Then who does one listen to?
So I'm hurtling east on 17 along Superior, towards Terrace Bay on the
way to Pukaskwa. The sky grows active, ominous. Then rain pelts down in something
just short of sheets and continues for the next 120 km or so of steeply cursive
road. Periodically I tune to Environment Canada, whose radio voice informs me
that it's partly cloudy at Terrace Bay and likely to stay that way for the
remainder of the day.
Later I tell this story to a fellow traveler and he says with just a
hint of you should know better in his voice: "Don't listen to Environment
Canada. Even they say not to listen
to Environment Canada."
Right. Now they tell me.
But a fair piece east of Nipigon I captured this and made it safely to
Pukaskwa, later in the day. All's well that ends well, I suppose...
Really, really big fish don't swim here anymore...
Lake Nipigon is called by some the "Sixth Great Lake". I'd
not go that far, though it's mighty big indeed.
And as the largest tributaries into Lake Superior, the Lake and the
Nipigon River that flows from it deserve respect. But that's not why, when
Heather & I first traveled the north shore, I insisted on driving all the
way up the river to see a place I didn't realize no longer exists.
We went there 'cause it was up on the Nipigon that during July of 1915, Dr. J.W. Cook enjoyed a couple of the best days in perhaps the entire recorded history of freshwater
fishing. You don't get so close to a place like that, without you go have a
look-see...
Now, if you don't know Brook Trout,
you might think "So?" Truth is, most folk are tickled pink to have
caught a brookie of 13' or so. This hallowed emblem of the Northwoods isn't
noted for size, but rather for delicacy, beauty and the finesse it often takes
to coax one to the net.
Dams have forever altered the Nipigon River. That's not a fish ladder,
to the right. It's a log chute, added to the dam just before the rails made
running logs down the Nipigon obsolete:
Today in Nipigon as in other areas around the Basin, populations of
Coaster Brook Trout are on the rebound from near oblivion, thanks to the efforts of communities, fishermen,
naturalists and others committed to the continued health of Superior.
And, as it turns out, there still are wild places where really, really
big fish swim, though both the times and the fishermen who catch 'em, they've
certainly changed:
Any Port, Near Dark
The first time Heather and I went up and over, it was September and
we'd not made a plan. Used to traveling in the States, while charting our way we'd
seen the Provincial Parks as they appeared on the map and figured to hop from
one to the other as we went. We'd figured wrong.
The wakeup call came just east of Rossport Ontario, when at the end of
a long day we went to pull into Rainbow Falls Provincial Park only to find it
closed. I don't mean closed as in no services please self-register then drop
your fee in the slot near the empty kiosk and have a good time kinda closed, a
fairly common offseason affair around other parts of the Basin. I mean Katy bar
the door closed, as in gated and locked, too the Hell bad for you.
There we were, at a total loss and more or less in the middle of
nowhere as darkness fast approached.
Which is how we first found ourselves at the famous Rossport Inn.
Built in 1884 to service passengers on the Canadian Pacific Railway,
the Inn is the north shore's oldest surviving hotel. We once spent an evening
on its rooftop deck, sipping brandy to forestall the effects of a chill mist
off the lake while visiting with two Canadian Wildlife & Fisheries guys.
They regaled us with stories from their job, which was to apply the then nascent
technology of digital mapping to the bottoms of all the bodies of water in Ontario. That was quite the night as you'll
imagine. And once again I realised I'd missed a true calling.
Anyway, at the time of our last visit the Inn boasted a very fine
restaurant indeed, featuring a full menu and the fresh catch of the day,
whether whitefish or trout. Which leads me to a small tale of my own...
Heather and I'd taken a cabin at the Inn and were spending a lazy
afternoon in the Adirondack chairs beneath a late summer sun. Suddenly, a great
commotion rose from the kitchen of the restaurant.
Cursing and yelling and crashing ensued. Then a young man burst out
from the kitchen, fairly falling on his face from forward inertia. The screen
door slammed behind as he hopped on a bicycle and tore off to parts unknown.
We wondered if murder hadn't occurred in the kitchen.
Turns out, the local fisherman whose job it was to bring in the catch
of the day had gotten drunk the night before and hadn't made any catch that day, leaving the
restaurant empty handed.
To have no trout was a sore disappointment, but as the chef made up for
it by serving the finest lamb chops I'd ever eaten, it was all good.
I can't vouch for the place these days, so should you decide to go, do
your research. But I can vouch for the quiet charms
of Rossport, which remain as ever unchanged.
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