THE WIND

THE PLAN WAS TO FISH AND EXPLORE THE REMOTE REACHES OF THE N.W.T.’S HISTORIC AYLMER LAKE. THE UNSEASONAL WILD WEATHER MADE FOR A DIFFERENT KIND OF ADVENTURE ALTOGETHER

TEN MINUTES INTO the flight out of Yellowknife, I’m reminded why I’m continually drawn to Canada’s subarctic. Below is a rocky, rolling landscape of greys, blues and a full palette of greens. There’s the dark hunter green of the spruce forests, the Kelly green of the fens, and the olive green where the granite grudgingly allows the intrusion of lichens and moss. The blue is more uniform, a dark sapphire wherever lakes and rivers have carved a permanent home into the bedrock, itself a varied backdrop of grey.

The scene below is at once rugged, desolate and imposing, yet beautiful and bewitching. To the south, I see the north shore of Great Slave Lake, sliding further away with every passing air mile. Soon, we’re over the transition where the mosaic of the taiga landscape turns to tundra, and I know we’re nearing our destination—Aylmer Lake.

Although 1,700-square-kilometre Aylmer is the N.W.T.’s seventh largest lake, I didn’t know anything about it until five or so years ago. Located some 360 kilometres by air northeast of Yellowknife, the lake had seen little human activity until 2000, when a caribou-hunting lodge was built on its east end. That operation was shuttered just five years later, however, when the area’s caribou hunt was closed.

Then in 2012, the husbandand-wife team of Kevin and Patti McNeil took over ownership of the lodge, and transformed it into a fishing destination. Before that, there had been virtually no sportfishing on Aylmer Lake. Nor had there ever been a commercial fishery, or a First Nations sustenance fishery. As a result, these are pristine waters in every sense, and in discussions with Kevin, I learned that his guests seldom venture more than an hour away from the lodge—all the lake trout and Arctic grayling they could ever want can be found without travelling far.

That gave me an idea, and after running it by Kevin, he agreed to rent me and my friend Dave Kay a boat and motor to explore Aylmer’s unspoiled, historic waters for eight days on our own early last August. Did we find the untapped, virginal waters we’d dreamed of? Let’s just say that after leaving the lodge in Rockness Bay that first morning, we didn’t see another person or boat until we motored back into the lodge bay a week later. As for the fishing itself, the weather gods had plans of their own.

IIN THE 1830S, Sir George Back was one of the first Europeans to lay eyes on Aylmer—the headwaters of the Back River, named in his honour, are a mere kilometre from Aylmer’s north end. Then in 1907, Ernest Thompson Seton, the renowned wildlife artist, author and co-founder of the Boy Scouts, led an expedition across the lake, leaving behind a handful of cairns as the only signs he’d visited; he described his exploration of Aylmer in his 1911 book, The Arctic Prairies. Since then, few have traversed the lake, other than a handful of adventurous canoeists, the odd geologist, and McNeil’s team, so Dave and I were keen to be among the first anglers to explore it. As it turned out, that was easier said than done.

Dave and I were both well aware that Arctic weather can be unpredictable, but we’d intentionally selected a time of the year when a high pressure system typically sits over the region, bringing warm, stable conditions. Unfortunately, the timing of our adventure coincided instead with what Kevin would later describe as the windiest week he’d experienced since buying the lodge.

We had expected our biggest challenge to be the flesh-loving blackflies and mosquitoes, and we’d come fully prepared, loaded to the gunwales with bug spray, bug jackets, head nets and Thermacells. That all ended up being little more than ballast, however, as the winged annoyances hunkered down out of the wind throughout our entire visit.

I suppose a lot of trips are born the way ours was, conceived at a kitchen table out of nothing but maps and dreams of big fish, quiet water and sunny days. For some reason, those dreams always leave out details such as bad weather, mechanical breakdowns and other barriers to a utopian experience. I assume that’s a natural defence mechanism, our brain doing what it does best. I mean, what’s the point of dreaming if the hero doesn’t get the girl in the end?

In any case, after a night at the lodge and a hearty breakfast of French toast the following morning, Dave and I had loaded up the 16-foot Lund and were heading west by 9:30 a.m. The skies were overcast, rain fell periodically and the wind was up, but that mattered little as we had already designated it as a travel day. Onward we went, motoring within emergency distance of the shoreline, vigilant about the risks on the vast Arctic lake, including hidden rocks and rogue waves.

Early in the afternoon, we pulled out of the wind and into the mouth of one of Aylmer’s many tributaries, drifting in the shallows while we had a quick bite and watched Arctic grayling cruising all around us. Though tempted to pull out the rods, we pressed on, knowing we still had many kilometres to cover. crawl back into my sleeping bag, but it was a fitful sleep; I couldn’t shake the image of what had just happened, imagining the consequences had my tent flown away across the open tundra.

By early evening, we’d reached the mouth of the Lockhart River, Aylmer’s largest tributary, 70 or so direct-line kilometres from the lodge. It’s hard to say, given what Seton accurately described as Aylmer’s “ambiguous” shoreline, how far we actually travelled in the wind and waves, but we arrived tired. With that, we set up our tents, ate dinner, talked about the next day’s plans, and hit the hay.

Our enthusiasm to fish and explore the Lockhart was dashed at daybreak when Dave and I looked out from our beach encampment. Even in our little bay, there were whitecaps, and the wind howled across the open landscape. We were windbound, going nowhere. So, after further anchoring the corners of my little tent with hefty rocks to avoid a repeat of the previous evening’s escapade, we settled in and waited. Occasionally, we’d hike out to explore the tundra and look for berries, but that never lasted long in the bitter cold and wind. The highlight of our day was watching a lone muskox bull feed lazily just a few hundred metres away.

II’M NOT SURE whether it was my flapping tent or the too many cups of tea I had before bed that woke me, but suffice it to say nature’s call found me struggling out of my sleeping bag at 4 a.m. Groggily, I took just a few steps from the tent onto the sandy beach and commenced what I had to do. Not five seconds later, a gust of wind launched my tent skyward. In desperation, I managed to grab one corner of the airborne shelter with one hand, while simultaneously trying to manage my chore with the other. Unable to cease midstream what nature had demanded of me, I struggled to hang on to the wind-inflated tent buffeting above me—I’m just thankful there was no one there to witness my struggle. Eventually, I managed to get everything back where it belonged, re-anchor the tent and

The following morning, we woke to more wind and waves, but they had abated enough that we could carefully cross an open stretch of water to reach the protection of the Lockhart River valley. We motored upstream until our progress was halted by large rapids, where we beached the boat and began casting spinners on our light rods. Over the next hour or two, we hooked numerous grayling as long as 18 inches and a handful of small lake trout in the turbulent water.

We also took the opportunity to stretch out in the warming sun where the wind couldn’t find us. Later, back at camp in the cold and wind, I donned all of my warmest clothing—where the hell the expected Arctic high was, with its 20°C to 25°C temperatures and mere whispers of wind, I had no idea.

Thinking we were finally due for a break in the weather, we were instead in for a shock. The next day was colder yet, with plunging temperatures and constant wind. Despite the conditions, we packed up camp and headed east—a huge part of the lake remained, and we were determined to see it come hell or high water. And high water it was. At one point, breaking waves nearly crested the gunwales. knew for certain the stories we’d heard about Aylmer Lake and the remarkable fishing were true. an outboard that decided to go on strike, regularly going into limp mode and dropping our speed to a mere troll. We’d rest the motor for a few minutes and it would resume operating normally, only to soon repeat the sequence. Trying to maintain control in the strong winds under diminished power made it all the worse.

Drenched, we cautiously continued to our planned destination of Williamson Island, one of the largest of the hundreds of islands sprinkled liberally throughout Aylmer. Along the way, we stopped for a warming cup of soup and a sandwich on one of the few sheltered shorelines we found—thank the gods for our Jetboil portable cooker. By day’s end when we reached Williamson, I was chilled and soaked through, welcoming the opportunity to make camp on a secluded beach littered with muskox and wolf tracks. By then we’d had several days on the lake, with very little fishing to show for it.

HHAVING ALREADY RESIGNED ourselves to the fact the weather wasn’t going to play nice, it was no surprise when the dawn greeted us again with overcast skies, temperatures only a few degrees above freezing, and a steady wind. Dave and I putzed around camp until late morning, then decided to brave the swells and troll around the island.

It wasn’t long before we discovered every windswept point held lake trout—and big ones, at that. We experimented with several different lures, including Bondy Baits, Williams and Len Thompson spoons, and Cisco Kids, and they all produced, catching several fish in the low 40-inch class and too many to count in the mid- to high-30s. At times, the wind made landing the fish a bit of a rodeo, but we couldn’t have cared less—it never ceases to amaze me how a boat is always warmer and drier when the fish are biting. By the time we returned to camp, I

We kept one small trout, and that evening enjoyed a traditional shore meal of fresh fish, beans, potatoes and onions. As we ate, a cheeky glaucous gull entertained us, gobbling up the fish’s entrails while concurrently warding off the competition. It was a special evening. The weather was no improvement over what we’d been experiencing, but the great afternoon of fishing, a wonderful hot meal, and the remote, unspoiled vista brought a certain warming peacefulness.

Was that rewarding evening a harbinger of better weather ahead? Not a chance. The next day, the temperature hovered around 4°C, the wind continued to rage, and it rained much of the time. Most of our gear was already soaked through, so in some respects it mattered little. Determined not to let the conditions beat us, we pulled up camp and made the long, cold trek up Sandhill Bay toward the extreme northern end of Aylmer.

We couldn’t travel quickly because of the waves, and our struggles were compounded by

By mid-afternoon, we’d had enough and found a campsite, where we set up just one tent, crawled in and made soup; it’s amazing the difference in your disposition a little warmth provides. The weather softened a little, too, and as if a symbolic signal of better days to come, a solitary white wolf loped by across the uneven tundra. Encouraged, and needing to stretch our weary limbs, we hiked a kilometre or so to a small feeder creek and enjoyed a welcome respite, casting flies to little grayling in the shallow water.

SSURE ENOUGH, THE next morning greeted us with hope and promise. The skies had broken and the sun occasionally peeked through, while the wind eased to a manageable level and the temperature soared to a relatively balmy 10°C. Taking advantage, Dave and I headed off for the northernmost end of Sandhill Bay—even the now-cooperative outboard seemed to have been rejuvenated.

We arrived a couple of hours later and beached the boat before hiking over the continental divide to Sussex Lake and the headwaters of the Back River. From that point northward, all waters drain to the Arctic Ocean. We couldn’t stay long, as we were expected back at the lodge that evening, but we threw a few luckless spinners, ate a packed lunch, then trudged back to the boat to begin the long run back to the lodge.

Along the way, we stopped at a couple of promising-looking areas to fish and caught lakers at each, including several in the high 30- to low 40-inch range. Arriving back in Rockness Bay late in the afternoon, we bumped into a guide and his client trolling for dinner. We joined in on the fun and in mere minutes put a couple of eaters in the boat. Despite the paucity of fishing we’d been able to enjoy throughout the week, it was still evident there’s simply no shortage of fish in Aylmer.

Returning to the lodge meant a hot shower, a hot meal at a proper table, and a warm, dry bed off the ground, and I embraced it all that evening. At dawn, I arose revived and expecting to get in a last few hours of fishing before our flight back to Yellowknife. Alas, it was the windiest day yet—dangerous winds, in fact, if you were out in an open 16-foot boat. I guess it was unreasonable for us to have expected anything else.

Soon enough, Dave and I were on the road, driving through the night from Yellowknife to our homes in Edmonton. While he dozed, I reflected on our week on Aylmer. We’d ventured there to explore, to fish, and to inhale a hearty helping of the Arctic. It