I had helped my uncle clean the catch he and Curly had brought back from their earlier ice-fishing trip to Brooks Lake. After the furious initial excitement, tallying three or four trout in the twenty-inch class and losing at least the same number, the action suddenly tailed off. Darkness was approaching anyhow and the possibility of our losing our way again on the trail weighed heavily on our minds. It was time to call it a day.
Later, back at our compact cabin with its upper and lower bunks, the trout were cleaned, then stashed on ice beneath the sawdust in the ice house. After a quick snack, our tired but happy crew hit the sack, all with grins on their faces in anticipation of the excitement lying in store for us on our next day of fishing Brooks Lake.
We were not to be disappointed. Within moments of pushing off in the sodden wooden hulk passing for the trapper’s boat, Bill had raised and lost two fabulous brook trout, both of which would have easily topped four pounds. Then, like the day before, as quickly as it began, the trout seemed to develop lockjaw. Once the three of us lost confidence in our favourite, feathered creations, our fly boxes were all being scoured, searching for a winning pattern—all to no avail.
Finally fishing on Brooks Lake: Gord (left) and Johny Finnegan in 1950.
A proud Gord displays his first big trout on Brooks Lake.
Between sips of hot coffee from his Thermos bottle, Johnny blurted out, “Dammit all anyhow, Deval, I told you we should have brought worms! Trout love worms, you know. This must be the first time I ever went fishing without them.” Then remembering the new spinning equipment I had obtained, he said, “Why don’t you set up that crazy outfit you bought? You’ve got some little spoons and spinners and stuff there that you showed us. Maybe that’s just what the doctor ordered.”
Other than an hour or so of practice in the park to see how the thing worked, the new tackle had yet to be put to the use for which it was intended. Nevertheless, I agreed immediately. While Bill and Johnny continued to flail away with their fly rods, mine was soon put away and the spinning tackle set up. One of the half-dozen lures that I had bought, the Halfwave, a tiny Swiss-made wabler,2 was fastened to the line and we were ready to do battle.
The day before, just locating and seeing Brooks Lake for the first time was definitely an unforgettable moment for all of us, but what transpired in the next couple of hours may be one of the most magical memories I have ever experienced in my lifetime working over all those streams and lakes. Although an entire book could be written detailing the thrills and excitement the three of us enjoyed on that tiny trout lake before we had to pack up, with so many other memories to relate I will only touch on the highlights of that memorable morning.
The brass Halfwave, hardly any larger than the Despairs and bucktail streamer flies3 with which we had been attempting to entice the brookies earlier, was flung out with little ceremony. I had barely begun the retrieve when the water boiled beneath the lure, followed by the line being fiercely ripped off the spinning reel. While Bill and Johnny were furiously snapping pictures, the battle see-sawed back and forth with the trout tearing off fifteen feet of line, then my managing to gain ten or twelve back. Eventually, the power of the cane spinning rod, together with the security of the slipping clutch on the reel, overcame the brookie’s resistance.
The results of the exceptional fishing at the “Hatchery” on Brooks Lake.
More photos—then the spinning rod was again put to work. As before, the Halfwave was attacked as soon as it broke the surface and the tackle was once again put to the test. Bill spotted it first—a strange phenomenon and one I have never seen since. He yelled, “Good God! Look at that, guys! There’s at least another dozen trout charging around the one hooked on your spoon—probably trying to wrest it away from him.”
“Somebody grab a picture. Quick! Before they spot the boat and disappear.” I yelled, “If we don’t have any pictures nobody will ever believe this.”
I needn’t have worried as the trout were 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
