Perhaps the most pervasive, and to some extent depressing aspect of modern outdoor sports – even life in general – is the degree to which science has replaced intuition and initiative.
We buy automobiles that not only tell us where to turn, but almost drive themselves.
Fishermen use global positioning to help them remember where they got a bite, along with various de- vices that locate fish and even tell how big they are.
The latest invention to further squeeze ability out of the angling equation is a gizmo that emits electronic signals to bring fish running toward the lure. Concoct a gadget that will set the hook, then reel them in and we all can just sit on the bank in a lounge chair and drink beer.
This decline in personal participation also extends to the current trend toward commercial guides and outfitters. We hire specialists to do our heavy lifting, even most of our thinking. Someone else prepares our food, dictates our schedule, tells us when and what to shoot, totes and cleans our game, runs our boat, even baits our hook.
Which is why a particular fishing operation in extreme northeast Alberta proves so refreshing. Anglers who connect with Mikisew Sport Fishing get to experience their sport the old-fashioned way, or at least as close to it as time constraints allow.
For about $1,000, Mikisew – which means eagle in the Cree Indian language – flies clients a couple hundred miles from the oil boom town of Fort McMurray to one of 11 lakes strung across a wilderness generally off the northwest shoulder of Lake Athabasca. Here they find rudimentary housekeeping cabins, boats, motors, gasoline and not much else.
Oh, yes. We forgot to mention lots of fish, the primary reason we go to these remote places. Or at least that’s what we tell ourselves.
Which is why eight anglers bunched into a gear-laden Cessna Caravan gazed down with unrestrained expectation as the float plane circled Colin Lake on a sun- splashed day in early June.
Colin, about 10 miles long and squirming with northern pike and lake trout, barely amounts to a blip in an untamed expanse just below the 60th parallel where water seems to have won the battle over land. Once the plane dumped its load and departed, shrinking to a pinpoint on the horizon, this became our home for the next five days.
We cooked our meals, set our timetables, figured out where to fish and drove our own boats – all exercises in self-reliance that added immensely to the overall experience.
Actually, a couple of newcomers received the benefit of knowledge collected by companions who had been here before. Randy Taylor and his son, Kris, of Loveland, had made seven trips with Mikisew, six of these to Colin, a statistic that speaks volumes about the place. Their overall familiarity with the lake proved invaluable. But we still had to pinpoint the locations and find the fish.
To someone who endures a daily drudge of traffic and skyscrapers, the most compelling impression of Canada’s far north is the vast emptiness. With this wildness, the absence of meaningful human incursion, comes a delicious combination of exceptional fishing and solitude.
At Colin, and hundreds of lakes like it, you can dip into a sheltered bay and imagine yourself the only person on earth. It’s a place where a pair of loons swim unconcerned within casting distance of the boat. Where, at midnight, a bird’s song, cool as silver, echoes through a boreal forest that might have been home to gnomes.
Just a week before the longest day of the year, a yellow moon peeks above a horizon where it seems to be tangled in treetops, sliding sideways while barely rising in the sky.
Among such marvels, the fishing still stands out. While lake trout are abundant and of agreeable size, most visitors seem to prefer pike. Like most lightly fished lakes at this latitude, Colin holds pike of all sizes, including some historic catches pushing 50 inches.
This trip, three weeks after one of the earliest thaws in recollection, the camp best weighed a modest 23 pounds, landed by one of the six anglers who used spinning tackle to cast large plugs and swim baits. Two fly-casters caught an equal number of pike, but none quite so large.
Long after the fish are forgotten, what one remembers about the north country is the great emptiness of it all, a feeling of primordial stillness that penetrates the soul.
The promise of big, hungry fish keeps calling anglers back to these wild places. But it would be enough just to listen to the loons.
Mikisew in miniature
Getting there: From Denver by air to Calgary or Edmonton, then a flight to Fort McMurray.
Accommodations: Eleven outpost camps feature rudimentary housekeeping cabins with stoves and refrigeration. Colin provides hot showers.
Fishing: All contain trophy northern pike and lake trout; four offer walleye as well. Anglers operate their own broad-beamed aluminum boats.
Cost: Price varies slightly among camps, but the standard is about $1,000 for five days.
Information: Mikisew Sport Fishing, Box 2 Comp. 2 RRI, Fort McMurray, Alberta T9H 5B5; 888-268-7112; www.mikisewsportfishing.com.
Charlie Meyers can be reached at 303-954-1609 or cmeyers@denverpost.com.
