My lifelong best friend and fishing buddy, Mark Mosbaugh, and I headed out for the morning bite on Corley Lake in Manitoba, Canada on a beautiful spring day. It was day three of our annual great north woods adventure. We called it that in part because of the endless pine forest that covers the entire area. And because it was always an adventure! Mark had finally recuperated from the exhausting two-day trip to this remote chain of lakes.
For reasons we never understood, during our passage through customs, Mark was always directed to the “special room." You know that room they put you in when they want to take a closer “look” at you and your luggage? The one we ceaselessly and remorselessly teased him about. How the man with the rubber gloves was surprisingly gentle. That room! We often ventured guesses as to why he always got chosen while we all just strolled past the nice, heavily armed customs man. Some thought it was because he was slowing down and could break a sweat in a blizzard, or by getting off the plane, and therefore looked guilty. Some thought he just looked twitchy. One year at the risk of getting a “closer look” at myself I asked the nice customs lady “Why did you choose my buddy?” She said it was randomly generated “Oh, for sure, just the luck of the draw, eh”. Boy was Mark lucky!
We had been fishing in this chain of lakes and small rivers for years. We usually fished the big one, File Lake, in pursuit of a trophy Lake Trout. We pulled lots of trout and pike out it's depths over the years, but never the big trout. The weather was beautiful, and we decided to give the trout and pike a rest in favor of a day trip for walleye. At the beginning of our week, ice still blanketed parts of the lake in great floes of crystals that tinkled like tiny wind chimes in the breeze. This day was clear, cool, calm, and sunny, with the ice all but gone.
Corley Lake was accessible only by a small tortuous river (they call it a river, but it is only 10 feet across most of the way). To get up that river, we had to cross nearly 7 miles of expansive waters. It was a great day to make the long trip. Enjoying fresh ice-out walleye was worth the trip. Our 18-foot aluminum V hull boat was loaded with an extra fuel tank and shore lunch supplies. On a remote fly in lake, you learn quickly to rely on your own wits, skills, and experience. You are 60 miles from civilization and help on a lake that is accessible only by float plane. There are no roads. "Be Prepared" wasn't just the Boy Scout motto, it was an axiom for survival. So, we also told the other two guys in our party where we were going. They didn’t want to make such a long trip for what they believed were just exaggerations about the big and plentiful walleye. Rookies. But, in their defense, fishermen always expect to hear less than the truth about fishing. Especially the size and number of the fish.
We planned to motor across the middle of File Lake, the most direct route to the river, then on to Corley. File was almost as smooth as glass. We had a slight breeze at our backs. Perfect conditions. Navigating the river took some boatmanship and a lot of effort. It was clear of ice and the logs blocking our way were eventually conquered. So, hours after we set out, we finally arrived at the lake. Corley always surprises you with a beautiful vista revealed as you round the last hairpin turn. Coming up the river, tall dense pine trees surround the banks and block your view of everything else. Then suddenly the endless turns and serpentine maneuvers are over, and you are in a hidden lake. Mark had a fish on before I could cut the motor and get my rod out. And that’s the way it went all day. So many fish we stopped counting. We made ourselves put the rods down for a shore lunch. In my opinion, a shore lunch of walleye is "good eats!" I had my seasoned breading mix, a can of beans, oil and a few potatoes packed along with an oversized skillet. We settled down by the fire and enjoyed fried walleye fillets, baked beans heated in the can, and fries in a five-star wilderness Bistro. I remember having one of those “It doesn’t get any better than this” feelings.
As much as we were enjoying ourselves, we knew we needed to get going. We made it a rule not to be on one of the remote lakes too late in the day. We carefully doused our cook fire, cleaned our shore lunch site, and packed the boat. We set off back down the ever-winding river toward our cabin. I was so focused on driving the boat that I didn’t notice the breeze freshening. Mark was focused on sharing “constructive advice” on how I was driving the boat. We came out of the river into a long bay that branched off the main body of the lake and got up to the top speed the little boat had in it. We were making good time as we re-entered the open water of File. The wind was really beginning to blow. The sky was blue without a single cloud.
We had made it nearly to the halfway point when the waves grew so high, I had to slow down. In a very short time, they grew to the point where I had to change course to take the waves off my port bow or risk them breaking over the bow and into the boat. There was a great thud at the bottom of every wave. I couldn’t see anything but water while in the bottom of the waves and all I could see on the tops were shorelines that had become impossibly far away! The wind howled as we shouted our mutual intent to get out of the middle of the lake. But how? All I could do to make it past the next wave was to keep enough forward momentum to get over it at an angle, so I didn’t bury the bow under the wave. Any deviation from that course and speed would either backslide the stern of the boat and the motor underwater, or if I attempted to turn around, barrel roll us over and sink us just the same. Nothing to do but stay the course.
The wind blew ice cold water over the bow. My face felt paralyzed with cold. I had gone from “It doesn’t get any better that this” to “We're going to die out here” in a very short time! I attempted to see the map of the lake in my head. There were shallow reefs to our right that I had to avoid. At the top of each new wave, I tried to plot where we were being blown. We knew we were in a bad place. Mark had stopped giving me constructive boat handling advice and held onto the sides of the boat and stared into the abyss. I took the waves as straight as I could without swamping our little life raft. I managed to get the nose further into the gale and head for the wind sheltered shore a couple of miles away. Crawling along, it took what seemed like an eternity!
Eventually we made it to the wind shadow of the shore and calmer water. We crept along avoiding the reefs, but we were finally safe. As we bailed water out of the boat, we wondered how long we would have lasted in the frigid waters. We were truly grateful to be alive. We felt much more alive. We power talked at first but eventually lapsed into contemplative silence. How had two guys with 60 years of combined boating experience missed seeing the danger develop? I rehashed it over and over in my mind. I was driving the boat that day. I felt like I should have seen it coming. I should have been more focused on the weather. Mostly, I was relieved beyond description that my friend was alive and well. That I was alive and well. That we had come through it.
The windstorm had come up quickly and without any warning. We had never experienced anything like it in our past. We agreed that we did the only thing we could. That we would keep an even sharper weather eye. Especially on clear cloudless days. Windstorms were now permanently etched in our minds. By the time we made it back to the cabin, the windstorm had abated. It was over. A dead calm settled over the lake. Finally, back in our cabin, we relished the warmth of the stove as the logs burned slowly. We told the other guys about our experience but caught a glimpse of disbelief on their faces. We let the conversation move on to other topics. The kind of things fishermen talk about after a day in the great north woods. What lures were used, the wolf pack howling, where the fish were biting, where we should fish tomorrow, a black bear on a sandy stretch of beach, what’s for dinner. It all faded into the background and became a muted drone to me. I tried to listen and be engaged but my mind was elsewhere.
Eventually, we moved out onto the porch of the cabin overlooking the lake, where we ended each day. As he did many evenings, Mark reclined with his whisky and diet coke. But on that evening, he also smoked his “victory cigar” reserved for the day he caught the big one. I didn’t ask him why he was smoking the victory cigar, and the other guys just assumed he smoked one whenever he wanted.
Mark and I fished together until shortly before he passed away. We never had another close call. We would bring it up from time to time. Laugh about how we behaved during our harrowing trip home from Corley. I think mostly we did it to remind ourselves that we made it. That we survived. We were fishing buddies. That simple title meant a lot to us. A lifetime spent in the pursuit of the big one was the beginning and basis of our friendship. But ... the things we experienced together bestowed on us a deep and lasting friendship. And that, is far better than catching the big one.
Doc
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