Travel Diary — Ontario

Part 3 — Manitoulin Island, the great steelheads, and the beginning of the return journey

After my approximately two-hour crossing from Tobermory to South Baymouth, I finally reached the shores of Manitoulin Island. Even upon arrival, I felt that something was different here.

The water in Georgian Bay was almost unreal in its beauty. Turquoise greens, deep blues, incredible clarity. The islands seemed to float in the evening light. At times, it was almost like the sea. The ferry moved smoothly between the islands as I watched the scenery go by, a coffee in hand. After several days of driving, rivers, and miles, this crossing felt good. It seemed to slow down time a little. Disembarking in South Baymouth, I headed leisurely toward the Manitou River, probably the most famous river on the island for steelhead. The roads were beautiful. Little traffic. Forests everywhere. Still a bit of snow in the undergrowth in some places.

From the start of the trip, the temperature never really wanted to rise. Even in the middle of the afternoon, it was often only 6 or 7 degrees. Spring was still fragile here.

As I approached Lake Manitou, I saw a few fishermen near a dam. Some were fishing with egg bags, others were waiting patiently along the pools. But honestly… that wasn't what I was looking for. So I continued following the river towards its mouth.

And then… wow. The place was magnificent. Trails ran alongside the river through a forest still damp with spring. The water was high, cold, and powerful. You could clearly see that the snow was still melting in the north. The locals even told me the river was experiencing a historic flood. There was still snow in the woods in some places. And despite all that, despite the cold and the strong current, the first fresh steelhead were starting to come up. The season had only just opened, on the second Saturday of May. You could feel that everything was just beginning.

Birds were everywhere. Canada geese. Ducks. Turkey vultures circling high in the sky. Bald eagles, even juveniles. Then that peculiar silence of the great cold rivers of spring.

There was very little litter compared to other places I'd seen during the trip. A few pieces of paper here and there, yes, but nothing dramatic. Nothing like some of the small urban rivers in Ontario that had so discouraged me earlier in the trip.

Here, you could still feel nature. Real nature.

I finally got my two-handed rod ready. A 14-footer. Then I started watching the water. Not long after, I spotted some fish. Really nice, fresh steelheads. I tied on an imitation I'd tied last year before my trip. An egg-style imitation with very bright flash orange crystal chenille and a bit of marabou to give it some movement. First throw. Nothing.

I added a little weight to make the fly sink further. Second presentation. Bang. The fight exploded immediately. The steelhead took off down the current like a train. It was jumping high, using the full force of the river. With the strong current and the speed of the water, I knew I couldn't make a mistake. Then, when I finally saw it surface in the clear water near the large rock down in the bend of Falls Pool… I quickly understood. It was the biggest steelhead of my life. A huge chrome female. Thick. Fresh. Golden eyes. An absolutely magnificent fish. About 31 inches. Probably between 12 and 14 pounds. I was alone with her in that vast river, surrounded by birds, the sound of the water, and then the trees still damp with spring. Honestly… my heart was pounding. When I put her back in the water, I took a few seconds just to watch the current. Moments like that… money can't buy them. A few casts later, I caught another one. A beautiful silver male, smaller, but extremely feisty. Then another. Then more followed. Until darkness fell, I had an incredible evening. I lost a few people too. A big fish even completely ripped open an old Mustad hook that I'd been using since last year. The leader didn't break. The hook literally split open.

But honestly, it was part of the moment. The river was alive. And so was I.

The only downside was that we couldn't stay in the park after 11 p.m. So, although I would have liked to stay longer, listen to the river and then do a few more presentations in the dark, we had to leave.

Around 9 a.m., I started walking toward the truck. I was tired. A little frozen. But deeply happy. I found an old logging road not far from a lake to set up camp. A quiet spot, hidden in the woods. I pulled back along the trail, set up camp, and turned on the heater. That night, it wasn't so cold. And for the first time in several days… I slept really well. There wasn't a sound of human presence. Only the wind in the trees. A few raccoons running around the camper. Then coyotes that could be heard in the distance in the night. At one point, I even went outside, laughing a little: "Okay... let me sleep." Then I went back under the covers.

The next morning, I drove back down to South Baymouth to get gas. I was starting to think about the return trip. It was going to be a long drive. A very long drive. I was over 2,000 kilometers from home, and I knew I needed to start making my way back slowly because work was waiting for me, and there were several things to take care of at home as well. But before I left, there was a simple little moment that I'll probably never forget. I walked into a small gas station run by some older people. I needed orange juice and then a coffee. And then… that smell. Real, good, freshly ground coffee. Not machine coffee. The man looked at me and then said, "Smells good, doesn't it? This is my personal coffee." He went back to make me a coffee with his own artisanal beans that he bought near a local roaster.

Milk. Sugar.

But that coffee tasted like the whole trip. I then went back to Falls Pool one last time. This time, there were more fishermen. And one in particular really didn't seem happy to see me arrive. An arrogant guy. Condescending. Very snobbish about fly fishing. He was fishing with egg bags and then seemed convinced that no one else could catch fish. When he got snagged in the branches, he even tried to make me believe it was my fault. But while he was arguing… I was watching in the water. And I could see the steelheads. Beautiful fish right in front of us. I positioned myself quietly a little lower, between him and his friend, then started making a few small roll casts. Third cast, bang! Another steelhead, not huge, but a superb specimen.

And while he was looking at me with that stupid expression… he had just taken a miller. Then another miller, the famous karma for the "Sucker".

I was smiling. Not to mock anyone. But because I was happy to be exactly where I was. In that cold northern river. With my fly. My birds. And then spring, finally beginning to breathe. After releasing a few more fish, I decided that was enough. The trip was quietly drawing to a close. I headed back east.

I drove for a long time that evening. I passed North Bay and finally settled down near a transmission line in the woods, not far from a pipeline that goes down towards Quebec.

And yes, another small, improvised campsite, simple, silent and perfect.

The next day, near the Bécancour River, about 100 kilometers from Quebec City, I saw a large Canadian crane standing by the roadside. I stopped the truck. I got out slowly. Then I looked at it. And that's when I thought about the beginning of the journey.

On the morning of my departure, cranes from Canada had flown over the house.

As if they were accompanying the road. I've always found those birds magnificent. Immense. Elegant. Wild. And I found it sad to think that some people still want to hunt them. I stayed there for a few minutes, simply watching the river and then the bird. Then I got back in the truck. The return journey had begun.

But deep down, I already knew one thing: This trip was only the first of the season. Not the last.