Feeding twigs and trash to a small fire, relaxed both feet were up on the blue kitchen Rubbermaid. Neighbors Statler and Waldorf, a pair of perched eagles from across the river kept watch. Mike was off in explore mode, still in sight wandering and fishing a couple hundred yards away. A grey, rather melancholy day, the white and black smoke was quick to vanish with a west breeze. Notepad in hand, sniff of scotch in my cup, sitting quietly at peace where the famous Sutton River joins with the Aquatuk, I pondered things for a time. This place, that place, my place and just so many speckled trout, a fish that may very well have been the beginning of my beginning or the beginning of my end… just depends who’s reading. The Sutton has forever been a pot of gold at the end of a distant rainbow. A place so many times I have looked off into and hoped for that great expanse between us to finally one day close. Since first learning of its existence, resting at the Aquatuk I could look back at how much of my fishing life had already been connected to this place. An old but barely broken in nine foot – six weight and Battenkill laid across the canoe, a few dozen select flies stowed in a tackle tray alongside. I learned to tie and tied several thousand between 2002 and 2005, all before a first boat, before Nipigon was a thought, before my youngest girl was born. Dries, nymphs, streamers, hairwings, poppers, everything! Through all of the other fish, our family life, travel, job changes, bumps, bruises, responsibilities and rewards, kept safely stored and set aside, not ever forgotten, those flies have been carried on with some hope and purpose, to a day when the distance closes with the end of that rainbow. Found is the pot of gold, this is the Sutton River story.

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Day 1. PSYCHO PADDLER & STEERY McTWIST.



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We stood on the docks at the Hearst Air base. “The river is low,” Melanie warned, “the last group out had to do some walking with the canoe.” It wouldn’t be the first time in Northern Ontario this would be the case, only just for us, it was on the Sutton. “Well, that’s… NO WAY we’re at 436 pounds, the scale read 280 just a minute ago!” “The scale doesn’t lie,” Melanie answered. “MIKE!” “Ohhh sorry,” as he steps off. “There Mel ya see, 301. I’m not a paddler, haven’t done it in years, apologies for the extra.” “Do you have an InReach or a SAT phone?” “Nothing like that,” I replied to her. “Do you know where the pick-up is,” she continued? Pulling out my printed map, “yeah, kinda think it’s about here,” I said. “Right here on the south shoreline, there is a sign, be there by 10:00am. I suggest too that you camp further upriver before the treeline ends, not at the pick-up. Safer from bears. It can be about a three hour paddle on your last morning.” “Good to know! We’ll do that,” I agreed, “and do you have the GPS co-ordinate handy too?” Melanie quickly grabbed a map with the info.

The dock was a bustling a spot. Another group was heading into Napken Lake for the week, all three planes were going airborne. Mike and I had the big Cessna Caravan all to ourselves, it was departing near empty but with plenty payload to pick-up before its return. A rather sleepless night with a 4:30am wake-up and meager breakfast, we had stayed at Stevie Z’s in Mattice to meet our plane well on time. Greeted first by Melanie with a big and overdue hug, our bills settled, a bottle of red and one maple moonshine, we tipped our hats prior to take-off.



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The skies started clear and remained that for much of the flight. Two hours from the Carey Lake airbase to the landing on Hawley Lake, Mike and I would travel low altitude over the western James Bay. The muskeg and mosquito rule this immense wetland, while great rivers like the Albany and Attawapiskat slice through miles of it all. Reaching Sutton and Hawley Lakes, “The Gorge” between the two comes into our view, this landmark and natural wonder excited us even more.



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The Chookoomolin’s and other families from Peawanuck (Winisk) are the keepers of this place. Spending the seasons at their camps, splendidly humble and traditional living continues at Hawley Lake today. Hunting, fishing, netting and trapping for some are still the way of life, but for elder Albert Chookoomolin and his close kinfolk, outfitting and guiding anglers to stationed camps along the upper Sutton River is also their business. Albert’s sister Margaret; who likely doesn’t know much of me personally, I have spoken to on occasion over the past two decades while working on the James Bay. She would surely know my wife Brenda though, and once greeting Albert at the dock I asked if he could say hello to Margaret for her. During my northern years I have never met anyone from Peawanuck I didn’t like. They are a friendly bunch, always.

It was shortly after 10:00am. Mike and I had inspected before choosing a red canoe from the bunch, a big and sturdy 17-foot tripper. Albert’s grandson Gilbert, who will one day hold the future to their enterprise, offered Mike and I a tow down river. Give or take, the first ten miles or so of the Sutton is shallow, weedy and slower flowing water. Pike call this stretch home, although specks and suckers can still be found. With thunderstorms threatening all around us and the chance to skip several hours of paddling this section, all help was quite appreciated.



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I asked Gilbert about bears, specifically polar bears. For himself and family at Hawley Lake they weren’t much of an issue it seemed, mainly just the black bears. He went on to mention other wildlife to be found in the area too. Moose, caribou, wolf, wolverine, marten, fox, eagles and hawks, and of course I asked about Bigfoot too. No joke, just Google it! So much uncharted, rugged and isolated territory here, it can be that alone which evokes the senses and gets imaginations running wild.

After Gilbert and we parted ways the paddling would begin. Full of energy and a drive to get moving onward to potential camp sites, the first strokes were deliberate and rushed. Mike and I found ourselves zig-zagging all over the damn river just trying to figure out how our canoe was going to find itself in a straight line. At some point he called me “Psycho Paddler” and I answered back with “Steery McTwist.” I do believe this set the mood for the two of us adopting a more comical and relaxed rhythm, for most times thereafter. Mike would always take the stern and me the bow till the end.



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In preparation for the trip I was able to use GIS topo maps and satellite imagery for help. Very little information actually exists for the Sutton River, and all trip reports give mere snippets through text or the odd random photo, none offering any decent help with planning. Maybe not everyone wants that, but surely there has to be interest enough from those seeking a Sutton float trip of their own. In the very least, a tiny curiosity must exist beyond what is otherwise a mystery of, drop-off, fish brains out, get picked-up! Over a month prior to the trip the online programs and my research provided me with several things…

1. Wrapping my head around what was to come, for the Sutton is no question an undertaking.

2. Measured distances, guessing at camping and fishing areas and drafting a rough schedule.

3. Allowing printed maps for use on the river, and the chance to thoroughly document our trip.

A little water damage with plenty pen and pencil markings on the originals, posted throughout this report will be newly made maps which highlight where we camped and stopped to fish. Most names of the fishing spots were places we actually beached the canoe and spent extra time fly and spin casting for brookies. As well, there are a few drifts to follow that were endlessly productive in the canoe. Blue squares are where we pitched the tent and stayed overnight. Orange circles are other potential campsites. The two places marked with an “A” are cabins belonging to Albert Chookoomolin, so please respect that if using these maps for any future reference. Permission is required I would presume. As well, any red numbers are there to help calculate distances between.



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After our delivery to the “Drop Off” and adjusting to the canoe and paddle, Mike and I made easy time down river. At “First Fish” my partner popped our speckled cherry and I followed quick with one of my own. A good solid trout for Mikey its fight was just as expected, intense! Speckles are full of piss and vinegar, hard hitting, heavy pulling, never quitting. No single fish during our time would peel off a football field of line because that would be ridiculous, but in all reality many would certainly be quite testy and long running.



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We had been into a few at “Lost Net” before drift fishing further down to “Turnaround.” It was there Mike realized he had actually lost his net, leaving it back at duh, “Lost Net!” It was then too I decided for the remainder of our journey, I would try to remember to name each place we stopped and fished along the way. It would cost only a bit of time and the odd fish to Mike’s quick casts at new waters, but it’d be fun. and heck, this was to be a twelve day trip.

We paddled back up river against the current in our fully loaded canoe. It was stupid! Worth a try, but just dumb. I think Mike would have gone the distance, but neither of us could really remember that exact distance. Quitting on him he accepted it graciously. We hoped Albert and his guest who had passed us by in the freighter canoe while at “Lost Net,” that he might maybe retrieve it for us on his return to camp. We would see him on the fly out later quite likely.

Nearing the end of our day we pushed to Albert’s camp. For some odd reason I had misunderstood him in conversation and was half believing he had possibly invited us to stay a night there. Unsure where to camp, it seemed if I was wrong we’d be in a good place to stop anyways. The more we paddled and drifted ourselves along, the better the fishing came to be. In places we could toss spoons backwards over our shoulders and playfully hook fish. “Daenerys” and “First Mouse” were like that. In short time we came to a vacant canvass roofed cabin on the left bank then around the bend found Albert. It was nearing 8:00pm and we guessed good time to set up camp. After a short chat it was evident we wouldn’t be pitching with him and his guest, fair enough, but where to next was the question? Albert provided two options, head up river to the vacant cabin we had passed minutes ago or tour down river to his other cabin four kilometers away. We chose to say nearby although more would come of our talk. Albert permitted us use of his other cabin for the following night. When I explained that an east wind, cold front with 30 to 50 millimeters of rain was forecast for then and, maybe even more rain into the following day, he further okay’d a second night too. It was a wonderful offer!

Mike and I paddled to a point across river still within sight of Albert’s cabin. The ground was soggy as diarrhea with just enough of a dry toilet paper patch to wipe the tent down upon. The bugs met us on shore there and began tearing any exposed flesh from our bodies. I couldn’t find the PIC coils, and that fact alone drove me nearly as nuts as the blackflies and skitters did. Mid August now and I wasn’t expecting those demon spawn blood suckers to be so thick and vicious. Half remembering my home years in Moose Factory and Attawapiskat, if I recall it right, this time of the summer the odd James and Hudson Bay mozzies could blow inland with a heavy onshore breeze. The whites I called them, such small, aggressive pale skitters that drove their suckers hard into your skull. The common greys mixed with the short-lived greens and brown would be dead already and the blackflies be gone too. Only just chance encounters with the invisible no-see-ums might come around the fire, or in your tent, when they’d bury and burn into the skin of the ankles and neck. The bugs this evening had me questioning eleven more days on the Sutton, skitters suck enough but I freak and fucking despise thick blackflies.



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Mike and I had paddled 29 kilometers our first day, and after a quick fried trout and taters meal we slipped out of the bugs and into our tent. No coils found, it appeared I had misplaced my headlamp and some bug spray too. The new water resistant bag I had bought, said to be waterproofed with the exception of the zipper, well it leaked like a sieve. Half my clothes were soaked and the mattress damp already but I couldn’t complain anymore, for that bed was still so cozy and welcome after our long day that I fell fast asleep in an instant.

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Day 2. ALBERT’S ISLAND CABIN CAMP.



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Waking early Mike and I understood we had little distance to travel this day. Just four kilometers between the two blue squares indicating our stops to camp, after breakfast we would paddle and wade upriver to fish “Jigfly” and “First Mouse,” before returning later to eat and break down the campsite once dry.

It was Mike who was reading the water quite well for spots, his closer look into things would locate fish I was sometimes missing. What I had been finding already was that the tail-outs were holding good schools of specks and I was at times too eager in wanting just that. Picking holes through runs, plucking the odd fish out from behind rocks and plunking into tight seams and eddies, Mike and I would find plenty extras in the “Jigfly.”



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Moving further upstream to “First Mouse” our Sutton experience really began to take shape. After finding a hidden entrance to an incredible (the best) campsite and quickly relieving ourselves there, when we began fishing this long run full of trout we were in for something special.

Plenty space for a backcast and just a slight breeze, totally in sync, a simple nod and we pulled our fly rods from their tubes and tied up. Mike a streamer and me a mouse, I waded out at the head of the run and first cast into the current there had a speckle blow up on the surface. The second cast the fish didn’t miss the mouse. Mike was into ‘em mighty quick too.

We fished a couple hours there at “First Mouse,” switching out flies, streamers and surface mice. Besides not being a great fly caster by any means and rather rusty from years of little practice, the Sutton would make me feel like a pro. Surely Mike would agree on this too. The realization we could not only catch fish this way but, catch many, many fish way, there was little discussion the entire trip as to what our favorite option would be. If we could fly fish it, if the timing and the spot allowed, we would fly fish it first, every chance. Mike and I agreed.

At our site I ate some half decent dehydrated-then-brought-back-to-life bagged spicy sausage meal while Mike purred through his canned cat food, then we broke camp.

Albert and his guest had moved down river off the “Breakfast Pool.” A large enough run we couldn’t fly fish it all, so after a time we finished off any missed water with bucktail jigs. It appeared to us that lures might still keep a strong place in rotation, the average size of specks hitting our lures seemed bigger than most fly fed. Onward to “Bear Poop” the same could be concluded. Regardless though, fly or spin, we were picking off fish in just those two spots at an alarming rate. Keeping count of fish would be impossible, best guessing this day at around 70 to 80 or so between us. There would be times throughout this trip one could catch five in five casts, ten in ten casts, and even some hours twenty specks could be bested. Instead of epic, we would dub such moments as these as “totally vascular.” I mean shit, Mike’s first two days and his guns were cocked hard and loaded from all his reel peeling fish.



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But to speak of size and color it was so far a little different. Early yet, still summer and all, searun fish were just moving in and up from Hudson Bay, while the residents still tasted the warmer sun in their flows. The biggest hens weren’t quite at their biggest yet, and the kypes and painted skins on the boys were only beginning to show. It was all getting close though, and fall does come quick this far north. That said, we did pick up some big beauties this day.



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We arrived at Albert’s cabin. Inside, everything was dry, clean and perfect. A table, bunk bed with foam, a couple folding cots laying around and a stove with a little wood, seemed heaven on earth to the both of us, the only real thing missing were soft, beautiful and horny women.



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Made Mikey up some sweet and sour trout on rice. We would talk, agreeing to disagree on what would be safest for bears before finally some tunes with a short but toasty fire would stoke the cabin cozy warm. A liter of scotch in my Nalgene rationed to 100mls per day, I over poured by three times that amount and so happily forced the extra down to my belly. The “Shackleton” seemed the right blend for the Sutton for on the bottle it had read, “Early 20th century, Sir Ernest Shackleton led one of the most famous expeditions into the Antarctic, overcoming tremendous obstacles to ensure that all of his men returned home safely… Shackleton ordered 25 cases of Mackinlay’s rare old Highland malt whiskey to take on his expedition of 1907. In 2007, eleven intact bottles containing this perfectly preserved whiskey were recovered from under the ice beneath Shackleton’s base camp… Inspired Master Blender, Richard Patterson, recreated this Shackleton whiskey…” As the rains began to pitter-patter on the tarp roof, it would be a great evening and drink to finish a celebrated day.

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Day 3. POLAR FOAM & WOLVERINES.

Was beginning to find things which I had thought were misplaced. My PIC coils turned up and the headlamp too. After a great sleep it was a cool morning in the cabin, but we were dry! The rain overnight hammered down, and during breakfast it continued on as well. The wind outside had switched north, breaking grey clouds now sailing by in a hurry. The cabin was a blessing and it quickly became a home. Mike and I both believed it would be difficult for us come time to leave.



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Today was a freebie. No plans, no hurry, we were comfortable to just let the weather settle before heading out to pluck some trout for lunch. When the rain did stop we hiked the banks and shorelines down river to fresh water. At a hard left bend that presented itself super fishy we stopped and caught a trout apiece until I moved just a hair further around the corner. Down stream, maybe a couple hundred yards, maybe more, a large white object was there moving in front of a high shoreline. My adrenaline shot up and I watched on just a moment longer. Yes, yes, it is moving, for sure, and it looks just like a bear with it’s head low to the water, kinda inspecting it. In a flash I turned back around the corner and told Mike we had to head to camp immediately. We had left the gun behind and although I didn’t think the polar bear had seen me in those short seconds, I felt nervously too close without a weapon and the twenty minute jog back to camp. Mike followed me quick.

Loaded the gun at the cabin. Last October in preparation for the trip I took my F.A.C. and Parks Canada through Hearst Air later issued me a permit to carry a shotgun and slugs on our trip. Nothing else allowed in Polar Bear Provincial Park, we wouldn’t actually be within the park’s boundaries for days yet to come. Not a hunter, no marksman, no real comfort and little experience with guns, the old Mossberg bolt action shotgun I had surely made me feel like a bit of a tool at times but, I still knew how to use it, and how to aim and fire if need be. We would shoulder the gun on any walks thereafter, I moved it up to the bow of the canoe for quick and easy access and, it laid close and ready at nights in the tent.

Once Mike and I were feeling fishy again, my nerves calmed, we slipped out of the cabin and in minutes were casting the “Bear Poop.” That hole was still constipated with trout and in no time I cleaned out two plump nuggets for a late protein lunch. Gen Tao and honey garlic noodles, so hungry Mikey lost his mind come meal time. Happily fed!



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At 4:00pm with good skies we desperately wanted to head back down river towards the bear. The spot had looked just too good. With the gun and the canoe, instead of walking we’d paddle there and back. A couple spots on return would require some walking and towing but it was a not a long ride at all, only minutes really. Once near to where I had seen the bear Mikey alongside peeked around the corner with me to see if it was still around. “Don’t see it,” he said. “But what’s that there,” I asked? Mike looked close, then looked closer. “It’s foam,” he answered. “You see it coming off the shoreline there? It’s flowing downstream and collecting in a pool. Look! See more of it there, and there?” Holy fuck I’m an idiot I thought. “Holy fuck I’m an idiot,” I then said to Mike. “There was more of it earlier though dood, and a huge one too right there where I said the green meets brown on the bank. The bit of sun shining through then lit it up real white and it was moving,” I would go on to try and make some kind of case for myself but the bottom line was my polar bear was just polar foam. Mike graciously again accepted me for who I am, poor eyesight, half minded, spooked stupid and all.

The fishing was smoking hot. Mike was playing with his underwater camera getting pictures of a fighting trout when shortly afterwards we heard something on the other bank. Rustling in the woods I only caught a short glimpse of a rounded out weasel, smaller, brown and black, but Mike saw the parent. A family of wolverines crossed our path but without good time to capture a decent picture. This incredible little bend and run loaded with streamer smacking trout we aptly named “Wolverine” thereafter. It would be a favorite on the Sutton.



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Mike’s white Zuddler fly and a rainbow bucktail jig worked non-stop for him. He was catching some great sized fish this evening too.



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Earlier in the day on “Bear Poop” and also a little at “Wolverine,” a bead-headed olive Whooly Bugger did wonders for me. Another fly in on some action was a black and pink bunny leach with chartreuse beady eyes, the fly type would probably become my favorite streamer on the trip. But, when we hiked down further right to “Polar Foam” nearing the end of our evening, I switched to a black and purple collared, marabou bodied bass popper. That fly would be lethal!

Standing atop a rock, mid stream, the tail-out currents formed at my feet and expanded to a short casts width across. I could swing and pop, let it drift downstream and pop it back or, simply dangle it in the current and give the odd little twitch. It didn’t matter one way or another, speck after speck erupted on that fly. You couldn’t pinch me awake from the dreamy state during those moments. And when that bite finally slowed a little, a switch to a streamer would ignite new action all over again. Like counting sheep for an insomniac, dozens of trout came to hand in mere hours.



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By 8:00pm we were wrecked and so headed back a little earlier than need be. The evening air was cooling off quick, maybe a frosty night coming. Double dosed on the Shackleton, Mike had collected some wood to hold a longer flame in the stove. Another roast in the cabin to warm and dry our bones, the blood flowing it was all totally vascular!



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Day 4. NUT RASH.

It had been a chilly night, and before the skies opened up this morning frost had kissed the ground around us. Outside the cabin and in, not a single pesky bug was vital enough to tell their cold, hard story. When I had awoken, the air still and light dim, my muscles and joints felt sorely stiff beneath the sleeping bag. I did not at all want to get up, didn’t want to deal with going outside to get our food. It was a slower morning, a double coffee morning, a grey, cold, don’t wanna do nothing kinda morning.

Blackflies had bitten the heck out of me. They got both wrists bad and swelled ‘em up good, back of my neck a total wreck. One got into my belly button and left it a volcanic lava bloody mess and my testes suffered a rather wicked assault too, the right especially where folding into the groin. It was all a rash of unfortunate events really, but luckily I had packed a little Bactroban to relieve anything spreading down or around yonder. Yes, those blood sucking shits were dying off today though, that frost having hopefully bit through their exoskeltons so horrifically. It would not be beyond me to rejoice the death of all bugs with a dram of single malt before 7:00am. On occasion once or twice, I have had scotch before a first coffee for lesser reason. Once or twice… But the booze was out of reach and my current skin ailments far too fascinating, I again reverted attention to my dermis.

Mikey and I had finished breakfast and were about to get on our way but then we heard the rain begin hitting the roof tarp. We resettled awhile. Awhile later we did eventually get our window. The rain turned to an intermittent mist and that was good enough to suffer a dampening for the purpose of catching some lunch. Later it let up entirely. Nearby “Bear Poop” was our first stop for groceries, although it was rather fished out by this point. Maybe only a dozen hooked,we luckily escaped with just a few being of the right size and ripeness.



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While fishing there I came to hate Maxima florocarbon for leads. Had bought some at SAIL in Ottawa, 8-pound test thinking why not for safeties sake, it’s basically like a six pound Drennan anyways. Well, it wasn’t even close to any good really, it kept breaking off on casts sending spoons of mine into different time zones. Had some Seagar mainline floro in 10 pound too, the yellow one, not the Abraxis. Thankfully it was far superior and at a fraction of the cost.

Made some palatable fish curry for lunch, nothing fancy-shmancy about it although Mike inhaled the meal quicker than he could snap a picture of it. After burping he got to mending his leaky waders too. Ohhhhhh, you didn’t know eh? Yeah, Mike’s waders had been leaking half way between the knee and ankle since day one. It wasn’t just some trickle either, when he’d walk out of the river his hole would be pouring out like a garden hose. He’d finally got fed up enough with being wet and having perma-prune feet that he was actually gonna take a patch he had, apply some glue, and seal up a second different set of leaky waders he had packed all along. Thank God happier days of wading in the heavenly streams of the Sutton River were ahead for him. Kidding aside, that patch was the best thing that ever happened to Mike on this trip.



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Of course that late afternoon into evening down on “Wolverine” and “Polar Foam “ would be slower, we had beat that horse into Juicy Fruit the day before. Several dozen fish likely, we got a good few to show for our efforts though. Gun loaded and soggy shouldered, the scene put Mikey and I into a foul mood so we had it out for a short while because of things we’ll just keep personal from any of you prying readers. Like an old married couple, you can’t expect two people to not bicker and bitch when your deeper feels are tired and grouchy. On route back upriver Mike carried his camera and fishing poles, I took the pack, my rods and the gun. It was pure shit dragging the canoe too. He showed me not to mess with him, and as so it turned out that I had to patch a hole this day too.



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We both heard a plane come in sometime mid day. Our day four, so accurately a three day separation I would think, the timing was right for a new group to fall in behind us on the river. By my thorough map calculations we were 33 or 34 kilometers down the river and if these guys pushed like we did on day one, they’d be camping by the end of their day somewheres near to Albert’s other cabin. We had half hoped to leave the cabin on this day but judging by several long term forecast predictions printed about five or six days back now, this weather was going to hold over us into tomorrow before finally breaking. As said, it was cold and wet all day, and dry, warm comfort got the better of us for one more night. After a handful of pistachios and prayers of a good long sleep, Mike and I agreed to get up early, fish super hard and cover 16 kilometers to where SAT imagery had me believing a suitable campsite might await.

Day 5. PADDLIN’ ON & “FISHING THE RIVER OUT.”



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Lit up my watch to check the hour and toasted what was left of the battery. 5:35am would be the time for the remainder of the trip. Soon as the covers came off and I stood to stretch, the rain started again. Mike was already mobile, brushing his teeth and tending to his things. Restlessly I had tossed and turned through the night but even still there was an eagerness to get up and get moving.

The water level had quite evidently risen. Once the canoe was packed, with hot coffees in our mugs we shoved off. Spitting mist rolled through in waves but we could tell the skies were trying to play nicer. By mid morning the clouds would totally break apart, and by an hour before noon it turned total bluebird. Knowing we had a good haul today, once the paddles pulled us forward we skipped right on through the pools we had been fishing from the cabin, until shortly arriving at “Hole Punch.” Forgetting to note it on the map was a decent spot to camp there. Fish were moving about but oddly we couldn’t get more than one hook in, so we didn’t stay long.

The next few stops kept us much busier. Between “Rhino,” “Float Run” and “Two Rock,” we lost track of time and kinda veered off our plan some. We may have arrived there around 9:30am and didn’t get rolling again until pushing early afternoon. “Rhino” was just that! Full of bigger than average fish that cracked hard on our flies and spoons. “Float Run” and “Two Rock” were just endless numbers of specks taking anything. Again, impossible to guess but Mike and I likely landed 25 to 30 fish each and the day was only half over.



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Finishing at “Two Rock” I did urge Mike that we make up some ground. Of the planned sixteen klicks to travel we had so far gone four, and again our day was half over and we both wanted lunch too. We pushed faster between where we departed at “Two Rock” down river to “Vee,” mostly paddling hard over a couple hours yet also spin casting while drifting through fishy runs. From “Vee” to the potential camp destination was about seven more kilometers beyond so, doing the math I figured lets get nine out of the way like now, have a big mid afternoon shorelunch, then leave seven to go with some fishing on route to camp. Remember, a new group of anglers was possibly on our heels too.

That paddle through was good but not all that exceptional for fishing. On some drifts you could catch a fish every four or five casts but it wasn’t like some other miles where you could hook up every time. Before “Vee” I thought a campsite might exist along the south shoreline, and also one at “Vee” itself. May have been an Ottertooth trip report that gave the notion, but we saw no indication of travelers. Another missed campsite for the map, a group could pitch overnight on the south side of the hard left corner before “Vee.”

Mike stayed busy trying to snap pictures of eagles. A juvenile bird followed us for hours along that stretch, but it always stayed just far enough ahead to avoid a good shot. A big, fat seagull kept on our tail too. Since our day two arrival at the cabin we had one big shithawk jump in on the trip with us. That gull was the biggest bully of any bunch of ‘em, and any time, anywhere we cleaned some trout for shorelunch, he’d swoop in, guard the turf and claim his free meals. Mike and I wondered if it would be with us ‘till the very end, then fly back to the start and follow another group down? Probably been living large like this for years.

“Vee” provided us two nice lunch fish but after cleaning them onshore there we paddled down further to find a better spot for cooking. At “Hatch Bend” gentle sloping grasses along the bank and a nice point for suitable camping was where we broke out the kitchen and stove. Breaded honey garlic specks on creamy garlic pasta if you talked to either of us after lunch, our breath would likely melt your face off.

While I cooked Mike played with his camera. While passing from “Vee” to “Hatch Bend” we were witnessing trout boiling all over on the surface. A green drake hatch was in full effect, these big, floating mayflies like sailboats drifting on the water top. Stirring the pasta, flipping the fried fish, when looking away to the river I could watch the fleet of passing drakes syphon into the tail-out where brookies would blow up on ‘em like U-Boats sinking English supply ships. It was mesmerizing.



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Mike would hold up for me and kindly not wet a line on such great spots, unless I was good with it. Every day cleaning all the fish and preparing all these meals would add up to an hour or more. In that same amount of cooking time, Mike could annihilate the fish in a good run or pool leaving me little to nothing afterwards. For a tasty meal in his belly it was a fair price he wait up and even later do the dishes too. He realized this early on and besides, lunch time is a nice break as well. Relax, digest, have a coffee, breathe a little.

The green drakes fizzled out but Mike and I were very aware how our late afternoon fish was going play out. After lunch he tied up a mouse and I a popper. “Hatch Bend” took an hour or so to fully destroy on topwater flies and then we cruised on to “Glory.” Ohhhh… My… Lord… Hallelujah!!! Chucking that popper and mouse into the drift there, we may as well have been throwing in dynamite. The specks just wouldn’t stop coming to the surface. We thought we were on our way to actually fishing the river out, even with Mike’s fly barely holding together by a string.



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The last mile or two leading up to the camp before “Sunset Boulevard” was quite wide and shallow, and the bends prior to that were fishy but not as productive as “Glory” had been. Little time was wasted traveling on through, and as I guessed there might be, a great, recently occupied campsite, complete with a pile of wood next to the pit was found dry and waiting for us. We beached the canoe, unloaded a few things and then Mike took a cast. Apparently the site has fish staying on it too. We were completely set up in under an hour and it was only 6:30pm.

In the empty canoe we paddled a short few minutes to the end of the long run just around the bend. Mike took some good footing in the river early and didn’t look back. I watched him slay fish after fish while struggling a little deeper into the tail-out section myself. After seeing enough, I crossed the river and walked the north bank down around the corner. From the head to tail there it was loaded, my bunny streamer, brown whooly bugger and an Ally’s shrimp experiment all putting fish on the line. “Loner Load” would be a bit of a short-lived memory, but unforgettable it will be.

Back on the scotch after a night or two off the wagon, Mikey and I struggled a little to figure out just exactly how many days this trip was. It wouldn’t be the first time, but we got dropped on Hawley at Albert’s on August 10th and pick-up was just a few miles up the Sutton from Hudson Bay on the 21st. Technically, 12 days, 11 nights, 130 kilometers. With that bit of wonder our meals came into question too. Well, you don’t need a breakfast day one, nor a lunch or supper day 12 so, basically 11 of each meal covers it. In other words, being that this evening was our first having an actual fire outside, it was time to bake some potatoes for our lunches and, time for me to mow some mac & cheese.

“Glory” and “Rhino” we agreed were the best of the day. Tough to pick between those two. Could have been pushing a hundred fish this day for us, most on the fly, many on surface flies. It was one cooking fire!



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Day 6. PRESCHOOL’S OUT.



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Frost kissed overnight but that morning sun made quick work of it. Looked at my dead watch, it was 5:35am and right on schedule. We were packed and fueled in little time.

Fourteen kilometers was the plan, from “Sunset Boulevard” through the snakiest section of the Sutton to another place I held hope of a campsite. We had all day to fish and if it was anything like the day we just had, it would be more than enough.

An easy morning starting at “Suckhole” which kinda sucked, the remaining spots onward to “Yep Fish Here” and “Perfect Run” all held some okay numbers of specks. We wouldn’t stay long at them, maybe 15 to 30 minutes or so, I guess because we were always curious of what may be around the next bend or, were we going to find anything like “Glory” again. “Yep Fish Here” and “Perfect Run” were those equal greats. The onslaught began and it occupied much of our time through the late morning into early afternoon. This day would belong more to Mike, he was fly casting beautifully and hitting the right pockets with his lures too. He was looking Master Class out there, totally vascular.



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A place above “Yep” called “Dangler” we drifted into and dropped anchor. Having taken some sacks up Mike found a suitable rock to stuff inside and make a simple anchor for our canoe. Sitting still in the current, fishing spoons and jigs, Mike came to realize we were right on top of the fish at the tail-out. He was dangling his bucktail just enough onto the surface to make a little wake in the flow, as that was all it took to hook up with a half dozen specks. Handing over the rod next, Mike wanted me to do the same while he tried to snap pictures of the fish as they’d hit the lure. This is no joke…



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The “Mexican” was a nice little spot for some salsa and cheese smothered trout and spicey homefries. The fishing there was pretty good too. A plane flew over us at the time, Hearst Air likely shuttling people back from the pick-up to Hawley Lake. I guessed what that would mean is another group likely came in today as well. Not that it mattered, we were in, three days later another group, two days later another group. Good thing is they’d had to have seen us from the air and it was assuring to know we were being checked up on. No SAT phone, no means of contact, in the very least for emergencies one could wait a day or three until they fly over, and then try shooting their plane out of the sky. You’d likely get picked up sooner if need be. Messing around here of course.



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The river was pretty wild through this section, really changing a bit I felt. Some good fun to paddle through too. After “Mexican” we hit “Corner Pocket,” “Coffee Fish,” “Peter Dinklage” and “Windswept” before finally landing at our destination. All those named coughed up some fish but I can’t for the life remember what ones were better than the others. I do however know that it was Mike who put most of them on a line.



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It was 5:00pm and we hit our mark. Plenty time to set-up on a great looking campsite that appeared to have paddlers just recently vacate. The grass still flat, the fire pit ash untouched, it had to have been used either one or two nights earlier. Weather looked to be coming in on Mike and I as well. The clouds thickening and distant horizons almost appearing scary. The gulls had even left us, last seen at “Corner Pocket.” We were stuck in a hum and haw kinda situation over staying so, we decided because it was early to try wetting a line and get a feel for the fishing. If it was good, we’d make camp and fish it more later, if it was not, we’d depart. At first it was a not. Small fish we dubbed the place “PreSchool.” So in just figuring on getting on, Mikey first stopped us a moment so he could squat and give back to Mother earth. I kept casting, picking up five quick fish in about as many casts. Got me thinking maybe we should stay put, but yet for some unexplanable reason we didn’t.

We pushed quick for a short ways not seeing much for other campsites. Again, it was only just after 5:00pm. At “Feeling It” the fishing was quite good so we slowed up awhile there to chuck bugs. By my guess about 6:30pm we left. Those skies were more threatening now, like little cells from Hell trying to rage up. Part of our difficulty with PreSchool and other possible campsites was the wind, it was blowing pretty hard out from the west and we looked to get out of it. The first island after leaving was a hope, until it was not. The next island down on the map appeared a chance for us, but nothing. Why in God’s name we didn’t take “Missed Opportunity” to stop on, I don’t remember but am guessing it was the wind. Could have been a fishing spot, a campsite or both, it was it was. Three good bends ahead in the river before the final one turns the Sutton north, one surely had to have a quality point site to camp upon..? But no! Defeated, getting late, a little spitting rain off and on, we settled for what turned out to be a rather decent plot of land that suspiciously reeked of bear. Bit crooked, bit narrow, steep or mucky at the waters edge, completely riddled with blackflies, not easy to beach the boat or do dishes at and, shitty, buggy, froth water flowing by for drinking, it was just one night for a quick meal and sleep. A tiring day for me beyond the usual, I made it worse by whipping myself over the mistake. Beyond PreSchool in just a few hours we had burned through nine kilometers of fish-able water we wouldn’t get back. Missed most of it despite half not really presenting all that great anyways. Still, bothered me knowing 25 total kilometers were traveled, we should have stopped at “PreSchool” and, we were now in a section of river that just didn’t look and feel good. I say that because it was flatter, slower and swampy, and it left me wondering if the river ahead was going to continue on the same. May have been Mike who reminded me that it was our sixth night with five to go, and we were about half way down the river. “When you’re right you’re right Mike.” 😉



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Day 7. AND THEN THERE WERE SIX…

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All was dry come morning, it was a sound eight hours of sleep. Mike spilled his coffee after all but the tent remained to pack up. It was our second last day of ham. For 15 years while camping I have basically cooked the same breakfast. Ham on an everything bagel with cream cheese, mustard optional. Anyone who eats ‘em loves ‘em. It’s a brick of goodness, a super gastrogasm really. Back at Albert’s cabin we did substitute one morning with bacon and eggs and as so our six delicious applewood smoked, fried ham on bagel breakys was nearing an end. We would soon be missing it.



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Had said to Mike when we landed the evening before that our spot reeked of bear. Maybe didn’t say “reeked” actually, but it gave me a bear feeling nonetheless. For the first overnight in the tent the gun was pulled up closer beside me just in case. As we set off from the shore we paddled about a hundred meters until this…



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Unable to control our urges we had to investigate further. At first Mike was a little tentative about going to shore there, and for good reason too. But moving in slow and careful, eventually standing up in the canoe for pictures, it became apparent that this den was abandoned. I say abandoned because it was actually quite move in ready. Meet Bearbunk, the grouchy, red haired bear.



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I believe Mike had his heart set on reaching the Aquatuk this day. At just 15 kilometers it could make sense although, if we did push on it would mean spending more days there or beyond than I had hoped. He was fine with the idea, wondering too if once settled we could paddle a ways up the Aquatuk awhile. But besides all that, we overshot PreSchool putting on those extra nine kilometers yesterday, we were in no rush and I believed there would be a camping area at about half way between us and there. By my calculation, jumping to Aquatuk was still premature and I only saw that stop on the map as more or less just like any other. A cool waypoint to reach yes, but the guess being a total river changer too, and I wasn’t sure that would be a good thing?

Soon focused on fish, very quickly we found plenty to play with. Even faster than our hook-ups though, our blue sky suddenly clouded over and the winds began kicking up. A northeast blow usually doesn’t bring much good with it anywhere you could find yourself.



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Mike was doing well again today and happy to sacrifice more on the line for some cool underwater photos with one fish he had hooked.



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All spots on the map were decent but “Throwing ‘Em Away,” was probably the prime. When we left there to get moving the winds were really starting to push. Tucked safely in a high banked corner at the “Italian Job,” Mikey and I found enough reprieve from the wind to cook a lunch.



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Fried trout and taters, a heap of tartar and Italian spices of course. One thing we certainly got our fill of was fresh trout. Every big meal of every day on the trip was a planned fish fry. At first we were preparing them as our suppers but then got wise to better practices. Instead of cleaning fish, making more garbage and cooking near to or at our campsites, we decided a big, later, fish fry for shorelunch on route had less chance of attracting bears while we slept through our nights. One thing is for certain, after a week of making shorelunches and cleaning fish, I was getting better and better at it. Mike too could read my mind and knew what to ask for or get out ahead of time before lighting the stove. It is great having a partner you can work with like that. Efficiently.

We finished the “Italian Job” and turned the first then second corner, now bearing northeast. We stopped a moment or two because it was obvious this heavy headwind blowing cold mist through us was going to be a royal pain in our asses. We had covered just 2.8 kilometers since departing camp in the morning, it was now around 3:30pm. “What would be the point of battling everything out in this wind and shit,” I asked Mike. He was 100% in agreement. We had just passed a protected point from the blow and it had ample room for us to camp. A two minute walk to the “Italian Job” from there, Mike had found cut firewood too. Rather than keep going into worsening weather our best decision was to paddle back upriver a few minutes to that spot.

Mike and I were opening up the tent bag when out of the corner of my eye I caught a canoe rounding the bend at “Italian Job.” Pointing it out to Mike, I think we both shared in a what the fuck moment just then. The first canoe slowed up, before a second canoe came around to join it. I waved a hello.

Brad, Griffin, Rolph and John came ashore to greet us. Brad is a friend on Facebook and also to O.F.C. and other fishing forums as well. In relatively short conversation we came to learn that they were basically without maps and blind to any topography on Brad’s GPS, it was however accidental. None of them seemed to know how far they had traveled in only just three of their nine day trip and, someone was curious how much further yet to the Aquatuk. When they asked me I quickly ran the numbers in mind and answered, “well… Aquatuk is 12k and to the end of the river is about sixty. You’ve passed over seventy kilometers in three day, you have sixty left for six days. Slow down fellas! Likely the best fishing on the river is behind you now.” Wondering where they might camp the night I first pointed them downriver to a potential spot Brad was already familiar with too. We both read the Ottertooth trip report it appeared. “It’s maybe 4.5K,” I told them. “But turn this corner and that headwind is fierce, your next option might only be the Aquatuk and again that’s 12K.” The fellas congregated at their canoes and we weren’t sure if they were paddling on or not, but then Mikey broke silence with me and said, “ask them if they want to stay here.” I had been thinking the same but wasn’t sure what he would want. Mike again had been reading my mind but had actually thought it through even more. I walked over to them all, “hey guys, it’s a shitty day, you’re welcome to camp here with us.”

The fire pit ready and wood stacked beside, my hope was for a good evening of debauchery with our new friends. It was an early dinner for all though, not time for fires yet, and over separate dinners we did gab on with everyone. Aside from talk of other trouty places visited over the years the fellas told us that the Sutton was blowing their minds, just as it had been ours. Two very different kinds of trips, their days were spent entirely spin fishing from their canoe, never stopping to get out at a single spot along the way. Letting the current take them, just drifting along and casting everything and everywhere inbetween, their group was having no issue catching about 75 fish a day. Seemed about right with our good day numbers too, just that we were often stopping, and drifting too but fly and spin fishing both.

John mentioned he caught a 26-incher that weighed light at 5.3 pounds. Hell, that is a bullet shy of girth for sure but still an exciting speck. Mike and I hadn’t weighed or measured a single fish although we might both agree that around 24 to 24.5 inches was likely our best. The Breakfast Pool speck caught on day two may very well have still held title as our biggest for it was surely a girthy beast. At the time we guessed it about 5.5 pounds, though certainly not 26 inches. Average specks on the river were probably two and half to three pounders. Insane numbers of 2 to 4’s honestly, daily catches of 4+ and the odd around 5 here and there. Being used to Nipigon as a benchmark it wasn’t at all the same, to compare the fisheries would be impossible. Best nine days I ever had at Nipigon were with Mike when we caught 76 specks, 3 over 25 inches, 7 more over 24, and 11 at 6.0 to 6.9 pounds. My best 5 fish together that trip totaled 31.6 pounds. The Sutton on the other hand, you could potentially catch a hundred fish in a day on a fly rod, it’s that insane! The best 5 bagged weight may go 25 pounds but, on a 9 day trip between two guys, instead of a 76 fish best total, it could easily break 760 fish. Ontario’s two finest speckled trout fisheries are just two entirely different beasts, both equally special for sure!

Griffin came into my tent to snap some photos of my maps. After dinner, it may have been Brad or John who mentioned their group was going to lay up for an extra day or two, let us get ahead. Mike and I appreciated this, as nice as the guys were six would be a crowd. Our plan next morning was to break camp early, fish hard and make only a short way downriver to either this mystery Ottertooth site or the Aquatuk. The wind and worsening rain relentless, the fire and fun was cancelled. All were in their tents after supper.

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Day 8. EERIE AQUATUK.



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Quick goodbye to Brad during an early departure we hit “Sliver” on the map first. A real feel good morning, the last of that delicious ham had stayed fresh in the 5-day cooler for nine days. I’ll show off some tricks for food longevity later in the story.

For some odd reason the fly game was totally vascular from onset. Out of nowhere I must have found an extra ten to twelve feet of length I could command out of every cast. Punching those bugs there was a change in the arm swing, a more deliberate finish to the forward and back that still kept tamed and within a smooth rhythm. My loops were tight, the arc seemed right, the mends more precise, it just felt so right. Even Mikey noticed and commented a couple times through the day on some good long casts I made. Fly fishing is something totally involved, completely interactive and just an awesome way to keep connected.

The evening a week or so back on “Polar Foam” while in the topwater popper dreamy state, had been when I really began to think about it. Chucking lures in short order on the Sutton, had already begun to bore me at that time. It was just the same thing, over and over. Aim to a spot, cast, retrieve, and Mike and I are freaking experts at that. But with the fly there was a whole new upper level to using the rod, reel and line as your tools. Not only was making a decent cast a challenge, but from the second the fly touched down, each mend and strip, all timing, the force, the frequency, the intensity beyond that cast until starting over again, was for me a much more involved, interactive and ultimately rewarding way of fishing. It was a true pleasure from “First Mouse” on day two until now at “Sliver,” to fly fish the Sutton. It would remain this way until the very end as well. A fishery as easy as it is to catch trout, this river almost forces the hand to choose the fly first when it is able. No better place to spend hours and hours and into days, feeling good hooking up while improving one’s fly fishing skills. Awesome magical stuff really!

Beyond “Sliver” into “Loosen Up” and further to “Slippery Rock,” the river returned from that softer, slow condition I had first worried about above “Bear’s Den Drift,” back into a more rocky bottomed, hurried flow. It gave hope for more classic Sutton fishing spots ahead. “Slippery Rock” was just a cool little rapid that pushed water through fast while boulders churned it all about. After catching a couple great colored fish, Mikey found the key to hooking many more. The specks wanted their spoons jigged! Fish after fish kept coming Mike’s way, his Little Cleo cast into one particular tight pocket, as soon as it dropped in he jigged it out. Boom, boom, boom! Another solid bout for the guy considering he had quality first rounds at “Sliver” and “Loosen Up.” We were on them speckies good!



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Pulling the right corner and into the end of the next run, we beached the canoe and busted out the fly rods to cast one mint little tail-out. I stepped downstream and Mike walked up, then he called me over. Looking down at the mud he says, “bit big for a black bear, whaddaya think?”



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These weren’t huge bear prints by any standard, they were colossal! Mike noted two separate paw sizes, maybe a mother and cub? Not wanting to disturb them too much it was funny by comparison how our boot prints barely sunk into the ground anyways. Our camp night before was only a few miles away, these were a serious reminder of where we were and where we still had to go. I placed my size ten wader boot beside a bigger print. The honest truth, I did gently measure being able to fit both boots entirely within a print and still not cover two more inches of paw length to the claws. By far the biggest wild animal print I have ever seen.



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But we stuck around! “The Paw” was a wicked fishing spot. Just had to keep one eye forward and one over the shoulder the entire time.



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Mike and I drift fished into “Goldmine” and nearing the tail-out watched two different schools of specks scatter from under the canoe. Stopping on shore we got out to walk the bank, I stepped on a mouse. Squeak, squeak! Mike heard it too. Turning around, “it’s right here Mike,” as I picked it up. Half dead before fully dead in hand, Mikey was excited and going for his camera. Our best laid plans were to toss it in the current where we saw those specks and film the carnage but, after waiting an eternity for Mike to get set up I thought he was ready and chucked the dead mouse in. He couldn’t locate it with the lens quick enough, and while I was on a five count a brookie crushed it right on cue. Totally vascular! Few days later we tried the same procedure with a live frog and guess what? The frog just swam quick back to shore underwater. Kinda forgot they can swim.

Still early, maybe 1:00pm or so, we passed on from “Goldmine” to the tip of the next big island seen on the map. It would be an excellent spot to camp with all that fishing so close by but, we had plenty daylight to go and only needed to fuel up. Spicy Kung Pao speckled trout likely made it into Mike’s top 3. He just had to sniff that sauce and it nearly knocked him out.



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It is tricky coming off a trip this extensive to find you and your buddy took about 1400 photos and you gotta edit, select and narrow them right down for a story such as this one. Here in this write up I think we’ll be about 250 in the end, and that’s more than double some of my other biggies online. Another difficult part of this process is fitting scenery into the right places while keeping the text in both a good flow and tied in to what was happening. This time around I couldn’t do it quite as well as usual. Mikey’s photos mixed with my own, that didn’t help either. So the best I could come up with is lumping some together from each day. These next few shots I can actually tell where they were, so I will.



Slippery Rock



The Paw



Goldmine



South channel around island before Gravitail



South channel around island before Gravitail



Gravitail



Shortly after Contemplation



Several miles after Contemplation



I am contemplating that this may have been Contemplation.



Campsite at They’re There.



They’re There.

At “Gravitail” Mikey again complimented me on my fly casting. Cheeky bugger was giving me a little bit of a complex. Having been fed and coffee’d up in the past hour, he’s always so much happier right afterwards. Love that guy!

The two spots, this one here and down a bit further to “Contemplation,” had great numbers of fish but not much of anything pushing over four pounds. In “Gravitail” something did tear my line and snap me off right quick though. That particular speck was all mighty and powerful I tells yas! Beyond both these places and onward to “Eerie Feelings” is about a six kilometer ride. The first half of it is good for a little drift casting here and there, but the latter part widens up and shallows out pretty thin. Mike and I had to concentrate a little more on reading the water to avoid beaching on bars and shoals. We did do a bit of walking to get through.

Past few days we had been a well oiled machine in our canoe. Mikey was reading water well and needing me less and less for plotting through. I on the other hand was easing up too much on the paddle, but sometimes I did wonder where the heck Mike was taking us so it left my strokes questionable. On this particular afternoon it would seem we were both tired. I wasn’t paddling enough, Mike wasn’t on his game. I half jokingly seriously said, “you’re a bit rusty today.” Mike’s answer was angry and I only half heard it, but there was enough to know it was all my fault. For the next half hour or so the only words spoken were my calling out the deeper routes through the shallows, otherwise we both kept our mouths shut. I can laugh about it now as I write this, hopefully Mike can do the same. The two of us surely had our moments out there.

“Eerie Feelings” was a long, flat run of fish which kept us busy on every cast. Ending above a lengthy drop and rather big, but easy rapid, as we approached the area the skies did grey a little and for the strangest reason the place goose-pimpled and gave me the heebie-jeebies. We stopped atop this drop and fished some hard fighting, better sized specks from the tail-out but the feeling of this place just wouldn’t leave me.

The Aquatuk was close. It had been a big day of fish and paddle and it was time to end it. As we came around the final bend and navigated another shallow, sorta-awkward rapid, the Sutton and Aquatuk came together giving birth to a whole other river. Didn’t like it much. Felt uncertain, uncomfortable, and as though we would be soon starting over. I just wanted to crawl back up into the Sutton’s womb and forget I even saw this place. The speckles I loved were fished on the fly up above. The Aquatuk stained the clear water flows as I feared it would, and the fishing as well.



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Day 9. FAT BOTTOMED GULLS.

I’d been drugging Mike. Nah, we’re not old yet, but some days we felt like we are. Personal aging and ailments such as a little vision trouble, carrying too much weight in the trunk, daily back and neck pains and, a fourth left finger that was still swollen and sore from the near sinking of Brody’s ATV over a month ago in Nunavut, I could consider myself in better shape than my partner… but maybe not? Mikey’s hernia would act up a little on the trip but every night his arm and hand would throb severely. Already one carpel tunnel surgery he would likely soon need another. Being that I am a prescribing emergency room pharmacist we played with pills, adjusted some doses of things and eventually found some decent relief to help ole Mikey sleep a little better. You ask him, he’ll tell ya I have zero troubles with sleep.

But Mike had been on a recent health kick too, basically going keto. His shit had been working for him, the guy had lost about forty pounds since April, now he could count some abs and admire his bulging biceps like the rest of the fit world. It would be funny to learn later on that although he felt hungry nearly every waking minute of the trip, he actually gained six pounds. Just normal kinda hungry myself out there, getting home to a working scale it was found I lost nearly six kilograms, over 11 pounds.

Nutrition on trips like this should be an individual thing. Ease of planning daily meals is better done by you and your partner(s) talking and agreeing on a list ahead of time, but beyond that, each should ensure they have the extras they might need. Mikey and I did okay, although we could have done better. I need two and a half meals a day, any one of them can be light, the other two bigger. Mike needs about four to six medium meals a day it seems, and being hungry is something neither of us tolerate well. During our time together on the Sutton you could set a watch by our stomachs… or our becoming “hangry.” Daily emotional grumblings almost always revolved around food and hunger.

Today was the day we unsealed the long distance cooler within our cooler. Inside it were four separate frozen meals of bacon and eggs which had been placed in the 5-day Coleman cooler, ten days earlier. Back at Albert’s cabin, Mike and I had already used up one meal that wasn’t in this small sealed cooler in a cooler but instead, the other open cooler in the cooler. The greyish tinge of the bacon edges and off sorta orange color of the pre-whisked, to-be-scrambled eggs, got Mike spinning pretty good. When I opened up the new batch all was thawed out, but still cold. Everything looked just fine to me and our first meal was as tasty as it should be.



Coolers in a cooler keeps shit cooler, longer. Completely seal the frozen stuff you don’t plan to open and eat for days well into the trip and, always be quick in and out of the main cooler.

We had slept in late but woke to a fine sunny morning. A warmer southwest blow was rising up with us and before my wheels could get rolling to the kitchen Mike had already been out cruising for chicks and pics.



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A stroll down the bank past our neighbors, Statler and Waldorf screeched hellos from their perch above. We didn’t need to travel far from the intersection at the Aquatuk to reach a bend and tail-out in the river. “Castinhere” on it’s north side had ample shallow water to walk out into, but the majority of fish were tighter to the otherside. That wind coming down the river would grab onto our casts and really send the lures across, it was helpful to reach the fish. Our mission was to catch dinner.



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Fat bottomed gulls collected around us, their mission to steal dinner. More ballsy than usual, the few trout we chose to keep had to be buried under stones in the water to keep fresh and free from their eyes and prying beaks. Every time Mike and I would return to fishing, our backs to them, the gulls would swoop over and in to try and nab our fish. For awhile Mike spent more time throwing rocks and shouting at gulls than he did enjoying himself, so before long I took care of the problem.



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Filets ziploc’d, submerged under water and rock, the gulls were more than satisfied to just fight amongst themselves over the scraps. Statler and Waldorf’s child, a juvenile eagle appeared out of nowhere, trying to get in on a meal too. The older eagles watched on as their young one struggled, the biggest gulls always chasing him off. Must admit, in youth I used to think bald eagles were such magnificent birds of prey but, as I have learned spending much time with them in the wilds over the years, they are in fact more often that not, just weakling scavengers.

Our day would fly by rather quick just doing little things right on through. Before long a late lunch of breaded fried, orange ginger trout on rice was thoroughly devoured, washed down with a cold Arnold Palmer. Mike and I had to cook that meal deeper in the woods as the wind was really blowing hard around camp, thankfully the bugs didn’t really show up. While in the trees a low flying plane flew over a couple times, we wondered if anyone saw us in there. Mike and I enjoyed that little bit of R&R, taking in our afternoon coffees a little slower than usual. We laughed after speaking of dreams we had the night before, both our heads filled with sexy girls. Two in a row mine were about purchasing baked, sugary goods from beautiful, naked women; rum balls and blondes if you must know. Always a finger in some sugar with me.

Rain threatened now and again but never did quite arrive. The gulls lined the far bank pining for dinner. A Perfect Circle’s “Corvalus” played before CCR’s “Have You Ever Seen The Rain.” Content and just chilling around camp I spent a short while collecting and chopping brush and firewood. Those achy joints and bones we often feel every morning, long soothed by the lotion of motion. With three more nights remaining, Mike and I would paddle about 14 kilometers tomorrow, 14 the next day, and it appeared to be about ten more the following morning to meet our pick-up for 10:00am. The Aquatuk does change the river considerably. It brings a bit of a tannic stain to the water, doubles the volume and speeds the flow too. The Sutton from here on out would take on river characteristics I had been accustomed to for years while living in Moose Factory and Attawapiskat. It felt familiar and after spending the day laid over here those eerie feelings did finally pass…



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In explore mode, Mikey walked a short distance upriver to fish the mouth of the Aquatuk. Feeding twigs and trash to a small fire, relaxed both feet were up on the blue kitchen Rubbermaid. White and black smoke was quick to vanish with a west breeze. Notepad in hand, sniff of scotch in my cup, sitting quietly at peace where the famous Sutton River joins with the Aquatuk, I pondered things for a time. This place, that place, my place and just so many speckled trout, a fish that may very well have been the beginning of my beginning or the beginning of my end, depends who’s reading..?



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Day 10. BEASTS UNLEASHED.



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Purple ash skies and so humid thick you were swimming just to move, the dawn was dreadfully menacing. 6:30am, Mike needed no convincing that we should hurry along and get all our gear packed up dry before the skies flood down on us. Not a breath of wind, unusually warm for the hour, we said goodbye to the Aquatuk after turning the corner at “Castinhere.”

As said before, plan being from 1 to 2 is a 14 kilometer paddle down river to the next area I guessed we might find good camping. In no real rush to get there, but only to avoid any rain if possible, we stopped quite early on route at “Darkwater.” Hopes of getting a couple lunch fish quickly bagged, I figured it more comfortable to filet ‘em while dry and later make cooking faster and easier. It had almost worked out. We got the two fish but then a big, heavy storm rolling on through got us soaked too. After it let up, we were back on the move fishing our way towards the boundary of Polar Bear Provincial Park.



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Not entirely sure where it began but the river drifting long before and into the park turned out to be an immense run of endless trout. The rain continual on that route through, our spirits didn’t dampen all too much while catching speck after speck on damn near every cast. The “Polar Drift” pulled us along at a quick clip, and a strong tailwind helped too.



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Our lunch trout fileted earlier, once finding ourselves on the lee side of a river bend with a break in the rain, we pulled over to cook up fried fish and taters. The fishing at “Sun Delay” wasn’t bad either.



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Realized after this meal I was finally beginning to tire of eating fish. Rain heavier all through most of the afternoon, the temperatures were plummeting and you could soon see your breath. A chill got into me I just couldn’t shake, and the energy reserves were leaking too. Mike and I fished at “Highbank” and a little while drifting some, but otherwise we paddled a bit longer and harder for awhile, for it helped to try and warm me up but we were looking to make camp earlier too. The camera only came out to snap a couple scenery pics once there was a lull in the rain.



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Remembering the morning had been calm before the tailwind had followed, Mike and I beyond “Highbank” suddenly found ourselves faced with a gusty headwind from the northeast. Blowing cold water into our bones we trudged on with our paddles wanting to just make up miles and find camp. Approaching the final destination there would be plenty grassy banks to consider pitching our tent but for whatever reason Mike and I could never come to agreement on them or, the spots upon further inspection were either soaked, uneven or too much in the wind. It seemed to take us forever to finally find what we were looking for, and although despite both being tired of it all this day, the island site found was a real pick-me-up for us both.



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Shots fired the Sutton was not very nice this day. Soaked bags, maps wet, but all things dry in the tent we ducked in early after choosing to sacrifice a bacon and egg breakfast to our supper that evening. Johnny Cash, many other songs and pistachios, we had both brought books to read as well. Mike turned the pages of Mark Manson’s “The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck,” while I followed up on 200 first hand accounts in “World War II. The Autobiography.”

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Day 11. POLAR BEAR!!!

Coldest night in the tent but I slept warm and heavy. My dead watch read 5:35am, right on schedule. The days sun hadn’t even cracked over the trees before we were both up and ready to rock. Mikey was frisky and out the door to play with his camera, all just to catch some morning rising glory.



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Tunes blaring upon his return, we folded up our innards in the tent before sitting down to greasy foods and hot drink. Things definitely damp but drying under the warming sun, we busily tended to breaking camp.

All gear carried to and set aside the waters edge, in the process of placing the last half of our items into the canoe out of the corner of my eye I spot it upriver. “POLAR BEAR MIKE,” I shout in a whisper! I’m already going for the camera, adrenaline surging. The bear is across the river, on a point, heading into the water, maybe 75 yards away and I begin taking off towards it. “Drew! Where you going, lets get everything in the canoe,” I hear over my shoulder. Turning around and scurrying about I help Mike to finishing the task as quickly as humanly possible, then grabbing the gun and he his camera, we set off up the island to the bear.

Already in the water, circling now further away from us, the bear keeps a curious distance. The river deep enough there, only the bear’s head easily shows, of which Mike and I must have snapped 10,000 lousy pictures of. Occasionally it would turn to look but after a seemingly long while it moved towards the opposite bank and further upriver. I wanted soooo frickin’ badly to be closer to it, the bear was just too incredibly magnificent not to be drawn towards. That packed canoe ready to go wouldn’t mean shit to us if that bear was to lay chase. No paddling, no running, no hiding could keep us unreachable from such a sizable beast possessing it’s speed and endurance. Only the shotgun and three well placed slugs would be the answer.



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Mike and I couldn’t leave and neither would our bear. Now well off in the distance it watched us from the water from off the most distant point, near an upriver bend right. Did it smell our dinner or breakfast bacon grease in the breeze, dunno? Unseen I believe it was heading upriver when it passed by our camp, our music and morning chores keeping us too preoccupied to notice. Shooting sunrise pictures, Mike only an hour and some earlier had been out along the riverbank closest to that opposite shore, had the bear been watching him from inside the trees?

Later after our flight home, Mike Veilleux co-owner and pilot with Hearst Air would explain that in all the decades of their operation flying hundreds of anglers into the Sutton, they have yet had any bad (being fatal or experiencing injury) incidents between bears and humans. Knocking on wood, Mike V further explained that the bears during this time of year are in a state of “wandering hibernation.” That yes, they will be opportunistic for a meal, but that they are not as aggressive or actively hunting like they do during their long Arctic winters. Having seen the paw prints days before, the sheer size of them and now this great white beast of a bear in it’s fur and flesh, for Mike and I it was the chance of a lifetime. Especially on this bucketlist Sutton River trip!

We made sure to space a mile or two between us and the bear before going to shore. Drift fishing along we popped trout here and there but eventually stopped some place for a little fly casting too. It was turning into one beautiful day.



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A favorable breeze at our backs, more and more geese would take to the skies as we drew closer to Hudson Bay. Endless drifts holding fish, the canoe kept perfectly sideways just floating down the river, many hours were spent lazily casting everywhere and releasing dozens of trout. Being our last day of fishing on the Sutton, it could not come to a more perfect end. The bear, all the fish and this wonderful warming sun. At “Big Bucks” we found just those, and a few right sized eaters for a later lunch too. Nicely colored up now, big and strong not long off the sea, Mike and I were in our element, a rhythm of taking to the fly first then lures to finish off a great spot full of specks.



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Further on down we pulled over river left to a small slice of rocky shoreline behind tall, overhanging alders and grass. Fat bottomed gulls and scavenging eagles were nowhere to be seen. The stove tucked out of the breeze, pesto noodles with some heavily buttered trout, fried with fresh garlic and onions was a final lunch fit for Sutton Kings! A good rest, about half way to destination we pushed off not long after, and being well fueled made up some miles.



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At the “Shotgun” my fishing would come to its end. Well satisfied with hundreds of specks caught during our trip, I knew once camp was found that dinner and my last 100mls of Shackleton would occupy a sunset. The trout fishing on this day had been what? Totally vascular!



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Mike and I found ample room to set up camp for the night. Some clothes still wet from the soggy day before, I spread out the laundry all over until much of it dried. Hardly any wood around to burn and knowing we had an early, dead watch schedule 5:35am wake-up call come morning, until our retirement those final hours were spent doing whatever the Hell we wanted. We chose to be happy and enjoy the company.



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Day 12. NORTHERN DELIGHTS.



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Poured the remainder of the cream into my coffee and it never stopped bubbling up in the cup like lava. “Told ya it’s bad,” Mikey said, again. No morning java is NOT a good way to start, especially given the early hour. Tried a bowl of instant Quaker oatmeal too, hadn’t eaten that wall paper paste since I was in elementary. Yep! Same disgusting shit it has always been.

Kinda expected about a three hour paddle down to the pick-up spot, cause that’s what we were told it is. Well we made record time then I guess, hauling ass just one and a half hours over the glassy waters.



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We were afloat and wondering just where we were to stop. A sign was supposed to be some place and I knew it was along the south shore. When we came around a triple split in the river there was a long straight stretch with some depth, figured it had to be near. The sun in our eyes, through the light Mike spotted several sticks standing up and then noticed the sign half laying on its side. Plenty time before the plane was expected to arrive we emptied the canoe and then tried repeating some breakfast. Some chocolate protein powder, two teaspoons of sugar and our instant coffee, we were both expecting the worst. Turned out it was just okay enough to swallow.



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10:00am came and went… then 11:00, then noon. The heat of the sunny day was sizzling up hot. By early afternoon we were getting some sweaty, hungry and bored of waiting on the plane.



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Had been laying around napping in the grass, Mike doing much the same in his chair. The time pressing on it got me wondering all sorts of things. Was pick-up the 21st or the 22nd? Six hundred kilometers away from us, were they having bad weather down south? Had we been forgotten? We heard other planes, at least fifty of them during wait, but our minds were certainly playing tricks on us now.

Splish splash, splish splash alerted Mikey from his slumber. “Caribou” he cried out! Along the opposite shore after crossing the river, a bullbou was trotting up through the shallows towards us without a care in the world.



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Had one last dehydrated meal in the food barrel, “Black Bart Chili.” So incredibly horrible I choked a wee bit of it down at lunch but it now being 4:00pm we had to start thinking about dinner. It was obvious we were fucked for a plane ride out this day, we had sat around for about eight hours waiting. Mike had collected a good lot of wood for a fire and the two of us decided we best unpack, make camp and set up the tent. Our propane supply was nearing the end but we had wood, a grill and a few extra provisions of food in the event of delay. Last thing left to do was catch some fish, but in front of the camp the rising trout we had watched all day wanted nothing to do with a lure. Mikey and I paddled up to “Last Chance” and he plucked two fine specks to meet my knife. On our way there and back, our caribou was seen hanging around on shore having a good feed for itself.

Had packed aluminum foil for baking trout and we hadn’t even touched it yet. Some “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter,” butter still in the container along with some home fry spice and voila! Mikey got the coals just perfect and we heated up some beans to go with the fish. We were satisified.



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The evening still early, after digesting Mike begged to paddle back upriver and take pictures of the caribou. He had to make a deal cause I was in a lazy sorta mood. “I’ll buy your coffees on the drive home if we go, and if we get pictures I’ll buy you dinner.” It was a fair offer and I accepted. That caribou had gone nowhere, giving us ample opportunities for an intense photo shoot.



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The velvet horned bull didn’t mind us there at all. Mikey was tentative to go to shore, then to walk up on it, then to walk up closer, then closer still, but having done this quite a good many times on caribou in Nunavut, I felt little worry approaching. It is so weird but bous just seem to be the most tame and careless herd animals I have ever seen. Would be nervous to walk up on a steer, or a horse, or a bison, or even a big pig if I had no past contact with those animals, but caribou you could almost walk right up to and start petting ‘em! This one kept one eye on us and a short distance, but considering how fast it could have just run away and been rid of us, it was great he stuck around.

Mikey found out why the caribou didn’t want to leave. The field we were in is a huge blueberry patch. Once he noticed that, we forgot all about the beast and started picking and stuffing our faces.



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Little showers had been falling around us but somehow we remained unscathed. When Mike and I pushed the canoe offshore to paddle back to camp, just then a double rainbow appeared behind the field we had been picking berries in. The caribou was still there of course. This time it was I urging Mike to go back for more photos, “we HAVE TO get a picture of that bull in the rainbow, we HAVE TO Mike!” My buddy took little convincing at all actually.

Not wasting anytime, after beaching I was sprinting through the field like only a middle-aged fat guy can, hernia Mike wasn’t far behind. Moving to get the perfect angle so the rainbow would be shining down right on the animal, out of breath I raised my camera to snap the picture and heard a triple, beep, beep, beep. My battery died! “Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike come this way, get over here, get over here!” At his side then walking up to the bou, Mike’s brand new Nikon snapped the most eloquent, once in a lifetime, amazing photos we two could ever capture. He saved the day, we knew we had something special…



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Beside a warm fire, while the sunset in our west view the northern lights began to creep across the sky from out of the darkness east. Once the last ray of day flickered out, the bright moon to our backs illuminated wispy greens which filled the night air and danced across the stars. It had been many, many years since last witnessing such an enormous aurora borealis. For Mike, it may have just been the greatest spectacle of northern lights he had ever seen. Although we had been left stranded, we surely made the best of it.

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Day 13. DROP A CARIBOU.

Clear skies, light breeze, nature awakening, fingers crossed.



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Mike and I were still yammering on about the northern lights and our rainbou, almost as excited about that as of our thoughts of cheese burgers, pizza, Timmies and any adult bevy on tap. Our stomachs growling, we eagerly broke camp and placed all luggage at the edge of the river bank.

Sitting in wait I wondered about my girls back home. What were they doing? Was the house still standing? How did Summer’s talk with coach go? How was Leah holding up during the days home alone? But aside from missing them, not having any way to contact the outside world, the total disconnect up on the Sutton I very much appreciated. It’s easy to forget while home and trekking through the hustle and bustle that there is more to life than just work, schedules and juggling the day to day. It used to bother me that some people missed that point, and so often and so much so, that they might criticize or judge me for living a life like I do. It was the Butthole Surfer’s who said, “it’s better to regret something ya did, than something ya didn’t do.” So unless it’s not criminal, yeah, I might retire one day broke and broken, motionless and miserable in my Lazy Boy chair, but at least then I shouldn’t have to run tirelessly in any days left just to finally scratch off some bucketlisters and scramble for a few last minute memories to be made. While waiting for that fucking plane again the shit just gets deeper and deeper. By 1:00pm we said screw it! Plane isn’t here, we’re starving now, lets paddle up to “Last Chance” and nab a few trout for a lunch and maybe our supper too.

We had a small bit of rice to cook, added the last of some steak spice and peanut oil to flavor it. The trout was baked with just butter and some spice too. It went down alright. Bored afterwards I snapped a picture of all the different flies used through the trip. There might have been some others but these ones all caught multiple fish.



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Bottom left to right – First three are the green beady-eyed rabbit strip streamers I liked best. Purple/pink, purple/chartreuse and black/tan. Next right is a weighted Incredible Silver Minnow, a lake trout fly. Then there’s three Whooly Buggers, a brown flash, black and a bead-headed olive. Last on bottom is the Ally’s Shrimp, a salmon fly. Back row are the surface flies, two mouse patterns on the left, two poppers on the right. All the flies tied by myself many moon ago it seems, all now lethal for Sutton specks.

Mike took to walking and napping and then repeating his walkings and nappings. Another caribou had come by and I guess tired in the heat of walking, he laid down still and quiet not far beyond our camp’s blueberry patch, for a napping of his own.



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Was nice to take a sunny afternoon wash, let the kiwis kiss the natural springs which flow over this great land. Did some laundry too. Mike and I both retired afterwards into the shade of the tent. Despite it being a bit of a sweat lodge, our mattresses were comfortable and after both reading a little we passed out.

Rousing before Mike I toured off to find some wood to burn and pick a few blueberries. A nice evening, I had no way of telling the time and eventually a hungry stomach had to wake my partner. 8:45pm!!! Mike must have napped three or four hours.

Our last can of beans and a simple trout baker I choked and gagged the meal down. Soooo sick of trout, made worse now by having to eat two meals of it in one day, I guess in the very least we were nourished. The fact that the plane didn’t come on this beautiful day, Mike and I would assume it was on purpose. Our paddling friends Brad, John, Griffin and Rolph were scheduled to fly out tomorrow and we kinda got thinking it made better time and money sense for maybe one plane to just come and get us all? Instead of two different trips? Heck, we didn’t really know! But this day for certain we were really scratching our heads wondering.

Mike and I had a nice fire during which to ponder all things, and a sunset that was surely comforting too.



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Day 14. SALVATION LIES WITHIN.

The food barrel and cooler are always boobie-trapped with pots and pans placed on top. The banging and clanging of falling kitchenware knocked off our supplies by anything, for me is like a fire alarm in the night. So when the eyes sprung wide open in the wee dark hours before dawn, my head was peering out from the tent before any ghosts could even say booo!

The wind had been picking up since the minute our heads hit the pillows. At one point I had to turn and sleep facing the other way because the walls were pressing down on my head and body. On the other side, Mike had tucked himself deep into his covers but yet still, I don’t think either of us were getting much decent sleep.

The pots hadn’t fallen but instead there had been one sudden loud thud! Pupils adjusting, I saw the canoe had flipped off the shore and was half into the river at the waters edge. “Mike,” I called out before sprinting from the doorway.

Quick to join me we grabbed the canoe and carried it back up onto land. Turning it over the wind pried under it again and this time hurled it right up into the air, twirling it fifty feet until stopping against some low alder bushes. Wanting to secure the other canoe at the site, the wind caught it too and threw it even further. Howling fierce, I next ran over to the food barrel, cooler and kitchen rubbermaid. A few things that were under our canoe had been tossed by the wind and were scattering around the campsite. “DREW,” I hear Mikey yell from behind me. “Coming Mike! Just a minute!!!”

In one crack the two main tent poles exploded under the weight of a heavy gust. They were greenstick fractured in several places and the tent collapsed to the ground. The third pole for the vestibule was still intact and it stood to keep the doorway raised about three feet off the ground. It was an instant blow that crushed our shelter flat.

Once everything outside was tucked safely into some bushes, Mike was waving me back into the tent; or should I now say the bivy sack. First needing to relieve myself I had to lean back to keep from blowing over, and while squirting watched as that piss never touched the ground. Instead, it flung up and away like a pissnado, some of it swirling back to spray at me.

Inside our bivy tent of little clearance, the weight of the wind pushing the fabric onto me, frantically I packed important things into dry bags and dressed in warmer layers, until I looked over at Mike. He had tucked himself right back into his sleeping bag. “Mike if it starts pouring we’re gonna get soaked, we’ll be sleeping under puddles man!” Don’t know if he responded. “You staying in here,” I then asked. “We don’t have any other choice,” he replied. His rather calm and matter of fact demeanor was just what the situation called for, I chilled out too and crawled back under my own covers.

It was 5:35am on my dead watch and right on schedule for bullshit! Mike filmed us in the tent getting our asses kicked by the tundranado outside. I couldn’t help but begin to think that this storm was likely going to keep us stranded for another day, and probably hold the other group back from reaching us too. It was friggin’ terrible! Our food too, we had little to nothing left. There was little chance of paddling upriver and into that wind to get trout, heck it was white-capping on our shore.

Between us we had two Quaker oatmeal pouches, some protein powder, instant coffee and one Jack Links jerky as the last resort before I’d have to eat little Mikey. That was it! A pretty lean bit of grub if stuck in camp another day and night. As light broke the horizon all worries temporarily ceased, for I fell fast asleep, joining Mike who was already far into dreamland.

Hours later I woke hearing voices. Thinking Mikey might be watching something on his phone I lifted my head to check. He was still out. The voices got a little louder and I realized there were people outside who were coming ashore. Looking out from the tent I saw Griffin first, his firearm readied, his eyes fixed on our flattened tent. “You guys made it,” I hollered out! (this here video Bradley shot when he landed at the site, the wind still howling we were inside the tent)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=3&v=7N_SQmqa3ls

Seeing the tent destroyed Griffin prepared for the worst, thinking we might have had a run in with a polar bear. Happy to have company, Brad was quick to say, “You guys are still here, what the hell? You’re still here!” I explained our situation after exiting the tent to greet everyone. Minutes later John called down to the airbase in Hearst with their SAT phone. He told them it was windy, then told us their tent had been completely ruined during the night. It was 9:30am when we received news that the plane was on the way, expecting to land around 11:00. I said to the fellas until we see that plane we’re not pulling a single peg to pack up our ruined tent. “No, no! I wouldn’t do that either,” replied John.

A few hours later we were airborne. Mikey, John and myself took seats with our gear on the first flight out to Hawley Lake where we’d switch planes to head on to Hearst. Soon as we were off the ground the turbulence turned me green, intensely chilled and sweaty, dry mouthed and in dire need of puking. Seems it’s Beaver float planes, that smell of fuel and turbulent ride homes that do it every time. The pilot took a short five minute flight to out over Hudson Bay where three polar bears were seen walking the beach. Circling overhead a few times, we then pointed the nose to Hawley Lake and made our way back along the river. In the last aerial photo you can see where the Aquatuk (bottom) joins the Sutton.



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The rest of this story happens just as expected. I take drugs, feel better, we get back to Hawley, we have naps flying back to Hearst, say our goodbyes to Melanie and pilot Mike who explain the understandable hold-ups with getting us, then we get to a restaurant by supper time and scarf down a large meat lovers pizza in about seven minutes. Mike buys me a coffee too.

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Mikey and I could not have experienced the Sutton without each other, and no two better partners were more suited to the task. To paddle and fish this heavenly, unremarkable, speckled trout river alongside a friend who is so often of the same plan, on an equal pace and thinking what you’re thinking, made our two weeks not just a trip checked off our bucketlists, but instead a strong bonding and lasting memory we will always cherish. Each minute and every moment on the Sutton is the pot of gold, it is the journey to the end of that rainbow which quite truly holds all the riches any one angler and adventurer could ever hope to find. If Mike and I never cast over its waters again, I believe we’d be just fine with that. The Sutton River needs only once to fulfill your dreams.



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Hope this story helps you plan your trip and thanks so much for reading.

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Bunk.

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