thrills involving specks in the three to four-pound class. Most were released in the hope that even larger trout would fall to our charms.
With our arms tiring and still hoping to find and do battle with one of the huge brook trout that the game warden, Fred Day, had alluded to, we had eventually switched to our new spinning gear with EGBs replacing our feathered offerings. The results were truly phenomenal and when we returned to shore a little later and casually flopped a six pound and a couple of seven-pounders onto the dock, Russell, who was busying himself filling paint cans with cement to serve as anchors for his “fleet,” dropped everything and came running with a yelp, “Holy Jesus! Mother of God! Bloody good, boy! Were you using worms, or what? You didn’t get them on goddamn flies, did you?” The two big ones gotta be about eight pounds!”
Art