THE LAND NORTH OF SUPERIOR

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This is a rugged land, full of lakes, rivers and old worn down mountains of the Canadian Shield.  It is full of fish and game.  It is land of awesome beauty and of brutal death.  Even a person used to the riggers of the region can end up in a desperate situation in the land north of Superior.

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A number of years ago, just prior to the multi tools of today I was invited by my Dad to come to a fishing tournament being organized by a contractor from the town he lived in.  Being of an outdoors persuasion and wanting to go fishin with my Dad, I cleared my calendar for that August weekend.  To call it a tournament was to hold the definition loosely, except for the grand prize, a 1000$ for the winner.  That was another reason for me to go, I had never seen a 1000$ bill before.

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I set up my hard top tent trailer on a point of land that sticks out into the blue waters of the lake.  The point was actually a terminal moraine created by glaciers many thousands of years ago.  Road construction, for the forestry access road, had scoped a natural south facing hollow, which provided protection from the elements.  From long practice it didn’t take a great deal of time to set up the trailer, the outside cooking table and the trap over it.  This tarp served as a dual shelter, we could cook outside it the rain or we could relax outside in the shade if the sun proved too friendly!  My fourteen foot boat came down from it’s truck rack easily and the 20hp outboard and the fishin gear were loaded a half hour later.

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I looked at the time, if I cooked dinner it would be too late to go fishin, so I decided to postpone dinner.  I had never been on this lake before, even though we drove past it many times to other pickerel lakes.  This lake was a typical shield lake, a rugged shoreline, shallow bays and rocks all over.  I trolled away from the landing and within a short had my first fish, an angry ten pound pike wanted my Rapala!  He was released in short order and my exploration of the lake continued.  I picked up several nice pickerel and kept two for super.

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The next morning, while I was cleanin breakfast dishes, the first of the tournament guests arrived and Dad showed up by noon.  We had a marry community of tents and trailers setup in no time.  Cookin fires sprang up and various tantalizing odours wafted through the camp area at super time.  Visiting was the order of the evening and refreshments could be found anywhere.  The tourney would get under way in the morning.

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The next morning we were off!  There were some 20 boats and all were wantin that 1000$ bill for the most weight on a legal limit of pickerel.  From the previous nights troll I knew to head off from the landing to a river mouth to the east.  We rigged up and soon had the rods set.  I was trolling my usual Rapala combination and Dad had on one of his favourites.  We hadn’t gone very far when I hooked a pickerel.  It wasn’t very big, so I didn’t stop the outboard and force Dad to bring in his lure.  I reached over the side of the boat to grab the fish with my left hand.  A split second later I was lookin at my fingers!  The index finger, the middle finger AND my thumb were on the rear treble hook of the Rapala minnow!  I did stop the outboard then.

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How many times had I done just that, reached over the side of the boat to pick a fish up, without any sort of problems?  Well here I was three of my fingers stapled together with a fishin lure.  Well first I tried pulling a finger off one of the hooks on the treble.  That didn’t do anything.  Then using my needle nose pliers, which I carried for removing deeply hooked fish; I managed to free my index finger.  Dad in the mean time was lookin at the situation and for some unknown reason he found it funny!  Amongst gales of laughter I was struggling unsuccessfully to free my thumb and middle finger.  By this time shock had worn off and the constant movement of the two buried hooks was causing some considerable pain.  And Dad still found it funny!

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Finally I reached into my tackle box and pulled out a small pair of side cutters.  I carried these so I could cut leader material and make my own specific length leaders.  Cutting two hooks off the treble at least freed my hand.  But there was no way I could force the hook point to emerge through the tough hide on my fingers.  There was now some considerable loss of the red stuff from these aggravated digits.  After lookin at the embedded hooks I finally made my choice.  With Dad firmly holdin the exposed cut off end of the hook on my middle finger I took my folding belt knife and cut the skin right beside the entry point of the hook.  One clean cut freed the barb and the finger was hook less!  The same operation was done on the thumb.  Being from the north there was no possible way for me to admit to pain from such a thing, I cut off a couple of pieces from my tee shirt, wrapped the three digits and we finally got under way again.

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We never did win that 1000$ bill that day.  Some how I guess you shouldn’t be paid to go to school or to do what you really like!  That day I did learn to keep your hands clear of any fishin line attached to a very toothy Rapala minnow.  It also reinforced my thinking that one must always try to be prepared for the silliest possible happenings when exploring the land north of Superior.