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They are not called great northern pike for nothing. They fight like the dickens, are meaner than snakes, and will take a chunk out of your finger with no remorse whatsoever. And the larger ones are such a thrill to catch, I put almost every one of them back to fight another day, except when I want some of the best tasting fresh fish you every sunk a tooth into, or when you finally, finally, get the one you have wanted for a long, long time.
I have some wonderful friends in a beautiful little place called Shining Tree, Ontario, several hours north of the old nickel mining capital of Sudbury, up highway 144. Brandon and Cindy Baker, two of the hardest working and nicest people you will ever meet, run a fishing and hunting and snowmobiling outfit called Three Bears Camp. They are outfitters, in the truest sense of the word.
I try to get up there for a week every year that I can. To give you an idea how far into Ontario it is, if you are driving, as I do, when you get to the Canadian border, you are only about half way there. Or, as the Canadians so beautifully put it, “Going to the bush, eh?”
A couple of years ago I was scheduled to go in June, and a nasty thing called a pulmonary embolism just about put my lights out permanently. But God or his evil twin was playing catch and release that day, and after about a week in intensive care they let me out to live the rest of my life.
And then last year, we made the break from Fairfax to Tiger Valley and then from there, finally, back to Flint Hill and I didn’t get to go that year, either. This year I made up for that. Remembering Stupart
My brother, M.H., and a number of his buddies from the Flint Hill area starting going to Canada in the 1950s. Some friend owned or leased a little two room cabin on the side of the Canadian National Railroad track, and they would make the pilgrimage every year or so.
At that time, they drove north as far as they could, to the town of Capreol, and from there, loaded all their gear on a train.
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