After sitting in the front end of a canoe for an hour Stupe was getting fidgety. Much to her delight, and my dismay, our portage was a wreck. She had a ball bouncing over and under the windfalls and I had a ball acting like a snake. This was without a canoe and pack for me. Stupe looked at me like I was a wimp. I looked at Stupe wondering if she could swim that far back to the landing.
The original deal was to make out with some walleye, if the water and the weather gave the go, then I'd give the push for some extra large brook trout. The weather gave the go. The portage didn't.
At the end of a seven mile paddle, with plan A sunk, there's nothing better to do but sprinkle your loss with sugar and hone the water at hand. A pile of smallies on black stuff under the surface and green stuff above it made me feel good right away.
On the way to the walleye grounds, I perchanced upon rising fish. These weren't any ordinary fish. These were freshwater whitefish. And they were rolling on half inch long midges. Sixteen feet of boat, with three quarters of a mile to the nearest tree. I was thinking fishcakes, dry flies. Dry flies, fish cakes. I had no trouble lining them up. A long row of midges meant a long row of fat, easy dorsal to tail rises. Seven patterns later when a breeze chopped up the lake, I looked over the gunwales of my canoe and watched the fishcakes sink. No ass hooked whitey for me.
Walleyes. The walleyed pike. The pickerel. The walleyed pickerel. They taste good.
I caught four after a squall hit the lake, making life perfectly difficult. No backing up, no turning. On big water, with nothing but a paddle, the lake will tell you what to do. Straight line, stick bait, pull the damned boat out over the point shoal. Anchor out when the fish nears you or you near the rocks.
Chill.