Memories of Magical Waters. Gord Deval
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Gord and Johnny Finnegan making their way along the treacherous shoreline of Brooks Lake.
My fishing buddies back in the forties were Art Walker, Bill Taylor and Johnny Finnegan. Because Art had carelessly chosen the May 1, the first “opening day” weekend, on which to get married, the odious task of exploring Brooks Lake and its wondrous brook trout fishery was left to Bill, Johnny and myself. With my uncle’s scribbled directions clutched in Bill’s hand, an Ontario Highway map in John’s and mine firmly affixed to the steering wheel of my ten-year-old Buick, we left Toronto in the wee hours of the morning. The plan was to get to Brooks Lake in time to wet a line before dark. Uncle Bob had also suggested that it would be in our best interests if we were to drop in and introduce ourselves to Bev Woolnough and take a look at the lodge. We had previously planned on just finding the lake, fishing until dark, then going back to Birch Lodge to spend the night in one of their cabins or whatever.
Much later, after half a day of travelling and negotiating an unbelievingly hilly and twisting twenty-five miles of back road, which culminated in another ridiculously difficult eight miles of corduroy road (logs laid across the muck, supposedly to allow for automobile travel), we pulled up beside Birch Lodge. Having heard the old Buick approaching, Bev Woolnough was waiting outside to greet us. He gave us the final directions to the trail a few miles up the road that would lead us to our anticipated “pot of gold,” along with the instructions for finding the boat.
Several hours later, and already pooped after getting lost several times while attempting to stick to the semblance of a trail supposedly leading to the lake, we struggled through the tangles of shoreline brush, swamp and dead trees for another hour or so in a fruitless search for the, “old trapper’s boat under a couple of cedars, right beside a dead birch.” With the sun approaching the horizon, we were almost ready to throw in the towel, and get an early start the next day when we heard a voice emanating from somewhere in the bush behind us,
“You boys looking for the boat?”
It was Lessie, looking exactly as one might imagine a toothless old hermit living in the bush should look. We introduced ourselves, offered him his chews and thanked him for the instructions tossed idly over his shoulder as he retreated into the bush,
“It’s just back there a bit you know, beside the dead birch. You must have almost tripped over the old scow.”
Johnny was the first to report that he had found it as he hoisted an assortment of flotsam and jetsam to reveal the outline of the ancient trapper’s scow almost buried in the water and shoreline muck. Bills truly appropriate comment as we wrestled with the hulk to free it from the suction of the swamp and scoop out handfuls of mud and weeds broke the tension of our disappointment, “I think the goddamn thing’s taken root!”
Once the laughter subsided we were finally able to wrench the thing out of its temporary grave, then set about trying to make it seaworthy, at least sufficiently seaworthy enough to launch. The boat was necessary, as there appeared to only be one or two places where one could fish from shore and they were on the opposite side of the lake. Fly fishing would be almost impossible unless we could make the boat workable. There was only an hour or so of daylight left when we finally pushed off to the lyrical sounds of Johnny’s belting out, “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men…”
With our butts glued to the rickety seats, our fingers crossed and our weight centred in the tipsy craft, we used a couple of trimmed branches to pole the thing around while the fly rods were being quickly strung and flies fastened. The old waterlogged wooden floorboards were so slippery that we dared not stand, so our casting prowess was about to be thoroughly tested.
Nevertheless our feathered attractions hardly hit the water when we were fast to a couple of fine brookies, larger than any of us had seen before, at least on the end of our lines. Previously I had helped my uncle clean the catch he and Curly had brought back from their earlier ice-fishing trip to Brooks Lake. After the furious initial excitement, tallying three or four trout in the twenty-inch class and losing at least the same number, the action suddenly tailed off. Darkness was approaching anyhow and the possibility of our losing our way again on the trail weighed heavily on our minds. It was time to call it a day.
Later, back at our compact cabin with its upper and lower bunks, the trout were cleaned, then stashed on ice beneath the sawdust in the ice house. After a quick snack, our tired but happy crew hit the sack, all with grins on their faces in anticipation of the excitement lying in store for us on our next day of fishing Brooks Lake.
We were not to be disappointed. Within moments of pushing off in the sodden wooden hulk passing for the trapper’s boat, Bill had raised and lost two fabulous brook trout, both of which would have easily topped four pounds. Then, like the day before, as quickly as it began, the trout seemed to develop lockjaw. Once the three of us lost confidence in our favourite, feathered creations, our fly boxes were all being scoured, searching for a winning pattern—all to no avail.
Finally fishing on Brooks Lake: Gord (left) and Johny Finnegan in 1950.
A proud Gord displays his first big trout on Brooks Lake.
Between sips of hot coffee from his Thermos bottle, Johnny blurted out, “Dammit all anyhow, Deval, I told you we should have brought worms! Trout love worms, you know. This must be the first time I ever went fishing without them.” Then remembering the new spinning equipment I had obtained, he said, “Why don’t you set up that crazy outfit you bought? You’ve got some little spoons and spinners and stuff there that you showed us. Maybe that’s just what the doctor ordered.”
Other than an hour or so of practice in the park to see how the thing worked, the new tackle had yet to be put to the use for which it was intended. Nevertheless, I agreed immediately. While Bill and Johnny continued to flail away with their fly rods, mine was soon put away and the spinning tackle set up. One of the half-dozen lures that I had bought, the Halfwave, a tiny Swiss-made wabler,2 was fastened to the line and we were ready to do battle.
The day before, just locating and seeing Brooks Lake for the first time was definitely an unforgettable moment for all of us, but what transpired in the next couple of hours may be one of the most magical memories I have ever experienced in my lifetime working over all those streams and lakes. Although an entire book could be written detailing the thrills and excitement the three of us enjoyed on that tiny trout lake before we had to pack up, with so many other memories to relate I will only touch on the highlights of that memorable morning.
The brass Halfwave, hardly any larger than the Despairs and bucktail streamer flies3 with which we had been attempting to entice the brookies earlier, was flung out with little ceremony. I had barely begun the retrieve when the water boiled beneath the lure, followed by the line being fiercely ripped off the spinning reel. While Bill and Johnny were furiously snapping pictures, the battle see-sawed back and forth with the trout tearing off fifteen feet of line, then my managing to gain ten or twelve back. Eventually, the power of the cane spinning rod, together with the security of the slipping clutch on the reel, overcame the brookie’s resistance.
The results of the exceptional fishing at the “Hatchery” on Brooks Lake.
More photos—then the spinning rod was again put to work. As before, the Halfwave was attacked as soon as it broke the surface and the tackle was once again put to the test. Bill spotted it first—a strange phenomenon and one I have never seen since. He yelled, “Good God! Look at that, guys! There’s at least another dozen trout charging around the one hooked on your spoon—probably trying to wrest it away from him.”
“Somebody grab a picture. Quick! Before they spot the boat and disappear.” I yelled, “If we don’t have any pictures nobody will ever believe