Cache River Passage
by Jim Carrier (continued from page 3)
By five o'clock, our small fleet reached two sets of waterfalls spilling
into Kawnipi Lake. Swollen with runoff, the Cache River filled the lower basin
with a surreal mist and a muddy froth. After portaging down, we bid farewell
to our Cache River buddies and hung around the plunging Cache River to test
the fishing. Gary hopped onto a ledge of rock sandwiched between the waterfalls.
I remained in our canoe and fished the basin, often floating just beyond the
turbulence at my brother's feet. Pitching Rapalas to the base of the falls
resulted in a fantastic hour of Walleye and Northern Pike fishing. On his
first cast, Gary hooked a beast of a Northern in the froth just inches from
his leaky boot. Sipping from the flask at the campfire that evening, we wondered
if the glimmer of duct tape hadn't really attracted him. Anyhow, Gary's big
fish made several runs across the basin before tiring. He coaxed it back to
his rock just as I sidled alongside to assist, trying not to flood the front
end of our vessel in the waterfalls. I grabbed his leviathan and hoisted it
gently, removing the hook. It was as thick as my thigh and may have been over
forty inches long. We'll never know its true measure, however, as the fish
suddenly recovered and I lost the ensuing wrestling match. We kept a pair
of three pound walleyes for dinner and elected to camp beside the waterfalls
that evening.
Day Five fishing slowed considerably. However, we did have some Smallmouth
action in the afternoon sunshine, completing our Quetico "grand slam"
of the four major species. Sitting beside the waterfalls at our campfire that
evening, we mapped out our proposed travel through the "poet" lakes
(Shelley, Keats, Chatterton, Montgomery) the next day. We were eager to see
that area of the park.
Our next day's travel did not let us down. North country waterfalls are truly special in Springtime, and our route certainly afforded plenty of them. Day Six was full of blue skies, sunshine, and the soothing rush of cascades, somehow making our portages with "the pigs" much more bearable. Thankfully, Fat Pig wasn't so fat anymore. Lying on sun-warmed rock while we munched on gorp during a portage break at Split Rock Falls, we vowed to return to the Poet Lakes when we had more time to explore and when our kids could join us. The experience begged for sharing and passing on. Pressing on through the afternoon, we claimed the island campsite in the southeast bay of Russell Lake, not far from Chatterton Falls.
On Day Seven we fished for Smallmouth around the southern perimeter of Russell Lake and below Chatterton Falls. I had a good deal of luck tossing small crankbaits and jigs on light tackle towards shoreline habitat. Gary had somewhat less success with his larger Rapala, but he stubbornly stuck with it. Later in the day, when we ducked into a protected cove to avoid a sudden wind, Gary and his Rapala nailed a football-sized bronzeback that went a staggering 23 inches! Unlike his monster Pike, we DID get a picture of this trophy for the folks back home. It clearly shows ME proudly holding and releasing GARY's fish... much to my brother's dismay. He grumbles about that picture almost as much as he grumbles about my "shortcut," whenever we reminisce.
Another memorable and almost eerie event occurred that evening. Despite the cold water, it had been our habit to swim before dinner everyday. The only exception had been on Day One when we went without dinner altogether... though I suppose, technically, one could count Gary's backflip into the Upper Cache River as a "swim" of sorts. Anyhow, just before dinner, we waded out waist-deep from the Russell Lake island shoreline for our customary dip. I was a few steps ahead of my brother when he suddenly shouted, "Come back here, Flash, and check this out! Put your foot right here and tell me what you feel." Clueless, I did as he requested, placing my foot where his foot had been on this shelf of flat, solid Canadian Shield rock. At first I didn't feel it. Then, as my toes slowly explored , I began to trace a familiar form with my foot. I was standing in a perfect size 13 footprint somehow etched into the solid rock itself! Moreover, as I took one step forward, I discovered yet another such mysterious footprint and, eventually, a third! Well, we never did figure that one out. As we cracked into flask #2 that evening while sitting beside our campfire, our conjectures just got wilder and wilder. Whose footprints were these? How did they get there? The discovery was just plain weird!