Moose River... hours before Break-Up.
Break-Up... next day.
Three days later, Rob my taxi boat driver dodges ice heading back to Moosonee.
MILOGAMAU.
The good ole Honda fired up on the fifth pull. All greased and oiled she was primed and ready for the long awaited premier spring haul up the North French River. The WarCanoe was good to go too. Flipped, pressure washed and inspected, atop the trailer and clean as a whistle it looked mint.
I set out from the launch 9:30am, May 11th against a warming southwesterly. The Moose River had just cleared of break-up a few days prior and so it was an intensely heavy and high current to face, with the odd piece of debris still flowing out to James Bay. Arctic terns, sandhill cranes, ducks of every kind, and arriving geese filled every inch of the waterway while I motored upriver humming to greats like "You Can Call Me Al," "Jesus Just Left Chicago," and "Kickstart My Heart."
Forty minutes passed before rounding the bend into the mouth of the North French. Just inside is a large boulder in the river which foretells of the travel ahead. If the top of the rock shows above water by about 6-inches, proceed with caution, if it's more than a foot, forget it. On this day the rock was totally submerged, as I pushed on upriver I came to the quick realization this was the highest I had ever seen the French.
Stopping to fish the backside of an island that years ago coughed up my biggest two French River spring pike to date, I came to a second conclusion, fishing was going to be tough. Ice cold chocolate milk and way too much of it drowned out that spot, and traveling onward many other holes were in the same condition.
Waters high I blazed on to areas that would normally take significantly more time to reach. No shallow drive, little water reading, cutting corners and confident boating, I took little time to slow down. Spots I would normally stop and fish for walleyes I passed by; as the season was still closed, and most pike spots after quick inspection were deemed devoid and not ready. About 2:30pm I found myself 60km up the river at the Kiasko, at a campsite there. Shedding a few layers of clothes under the afternoon sun, I unloaded some gear and set-up the tent. Some bear skat kicked up under my boot but it looked old... this night I was thinking would be safe from "Karma."
Hours to burn yet and the river calling, I set off into the unknown. Many times Kiasko was the last stop but with the waters high there was a chance to explore new reaches with relative safety. I no sooner rounded the bend from camp and sped through a known shallow stretch that I felt a sense of ease. Looking at the map about 25-30kms of water between Kiasko and a lake called Milogamau was ahead, much of that stretch on topo pointed out shallow or rapid sections. Motoring on, those rapids didn't exist with the spring levels so high.
Less than an hour later I passed the Wekwayowkastic River. Wilderness canoe trippers and brookie enthusiasts in the know can speak of the allure of the Weak, but I stayed on course heading into the rarely traveled and never spoken of realms of the North French..... and it was at this point I double-checked my fuel situation but also began worrying how one hidden rock could leave me alone and paddling a long, long, way home.
There was enough gas to make Milogamau Lake. In October of 2002 while on a first fall overnighter on the French, Old Man Jimmy showed my friend and I a topo map of the river and on it I spotted Milogamau. Lakes in this area are so few and far between that; like only one other off the Moose River, I was drawn to the idea of fishing it. Over the years I thereafter learned getting to Milogamau was no easy feat. Now, I stopped the boat in a deep pool and gazed at a wall of trees that was expected to be the entrance of a kilometer long creek that would take me into the lake. Impossible... Milogamau is impossible, and would remain a place of wonder.
Firing up the motor I decided to keep going up a little ways when just 100 meters around a bend there was a camp. Going ashore to the top of the bank, there laid out in a clearing were gas cans, a paddle canoe, a relatively new Bravo snowmobile and an old torn apart Elan and a newly built wooden box sleigh. Tarps covered the skidoo and top of the box sleigh, but a bear had definitely been by and it tore the tarp off the sleigh. The exposed inside housed a number of bags of good clothing, a prospector tent and bedding, snowshoes and some other odds and ends. A couple of the gas cans had been bitten into by the bear, and the makeshift forest tent frame expected for the prospector had been pushed around a little. I peeked under the tarp on the Bravo and the keys were there in the ignition. One of the gas cans had a part name on it and it that read first name "Her"... and second "Chee"... Herbert... Herman... Cheechoo... I could only guess, but Cheechoo is a common Moose Factory name. The whole thing was weird... someone abandoned this winter camp which they snowmobiled to but the last interesting sign I took note of was that canoe. Not just a winter camp then it must serve another purpose. The canoe itself was pointed in the direction of a previously cut trail, the trail heading the direction of Milogamau Lake. My butt parked itself on a stump because my mind went into dreamy overload. I peered down that trail very wet and still snowy and finally came to my senses. The day was too late and the trail very likely swamped out. Milogamau was still impossible, so I took to the river again and kept heading up.
My maps ended. Milogamau was like the goal I guess when I printed them up a few years back. A place simply referred to as "The Falls" was in my mind the next, and final stop. A fella named Tommy who fished sturgeon with me in BC back in 04 did once or twice speak of "The Falls." I remember it was his little heaven on earth, teeming with walleye and pike
I rounded a second bend about 15 minutes from the camp that I had just stopped at, when there on a high bank stood a small stake. Curious, I was challenged to anchor the boat and get ashore, but did, then climbed the hill and found nothing but a small clear cut and that stake.
From this point on heading up river it was evident that it was a long straight stretch that looked to go for miles. Only a drop in the boat tank left, I had burned about 35L and had 20L left to get home on next day, it was there I turned around for camp. What took an hour and forty-five minutes to ascend, took an hour to return back on. I plied into some narrow spaces between shore and islands to explore. Many parts of the riverbanks were still littered with deposited ice chunks melting high and dry. Every now and again a piece would startle me when breaking off, falling into the river. The perfect camoflauge of the biggest snowy owl I have ever seen also spooked me when it took flight off the bow from the white icy shore.
Arriving back at Kiasko a little earlier than expected I took a short detour up that river. Just a few hundred yards from the river's mouth is a tributary that flows in over a sand and gravel bar, I jigged it hoping to find any spring brookies that are rumored to be caught there periodically. The runoff was likely too muddy yet, but upon leaving the spot I trolled the shoreline back to camp and picked off a half decent pike on the ultralight while trolling a jig. The fish kept the skunk off, but really I hadn't fished much more than two hours worth in the day.
Bacon and eggs in the cast iron pan, toast on the rack over the other burner, Keith's in hand I talked a little to myself just to hear a voice. Would have been great to have Bren with me I thought, she would have liked the view from this camp.
The wood around was mostly wet but there was the odd dry find. Some splinters off a chopped piece were enough to stoke with a bacon grease saturated papertowel, and before I knew it there was a solid fire putting off some welcome heat in the cooling evening air. A lone mosquito came buzzing around to keep company, unsure about landing, and across the river a beaver sat on shore to chew a little wood for a late supper.
The sun gave way to a waning full moon before hitting the hay.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...........
It was some cold at 5:10am when I woke for a whiz. The sky had a little light and some annoying morning birds were chirping along with a woodpecker pecking and a crane just screaming its bloody head off. I jammed in some earplugs, put the touque on and rewoke about 7:30am, then fired up the Blackcat to toast my feet and hands. By 9:00am the gear was packed and in the boat, breakfast consumed and coffee in the travel mug. The whole day ahead was an easy float down river home with many fishing spots to stop and pray for fish at.
Overnight and in exactly 12 hours the water levels dropped 6 to 7 inches.
It was at stop number five that I caught a fish.
Now you'd think I targetted the little terd with that jig... well, you're wrong. Last spring all my immediate ice-out pike came on hair or plastic jigs until the water warmed a little. Guess the pike like things a little slower in the still frigid waters. This trip I chucked spinners and spoons, jerked some twitchbaits and twitched some jerkbaits, and in the end caught that pike the night before slowly trolling that same jig. So, the plan was now, fish the warm water creekmouths with jigs for pike. I caught a couple more eyes here though, and left.
Down at stop number ten the previous year I caught a good number of pike, so I parked the boat there to see how it'd go this year. Three quick eyes, one on a Smithwick, one on a Bluefox and one on a Johnson, I took off these pike baits and put on a jig. Sure enough, I get some reel peel.
After the pike though, the bite goes two more walleye before I start heading down river to look for a spot out of the wind to cook some lunch; or hit a redhorse sucker hole... whichever comes first. The belly won. Once I was fed too it was around 2:00pm and getting real gusty. Not taking any chances with the Mighty Moose leg of the ride I felt satisfied I had enough play this trip and called it quits. Not many fish to count... 2 pike and 8 OOS eyes, but it didn't feel like too shabby a trip at all.
Got home and Bren asked "How was the fishing?"
"Didn't do much of that at all really, just a bit of living babe." Got the gear unpacked and partly repacked again, and went out and set the minnow traps. "The Falls" is calling now..... stay tuned.
KI"WET"IN
A chilly rain was being driven by a nasty west wind down main street Moosonee when I ducked into the SkyRanch for some dry warmth and a cup of coffee. It was nearly 3:00pm and a number of the local girls in the restaurant were waiting around on their day off for Rhoda to hand out the paychecks. One of them; a young relative of Bren's, joined me at the table and we both talked about our different life plans which would soon be taking us away from the muck, mire and magnificence of the Mighty Moose. I was over on the mainland that afternoon waiting for a friend to come off the Little Bear train.
Dave, aka Ramble On was a young man I met at Kesagami a couple years back. He was a guy one could like right away... smart, witty and nuts about fishing, especially pike. The train was expected to pull in at 3:30pm but when I stepped out the front door of the Ranch just after 3:00pm I could see that it had been parked at the Station for more than awhile. By the time my legs could semi-rush me there I was half out of breath when I apologized to Dave for my delay. He was most understanding.
Back on Moose Factory Island with Dave an hour later, I gave him a quick tour of the pot hole roads, local attractions and checked the minnow traps. Come evening he and I settled in for a steak supper and early nights sleep.
Next morning we busted out of town with a full pay load. The plan was to make up miles. The day was expected to be all sun with a high of 10C and perfect for traveling. From Moose Factory to our destination upriver I had guessed we'd need to cover 100km's, total time 8 to 10 hours with an average speed of about 13km/hr. Well, to my pleasant surprise Dave's GPS clocked us out of the gate early with a quicker overall pace of 15km/hr... to "The Falls" a day south we pointed our mental compasses.
Moose River and the North French were pretty much in the same state I left them after the previous trip to Milogamau that week. High, cold and dirty. Obstacles in the rapids wouldn't be a problem in the going, but fishing in very poor water conditions could prove tough. Still, I was half expecting to find a fishing heaven in the unknown reaches of the river.
Just before 6:00pm Dave and I had made it. We weren't yet at "The Falls," yet we were at our island campsite destination at Kiwetin. With a creek right there we decidedly took a few minutes to wet a line. Fifth cast I think it was and Dave picked up one retarded and anorexic looking walleye. We thought we were in for some good fishing, but that would be it after 15 minutes of beating the creekmouth.
Onward to the island we were somewhat disappointed to find the state in which the campsite had been left. It could have been called a clusterfawk of trash and prospector pegs... and a whole lotta moosepoop too actually. Anyways, knowing there was some nasty forecasted weather ahead, Dave and I found a really excellent piece of land to make our weekend fortress from. The work was fun, except when Dave farted on me while I held him half way up a tree so he could tie some rope for our tarps.
By 9:00pm the Coleman and cast iron was out and chicken sizzled in the skillet. For the first time Dave was going to eat a fajita.... (I know, he's a freak... what twenty-sumthin year old has never had a fajita?) .... and, not only was a new food in his future that night, but a new booze too. Scotch. While we enjoyed our meal and drink, out of camera range yet within gun shot, a rather large cow and calf moose came out onto a wide shoreline to graze in front of us until dusk. The sounds of falling water in the background, off in the distance a beaver slapped his tail a few times too, before retiring for the night.
There was no sunny morning to greet us next day. A damp chill filled the air.
Dave and I slept soundly through the night and woke to some warm coffee and Baileys. It was obvious rain was coming so we were pretty quick to jump in the canoe and head off in search of "The Falls."
After motoring upriver a time we came to a fork and that's when I said, "Uh Oh!?!?" Checking GPS we were at the beginning of an island, "The Falls" I had been told was before this island. While trying to sort things out with Dave and the GPS I briefly ran us ashore... rather abruptly though. We had just gone up through a rapid and I questioned Dave, "could that have been the falls we actually drove up?" With the very high water levels and the information I was given, it did seem so.
Firing up the beached and stalled Honda we kept going. Now I was excited, because it was my belief that only one man had ever gone beyond "The Falls" in recent history and it was rumored there had been trout aplenty for that lone soul.
Rounding some bends, plying some washed out eddies for fish and shooting up through some swifts, it wasn't long after beaching the boat that in the distance we saw a "definite barrier to our southern migration."
As we pulled into the left side pool the spitting rain of the morning began to fall a little heavier. Unfortunately the camera couldn't do the big rapid justice. The truth is, in all my river travels in the north, this was the biggest rapid I had ever encountered in the coastal and some of the inland watershed regions. Floating the canoe up close to it while it poured its high and powerful flows over the rocks was a little intimidating.
In this area I have learned that the locals seem to refer to falls as basically any big water rapid that cannot be driven up and over. Some other "falls" I have been to could maybe be driven up in really high water; although most days not, but this one there was no way. Dave had to be patient anchoring in the pool below as the water was fast and swirling all over.
The fishing was dead. There were certainly enough signs as to why, but still... until reaching this place I held hope that it would somehow be immune to the delayed spring conditions which were plaguing the other 100km's of river we had driven over. Dave and I worked the waters a short while, but it was obvious the place wasn't ready to reward us. The rain got heavier and we left for Kiwetin. In camp by noon our day of fishing was looking to be cut quite short. We were still having a good time.
The afternoon Dave talked about bugs, birds and fish mostly... he has a real solid knowledge base for wildlife. At 1:05pm he took a whiz back by a nice toilet set-up someone had left in the nearby trees. That was a bonus to have in camp until the rain cold soaked the seat. Dave was perfect to have along. I wouldn't have even gone knowing ahead of time what the weather was forecasting for the weekend, but in the end I was happy to have stuck with the plan, for better or worse. Afterall, May long weekend weather up here always sucks donkey sausage, but still, you have to endure sucking that donkey sausage cause it's every northern walleye anglers duty to do so. Dave's a southern angler but with a heart for sucking it out in the north. Haha.
Around 7:00pm it looked like there was going to be a short break from the precip, so we took a little time to get out in the boat to the creek mouth just across the way. Got there and within minutes it began snowing.
So, back to the comforts of our fortress...
After a hearty Indian Oktoberfest meal I subjected Dave to some of my toons off the IPod speakers and a little more scotch. Outside the wind began howling. It was getting freaking cold quick but the tarps did a good job to help slow the draft down a little. We were prepared for winter camping but I'm sure we'd both agree that some heat would have been more than welcome. Nodding off to sleep that night fishing was the furthest thing from my mind... what was, was getting the hell off the North French a day early.
She was an awefully chilly site when we finally crawled out of the sleeping bags.
First thing first, I headed down to the boat to be sure the motor would start. All systems go I came back to Dave and without breakfast we began the task of packing up. If anything he and I would reach the mouth of the French today and if the winds were high enough to keep us off the Moose we could back track a little to a cabin and take shelter the day there. Kiwetin had me beat. I couldn't stay any longer to fish in this and endure more soaking weather, rising water and high winds. It was some of the worst garbage skies I'd camped under in some time.
"Baton down the hatches," was my stupid little coined phrase for pretty much every time we got in the boat. The travel home I figured would take about four hours as opposed to the seven it took coming up. The GPS clocked us top speed 31km/hr heading downriver, (max going up was 18km/hr) but we averaged about 22km/hr or so, I think. There was only one scheduled stop on route for lunch, otherwise it was grin and bear it for the duration. Dave had no insulation in his boots so that was exactly what he did. Poor buggah!! Even with frozen toes and facefulls of snow it was kind of a fun adventure... one to tell about anyways.
Me, Ok for much of the drive... little wet at times but, pretty toasty.
We got in mid afternoon and that was the end of that. The North French gave us both a good solid arzewhippin'. Fishing could have been much much much much much much much much much much much much much much much much better, yet I had a surprisingly good time. Dave's company, past experiences and positive attitude made enduring the nasty weather much much much much much much much easier. Great time out, we made the best of it.
Next day we jumped in the boat during a sunny weather break in the morning and B-lined it out to a creek on James Bay to attempt finding any early searuns specks that may have entered there on a high tide. Within an hour, wicked clouds and building winds chased us right back home. We were smart to go when we did cause it turned real hairy mad gusts by mid afternoon. Not the place to be out by the Bay when that happens.
Saw Dave off on the train come tuesday. Poor sucker has to spend the next eight weeks guiding on Ontario's best pike fishery, Kesagami. Me...... well....... Zebco and Bren are out of the plans due to work but, next weekend is looking good so far weather wise. Now that I know the name of the actual rapids I was at, looks like a solo trip may be in the works, or could try familiar waters to catch a fish.
Thanks for visiting Dave. Always appreciate it when anyone makes the journey.
MAKACHONAU via OTAKWAHEGAN
The weather was calling mix sun and cloud and high of 7C for the day, but it was around 10:00am when reaching the top of Kwetabohagan Rapids that this squall of snow engulfed me. For the second time this spring the ski mask and goggles came out of the Rubbermaid. Man, I was chilly for the ride.
Nice thing about a river with high water is the safe flow only goes one way, so being blind of distance didn't slow any progress.
The North French had so far seen all my attention this spring. Todays plan was to check out what the Moose and Cheepas Rivers were cooking. Normally in spring it's the French that clears and warms the quickest, seeing to it that aquatic life first feeds in those waters. This spring was far from normal though, and to be sure I wasn't missing anything I was taking a full day to fish every May fishing spot I had.
Two and half hours was a quick ride up to Renison. This area of the Moose is usually hit hard by Moosonee locals rather than Moose Factory folks. My best river pike; as well as a few other good fish, have been caught here in the past, and one of the small nearby creeks is supposedly a walleye hotspot. My hands were freezing when I finally pulled into my destination, but when I saw there was competition in the pike bay the heat under my collar warmed me up some.
Frustrated to drive all that way and find gillnets I fished anyways. Afterall, last year there were two nets when Zebco and I pulled in, trolled around them and then I caught a tank pike. Casting and trolling I devoured every inch of this bay but still finished up hungry. Nearby was the walleye hotpspot so I moved over there, but sadly when I arrived some locals were camped out. It was surprising that they hadn't strung a net right across that creek too.
This tiny little runoff creek can be dynamite..... or, at least it used to be. There were times when it was said that a boatload could go there and catch 50-100 walleye in a day... but that's exactly what happened. Few years ago I remember some greedy folks tore into this spot during spawn, keeping everything they caught... reports back home on the dock were 40, 60, 80 kept in successive days. Today it's so hit and miss and only ever good for a few catches, guys have begun resorting to nightlines and nets to be sure they get every last fish that ever thought of spawning there. Here's to hoping that all the white froth swirling in the slack water is a life giving mixture of sperm and amniotic juices.
I didn't stay long fishing in front of the campers. One fella I know from Moosonee and he's a great guy, and while fishing they called in and shot a mallard right over my head... that was pretty cool.
Down river a little was Otakwahegan. Lifetime I had only ever caught one walleye there but it was worth a stop to see if any fiddleheads were out. They were not. At this point it was decided to back track to the Cheepas River and check out the 8km stretch between the train bridge and the mouth.
Inside Cheepas was blown right out. The water was choco-moo-moo and flowing like the MacKenzie, its many eddies a total washout. I made the trek inside for an hour and hoped an incoming creek would produce something, but again I came empty handed.
It was 2:00pm and so far creekmouths, runoffs and even back bays weren't looking good. The skies were much less threatening now and the air warming so I continued on anyway, fishing a number of other back bays between Cheepas and Kwetabohagan.
All the stops have their certain moments through the seasons but I guess this day wasn't one of those days. Casting and trolling and casting and trolling, the pike were nowhere to be found.
In a sense I was happy that the Moose and Cheepas weren't ready yet. In the plans for the coming days was another attempt at "The Falls" on the North French. It was pleasing to know if I take the time and risk to travel the 100km's up there for a few day, that if I suffer another skunking at least I wouldn't be left wondering what could have happened had I chosen these two rivers instead. Out of curiosity it was decided that I'd just head over to the French now and check the water conditions. Hammer down and taking a shortcut I was motoring inside the river there in about a half hour.
Clarity was definitely looking better from four days prior when Ramble On and I escaped the place in the snow storm. Just a few klicks up the way at a rapids there were a couple boats out fishing the eddies and shorelines. The French was seeing some signs of life emerge, other than me.
In one of the boats was the local taxidermist and his son. A little apprehensive of fishing within their view, I was awefully near a trout spot that looked prime for some drift jiggin.'
Couldn't help myself, had to hit it. No sooner than parking the boat, walking down to my rock and taking a cast... tick, tick, tick... WHAMMO!!!
Got the first searun speckle of the season, a skinny but fiesty 17-incher.
I carefully made little fuss and checked over my shoulder a number of times while tending to the pics. Man, I wanted more.
Thought to myself, had I ever caught a 5lb'er over the years that was a chrome as these searuns tend to be when first out of the water, I would have a taxidermist do it up exactly how it's supposed to look and not put into the paint the reds, olives and blues that brookies normally have.
The shoreline there got worked hard after the first fish. I did peg one more a little ways down from this one but it was off quick. That I thought strange, cause these hungry specks are usually great for impaling themselves. I switched out the 4-inch grub for a 3-incher, just in case length was the prob. Turned out, it didn't matter.
A quick bowl of chili and I went up the way to say hello. Taxidermist Tom and Richy were having a slow outing with only one walleye in the boat. I jigged a few minutes alongside them before calling it a day. The cold and work had tired me out pretty good and my vision was going a little blurry by this point. On route home on the Moose though, I did have the eyesight for one helluva a sweet setting sun.
Another 150km round trip fishing day. Kept the skunk off and fed the girls their favorite. Turned out great.
........ 
