Trout Rock Lodge, on the North Arm of Great Slave Lake

TROUT ROCK LODGE

For our next big trip, we decided to head in the other direction, to the Canadian arctic.

We were looking for an out of the way fishing spot, with some really big fish and it seemed that Trout Rock Lodge, on the Great Slave Lake, in Canada's Northwest Territories might meet our expectations. Not too expensive, and an almost guaranteed chance to land trophy Northern Pike.

Although Sam kept saying that the place was only two blocks south of the North Pole, it is actually at latitude a little north of Mount McKinley, and about 1000 miles east.

Consulting a map, Sam and I found a thin red line branching off the Alaska Highway near Dawson Creek, and extending over 1000 miles north to a dot on the map called Yellowknife. The lodge was more miles of trackless wilderness beyond, but Ragnar Wesstrom, the lodge owner, and all round good guy, promised to dispatch a Beaver (airplane, not animal) to ferry us there, if we could make it to Yellowknife.

This Yellowknife place is almost 2000 miles from Seattle, and I had already driven 1200 miles from Palm Desert to Seattle, but Sam was adamant about breaking in (or maybe breaking) his brand new Ford F250 with less than 500 miles on the clock, so we decided to drive.

Bad decision. The first thousand miles were not bad, but for the last thousand there was absolutely nothing. Scrub spruce and muskeg, flat as a table top, with nothing to break the monotony but a few Indian villages and literally millions of buffalo. Even the radio stations only played Indian music. Then 90 miles from Yellowknife, the road really went to hell, turning to dirt, with frost heaves one could lose a small car in. We hit one bump so hard that everything in the cab came loose and rattled around like pebbles in a tin can. And I forgot to mention the broken windshield and smashed bug deflector. There were several rivers, with the Mackenzie being at least as large as the Mississippi. No bridges, of course, except ice bridges in the winter. The ferry was interesting, to say the least, as you had to dodge ice chunks the size of Volkswagens on the way across.

We did have a couple of memorable diversions along the way. One night we stayed in a B&B in a very small town in far north Alberta called Fort Vermilion. Sam had picked this place because he liked the name, even though it was 50 miles out of the way. It's main claim to fame was that it had been a Northwest Company fur trading post 170 years ago, but had kind of gone down hill from there.

Anyway, the B&B was owned by a guy named Daryl and his wife Marg. Their major enterprise was a greenhouse, which served a population of 25,000 within a 500 mile radius. However to make it, he hosted duck hunters in the fall, did a bit of farming, and he and wife both drove school busses. So much for life in the Far North. We later ran into him, broke down with his flower truck, hundreds of miles from home.

As for dinner, there was no restaurant anywhere in the town. We kept seeing a sign, however, which said Country Club. I figured that this meant food, but Sam thought that we could probably not get in to such an exclusive place. I figured that a Southern California golfer and HOA president could talk his way into anything so we decided to give it a shot. The Country Club turned out to be a log cabin, which served as the pro shop for a cute little nine hole golf course. There wasn't any real restaurant, but the proprietress graciously offered to cook up two dinners. After considerable pot banging, two steaming plates appeared, and was the food good. We then shared a few pints with the proprietress and her husband, learning among other things, that the annual dues at this club were about the same as a round of golf at our Country Club in Palm Desert.

But, onward to Yellowknife. When we got there, we were surprised to see a modern city of 17,000, complete with hi rises, and paved streets populated by Corvettes, BMWs, Porches and the like. How they got there, and where they went was a mystery to us, as paved roads ended less than 5 miles from town in any direction. Yellowknife also boasted a Wall Mart, a Super 8 motel and a Costco. But no Starbucks. They even had a golf course, but since it is too far north to grow grass, each golfer is issued a square of AstroTurf, which is put under the ball wherever it lands. In looking around town, we found a tackle shop where the clerk only jacked up the price 10% when he heard that we were guests of Ragnar's. We also got to talking with a resident who said that he had been to Vancouver once, but didn't like it because there was no winter.

We also noticed, as we had when previously driving along the lake, that it was frozen over solid to a depth of about 16 feet, and there was no way a float plane was going to take off or land. We figured that if we ever did get to the lodge, we would be fishing through holes in the ice. No wonder that the tackle shop guy had also tried to sell us an ice auger.

Great Slave Lake. Mostly frozen over.
When the wind blows off the lake...Cold!!

Anyhow, when we called Ragnar at the lodge, said not to worry, and told us a plane would be waiting at the airport. He also asked us to pick up a couple of ladies and bring them along. I told him that we had tried, but when they heard we were going to Ragnar's place, they had immediately lost interest.

Anyway, out to the airport, on to the Beaver, and onward to the lodge. When we got there, Ragnar was disappointed that we had no ladies with us, but decided to make do with some Swedish girlie magazines.

At the Lodge, offloading freight from the Beaver.
Passengers and gas drums don't mix too well.
But that's bush flyin' for ya.

It turned out that we were the only paying guests. The rest of the inhabitants were Henry, a TV journalist doing a fishing show, and his crew, a charming Canadian lady who was an Olympic swimming gold medal winner, and Michael Olson, the Director of Marketing for First Air, (Canada's second largest airline). Anyhow, Sam's cigars made a big hit with everyone, except the lady, and we were soon all fast friends.

Trout Rock Lodge.
Looking toward the dock
The Beaver has just landed

The next day these guys all moved out and a bunch of dentists from Toronto moved in. This was quite a change, but I guess dentists are a necessary part of life. Anyhow we split into two groups. The dentists in one group, and the Internationalists, meaning Ragnar, his Swedish brother, the Indian guides, and Sam and I, in the other.

Sam, John, and Ragnar

One of the perks that Ragnar provided was free wine. This stuff, however, was made from the leavings in the bottom of the barrel, and was so bad that the vintner would not put his label on it. Ragnar solved this problem by printing and affixing his (Ragnar's) own private label, and attempting to pass the stuff off as vintage quality.

I almost forgot, we came to fish, so I better talk about that.

We were assigned the Head Guide, a Dogrib Indian of indeterminate age named Jonas. Jonas was not much on English, but he sure knew where the fish were. Once he decided he liked us, (no he did not smoke cigars, but hey, it was a choice between us and the dentists, so it was really no contest) he couldn't do enough to be helpful. We did have one language mix-up the first morning. Jonas kept suggesting a tea break, and we kept telling him we didn't like tea. As he became more and more uncomfortable, we finally decided that he meant pee break, so we quickly acquiesced. To avoid further confusion, we taught him to say whiz break, when he had this problem in the future.

Fishin' away on Great Slave Lake

Jonas had a simple method of classifying fish. Anything under 30 inches was a baby, from 30 to 40 was a lunch fish, and over 40 inches (which was trophy size) was a submarine. Lunch fish, incidentally, was just what the name implied. Around 11:30 we would catch and save two or three 30 inchers. Then we would stop and Jonas would fillet and cook them (along with good condiments he had brought along in the boat) right on the beach. These shore lunches were the high point of the day. Even the time that Sam kicked over the kettle, and our lunch was kind of mixed with bilge water, sand, and fish guts.

Jonas preparing Pike for the shore lunch.

We saw Jonas smile once. He had inadvertently picked up the total days supply of cookies for everyone, and put them on our boat. He could hardly contain himself when the radio started to chatter about the missing cookies and who might be the perp.

The fishing was fantastic. Sixty to 80 fish a day landed, with 5 or 6 being in the trophy class, from 40 to 48 inches. In fact, it became a challenge to keep anything less than three feet long off the hook. Those guys would strike a lure trailing in the water beside the boat, and would sometimes snap up a 12 to 15 incher right after we hooked it. Jonas was really a big help. He would talk to those fish, and I swear that he charmed them right into the boat.

Got one on!!!! Maybe a Trophy.

As to the technical details, we used medium action casting and spinning rods with 14 pound line. This tackle may have been a trifle light, but that added to the fun. Ragnar recommended Rapala weedless minnows in the 3 inch size, and they did work well. We had our best luck though on Johnson's silver minnows, in gold or silver in the 21/2 inch size. 2 1/2 and 3 inch five of diamonds also worked well. Braided steel leader is a must. We used a 9 inch length, but 12 inch would probably have been better.

If you are really into fishing, and like remote areas, we would highly recommend Trout Rock Lodge. However, next time we are going to fly, and maybe bring our own wine.

The Midnight Sun, over Great Slave Lake, from Ragner's lodge


TROUT ROCK LODGE AGAIN

Since Sam and I had such a super time the last couple of years fishing Great Slave Lake, we decided to give it another try the following year. But this time we decided to fly.

As I said before, Great Slave Lake is in Canada’s Northwest Territories, at Latitude 63 N, about 2000 miles north of Seattle. Sam still says that the place is only two blocks south of the North Pole, but it is actually a little north and about 100 miles east of Mount McKinley.

We drove from Everett WA to Vancouver then got on an old (maybe 35 years old) 737-200, for a flight to Edmonton. The airline was called Zip, and was aptly named, because they didn't give you zip on the whole flight. But at least they didn't lose the luggage. From Edmonton to Yellowknife was an airline called Canadian North, with an even older 737-200. This one being a real bush plane. Configured for half passengers and half freight, with passengers in the back, sled dogs and oil drums in front, and rigged to land on gravel. I hadn't seen one of these since I left Alaska thirty years ago, and they were old then. Canadian North service, though, was as good as US domestic first class. Should have been, almost $500 US for the trip from Edmonton to Yellowknife.

Ragnar, our good friend and the owner of Trout Rock Lodge, who you remember from last year, had fixed us up with accommodations at one of the better hotels in Yellowknife. Only problem was that the hotel courtesy van wouldn’t start. They graciously offered to call a cab, but finked out on paying for it. Anyway, Yellowknife had lots of shops, few tourists, and still no Starbucks. The Territorial Museum and the Information Center are highly recommended. We bought our fishing licenses there.

The charter Twin Otter, ready to take us to Trout Rock Lodge.

Ragnar had alluded to eight rich guys from Minnesota, who were flying in on their private jet and would be fishing with us at the lodge. When we headed for the float base to catch the Twin Otter charter to the lodge, though, they were nowhere to be found. Finally, they straggled in forty five minutes late. Seemed there had been a misunderstanding, and after we got that straightened out, they turned out to be pretty good guys. By the way, their “Jet” was really a Beech King Air, owned by one of the guys who was a Fixed Base and Charter Service operator.

Here are the Minnesota guys, along with Sam and me, in the lodge dining room.

So we all got on the Twin Otter and off for Trout Rock Lodge. Everything was about the same when we got there, except Ragnar had finally taken delivery on his Swedish tundra hopper. It was called a Haglund, and looked like the illegitimate child of a Vietnam era APC which had mated with a Hummer. His plan is to name this thing the Aurora Express, and make big money hauling unsuspecting Japanese tourists around during the arctic winter.

The Haglund

Ragnar had really gone all out for us this year. We were housed in the Executive Suite, (which even had a propane heater and it’s own private outhouse) Of course he had our Ford emblem on the door, but the crowning touch was Hotel Okura slippers and mats. This was lost on the Minnesota boys, but since both of us had stayed at the Okura many times, we really appreciated Ragnar’s thoughtfulness.

Ragnar's private label wine, now called GGG for Granite Grown Grapes, was substantially better than last year. Ragnar said that it was because he had imported some rock worms, which burrow into the granite, thus aerating the vine's roots. He had a bad habit though, when everyone was feeling good on this year’s vintage, to slip in a couple bottles of last year’s rotgut.

Speaking of wine, Ragnar had made a great issue of us bringing him a couple of bottles of Two Buck Chuck. (If you are unfamiliar with Two Buck Chuck, see footnote 1 below) Although I never drink the stuff myself, I talked a less discerning friend in California into giving me two bottles, which I dutifully carried up to Ragnar. He allowed that it was pretty good, which was true, compared with his GGG, and proceeded to drink both bottles. He then disappeared, presumably to bed. Next morning, he showed up late for breakfast, looking like he had lost a fight with a polar bear. His face was all torn and bloody, his foot and leg were all beat up, and he could hardly walk. He claimed that he had fallen out of bed, an unlikely happening for an old merchant seaman. The ladies on the staff were not talking, so who knows what really happened. Maybe he got mixed up with a moose while taking a pee. Anyway, from that moment on, Ragnar was badmouthing Two Buck Chuck.

Again we were assigned to Head Guide Jonas, who you met in last year’s story, and he was really glad to see us. Might have had something to do with the handsome tip he got last year, or maybe he was just lonesome. His English had not improved, and he still tended to revert to his native Dogrib language on occasion. Sam had brought him a hat emblazoned with “Head Guide” in large letters. We couldn’t get it off Jonas’ head, and I think that he slept with it on.

"Head Guide" Jonas

Jonas principal entertainment this year was hassling the one white guide. For example, when the white guy would ask on the radio how the fishing was, Jonas would say "No good, No good", then laugh while we were pulling in 40 inchers. When the Indian guides inquired, he would give them the real scoop, in Dogrib.

Jonas' fish classification system was slightly different than last year. Anything under 30 inches was a p…..fish, from 30 to 40 was a lunch fish, and over 40 inches (which was trophy size) was a trophy. Lunch fish, incidentally, was just what the name implied. And just like last year, round 11:30 we would catch and save two or three 30 inchers. Then we would stop and Jonas would fillet and cook them, and we would then eat them (along with good condiments he had brought along in the boat) right on the beach. These shore lunches were really appreciated, as the cook at the lodge was nothing to write home about. We found out later that she was Ragnar's sister in law, so was guaranteed lifetime employment.

Jonas preparing to whip up another tasty shore lunch.

Jonas did occasionally enhance our fishing with strips cut from a previously caught small fish. When the Minnesota guys inquired about this, we told them it was some kind of a Dogrib Indian religious sacrifice to the Fish Gods. We assured them that we would never use that kind of stuff to bait our hooks, as that would be strictly against the law.

Like last year, the fishing was fantastic. Sixty to eighty fish a day landed, with eight to fourteen being in the trophy class, over forty inches long. In fact, it became a challenge to keep anything less than thirty inches off the hook. Jonas was really a big help. He knew where the fish were, and, it seemed that when he went into his chant, he could sill charm those fish right into the boat. Incidentally, when I got the largest fish of the week, a 47 inch 35 pounder, on 17 pound test line, Jonas was more excited than I was.

Looks like a Trophy Northern Pike.

Well, all good things come to an end, and a charter Cessna 185 was supposed o pick Sam and I up at 7:00 PM on our last day. The Minnesota guys were all down to see us off, but when the plane didn’t come and didn’t come, we all got into the Lodge liquor supply. Ragnar, entering into the spirit of things, declared an open (free) bar, at least for Sam and I, and then the booze really flowed. Hours passed and we pretty much depleted the stock, so when the plane did show at 11:30 PM. nobody really cared one way or the other. The guides finally got us poured on the plane, the Minnesota guys cheered lustily and off we flew into the sunset. When we got to Yellowknife, the pilot insisted on driving us to the hotel, not trusting us to walk, hitchhike, or grab a cab.

In Yellowknife, the sun was still up, when we got in at midnight.

If you are really into fishing, you like remote areas, and can stand a Swede who sometimes turns into an animal, we would highly recommend Trout Rock Lodge. Might be a good idea, though, to bring your own wine, and leave the ladies home.

1. Two Buck Chuck is the Charles Shaw Wineries vintage which Trader Joe’s stores sell for two dollars a bottle in California

2. The Hotel Okura is perhaps the best hotel in Tokyo, Japan, and one of the better hotels in the world. It was a bit incongruous to see their stuff in an Arctic fish camp

3. An APC is an armored tracked vehicle, used to carry an infantry squad around the battlefield.