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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.

Part 2 — Saugeen, the wind and Georgian Bay The first day on the Saugeen River was mostly a day of exploration. Many kilometers. Many country roads. Many stops trying to find access points where I could actually wade in my waders, because the Saugeen isn't a small, intimate river like some of the rivers on Lake Ontario. It's wide. Very wide in places. A real big river with a strong current, long pools, and a lot of water to cover. I drove up towards Walkerton. That town rang a bell. It was the site of the major water contamination tragedy in the early 2000s. I vaguely remembered it. A story that had affected all of Canada. I stopped at a small local fishing shop. Another great spot. Good people. I chatted with them for a bit, asked for some advice on water levels and accessible areas. They directed me to an access point near the concession on Route 10. The day was magnificent. Sunshine. A bit of wind. But a truly beautiful spring day. I went to access point number 7, if I remember correctly. There was a lovely spot to set up camp near the river. Quiet. Clean. Natural. Exactly what I was looking for. In the afternoon, I started exploring the Saugeen River. The first evening, I saw a few fish. A few movements. A few follows on my fly. But nothing concrete. No fight. No real contact. Then, late in the evening, just before going back to eat, I saw it. A huge steelhead. A real giant. Probably around 8-10 kilos. One of the biggest steelheads I've ever seen up close. The fish was stationary there, calm, in shallow water. I started presenting it with different flies. No reaction. Then suddenly, everything changed. The fish started rising to the surface. Small flies were coming out, and it was eating them right in front of me. Slowly. Confidently. An incredible sight. The problem was, I was rigged up to fish with a wet fly. I quickly changed my setup. I added a dry caddis. A rusty orange one, recently mounted by my friend Didier Lafleur, which he had sent me in the mail not long ago. The steelhead has been mounted on it twice. Twice. But without ever touching the fly. I then followed it along the river. The fish was drifting calmly downstream, rising to the surface in different spots. I threw him everything. Small dry flies. Hoppers. Sedges. Blue Wing Olives. Small emergers. Nothing. He came to look. He inspected. He ignored everything. I even went back to Didier's famous rust-orange caddis. Once again, he stepped onto it… without ever taking it. The fish were moving close to the banks, sometimes in less than two feet of water, completely in control. And me… completely obsessed with that one fish. I tried until the dead of night. Until the very last minute. But that steelhead never gave me a chance. I finally returned to the camper, thinking that perhaps our paths would cross again the next day. That night, it was milder than the other nights of the trip. Maybe 9 or 10 degrees Celsius. I didn't use the heating as much. I slept soundly. A really good night's sleep. And honestly, I needed it. Because deep down, this trip isn't just a fishing trip. It's a trip to see the country. To explore. To meet people. To see different cultures. To discover other ways of experiencing rivers. It's also a way to confront myself a little. To observe what's happening around me. To see nature in a different context. To understand the different seasons, the different behaviors of the fish, the different techniques, the different mindsets. All those things that deeply fascinate true anglers. The next morning, I woke up at a leisurely pace. Several people were near the boat launch preparing their canoes to go down the river. I decided to try the entire river again, still using the drowning technique. But that day… nothing. Not a single fish. I saw absolutely nothing. However, I did see something else. The river. The trees. The birds. The light rain that sometimes fell gently, and then suddenly thunder flashed across the surface. The wind picked up considerably. Strong enough to break tree branches that fell near me. At that moment, I understood that the Saugeen trip was going to be postponed. I decided to hit the road again. Destination: Georgian Bay. I headed to Tobermory to catch the ferry to South Baymouth on Manitoulin Island. And honestly… what a magnificent place. The Bruce Peninsula is spectacularly beautiful. The water of Lake Huron is so clear it almost looks like the sea in some places. Greens. Turquoise blues. Colors that almost reminded me of certain images of the French Riviera. The ferry crossing takes approximately 1 hour and 50 minutes. A superb boat, operated by the local Indigenous communities. A magnificent vessel adorned with beautiful Indigenous artwork and paintings. The crossing itself is a spectacle. Islands everywhere. Rock formations. The light striking the water. The turquoise waters of Georgian Bay constantly changing color. The Manitoulin Islands practically form a natural boundary across this entire section of Georgian Bay. It's difficult to properly explain in words. You have to see it. Tonight, I'm going to try to find a place to sleep. And tomorrow, I'm going to continue my journey towards the north shores of Lake Superior. The journey continues. And the further I go… the more I feel like I’m finding something I’ve needed to find for a long time.

Part 1 — Finding something true Sunday, May 3rd, morning, 6 a.m. I left home heading towards Ontario. The road was beautiful. Not too much traffic, not too hot, just a light breeze that gently rocked the truck. A true spring day to hit the road and rack up the miles. I was looking forward to returning to Ontario. My first stop was in Montreal, more precisely in Beloeil, before continuing west. Then, a mandatory stop at Sail to restock: sinking tips, leaders, and most importantly, my favorite Yo-Zuri fluorocarbon, the pink one. Seriously, that stuff is exceptional. When you find something reliable on the river, you stick with it. I then headed towards Indian Falls, a small, quiet Ontario community on the banks of the St. Lawrence River. The place feels almost like an old historical site, with an old lock converted into a marina. There were a few fishermen, some campers set up near the water, and above all, peace and quiet. I settled in there for the night. A light rain was falling gently. Nothing serious. But it was cold. Really cold for this time of year. Maybe 2 degrees Celsius. Maybe close to zero. The kind of damp cold that seeps into your bones when the sun disappears. The next morning, I was woken by a pair of swans. I'd seen swans before in Ontario, but never a pair this close. I watched them glide across the water in the morning silence and thought to myself that the trip was off to a good start. I closed the camper's roof and set off for Port Hope. It was incredibly windy that day, but the weather was beautiful. Maybe 10 or 12 degrees Celsius. I was eager to get there, so I rode hard. Way too much headwind, a lot of gas burned, but it didn't matter. When you're looking forward to seeing a river, the kilometers pass differently. I arrived in Port Hope before dinner. I met up with some acquaintances, chatted for a bit, ate with them, and then we decided to check out the Ganaraska River upstream. The river was small, intimate, with lots of steelhead. There must have been tons of fish in there. But something really struck me. I've never seen so much trash on a riverbank. To me, the Ganaraska had practically become the official Tim Hortons dump of Ontario. Red cups everywhere. Lids. Bags. Trash in the trees, in the rocks, in the ditches. Everywhere. And it really discouraged me. Because for me, a river isn't just about fish. It's all of nature. The plants. The birds. The silence. The feeling of being far from human noise. I didn't feel that there. I still managed to hook a nice steelhead, about 6 to 8 pounds. A beautiful, fresh fish. I lost it pretty quickly. I'd used a barbless hook and didn't handle the fish properly. But honestly, it didn't bother me that much. I would have released it anyway. That night, I went to sleep near Cobourg, in a parking lot for hiking trails along the river. Alain was there too. We settled in quietly with the camper. Later that evening, I decided to go see the river with a headlamp. And then… surprise. Steelheads everywhere. Hundreds of them. In a short accessible section, there must have been 300 or 400 fish. Beautiful, healthy fish. Silvery shadows moving all over the dark current. But again… the trash. More Tim Hortons cups. More garbage. Even old tires at the bottom of the river. I looked at it and thought: how can we claim to love rivers if we treat them like this? This wasn't my place. Perhaps some people like this atmosphere. The small urban rivers, the crowds everywhere, the full parking lots, the TH cafes on every corner. But not me. I'm looking for silence. I'm looking for birds. I'm looking for wildflowers. I'm looking for the feeling of being small within something bigger than myself. The next morning, I decided to head west, towards Goderich and the Maitland River. And then the trip changed. Passing near Toronto, I stopped at Drift Outfitters & Fly Shop. What a great shop! Welcoming, passionate, and knowledgeable people. Quality tackle everywhere. Flies, leaders, two-handed rod supplies—just pop into the till and the journey resumes on a different beat. I recommend stopping by to any fishing enthusiast passing through the area. Then I ended up back on the 401. Never again. Accidents, traffic jams, endless traffic. We were sometimes driving at 30 or 40 km/h. I checked the GPS and then decided to avoid highways. And honestly, it was probably the best decision of the trip. I found myself on the country roads of Ontario. Farms. Fields stretching as far as the eye could see. Quiet villages. And then that organic, country smell that hung in the air. It was strong in some places, but it didn't bother me. I grew up on a farm in Cap-Pelé, New Brunswick. Those smells remind me of my grandparents' farm. My childhood. A simpler time. It's amazing how a smell can bring back memories. Finally, I reached the Maitland River. And there… at last. Real nature! A steep dirt road led down to the spot where I wanted to set up camp. I had to engage four-wheel drive to get out of a tight spot without breaking anything. Once I was settled, I looked around and immediately felt the difference. No trash. No noise. Nothing but the river, the trees, and the wind—in short, nature. Wildflowers were everywhere. So were the birds. I felt good. The next morning, I got up late. Tired, but happy. I made myself a coffee. My first real, peaceful coffee of the trip. Not a coffee bought quickly in a parking lot. A real coffee in the silence of nature. Then I went for a walk to an area I loved and that a friend had shown me before. After about 35 minutes of walking, I arrived. And what a place! Red-winged blackbirds everywhere. Tree swallows flying over the water. Songbirds in every direction. A bald eagle perched nearby that flew away when it saw me coming. Turkey vultures circling overhead. Families of bustards with their chicks. The river was alive. Completely alive. That's where I tied on my first fly. A few minutes later, bang. My first Maitland steelhead. A beautiful, fresh fish, 8 to 10 pounds. I was nervous. Alone with my rod, two-handed. I didn't want to lose it. When I finally managed to release it, I was almost in tears. Because it wasn't just a fish. It was exactly why I'd come here. Afterward, I sat by the river with a Dillan's gin cooler, an Ontario product I'd brought along. I was watching the water. The birds. The current. Then I just thought: thank you. Later, I caught another steelhead, a bit smaller, maybe 6 to 8 pounds. This one jumped several times. It used the entire river. An incredible fight. Then the smallmouth bass started biting. Beautiful, solid fish. One in particular must have been close to 3.5 kilos. All released. As darkness began to fall, I decided to head back up before it got completely dark. The path was steep and slippery, and I was alone. There was no question of taking unnecessary risks. I arrived at the campsite around 9 a.m. A sandwich. A little warmth. Then sleep. That night, it froze. The next day, city workers came to repair a culvert blocked by beavers. They were the first people I'd seen in a long time. And honestly… it suited me perfectly. I went back fishing. Not many fish that day. Just a few bass. A cold front seemed to have slowed things down. But I didn't even mind. Because deep down, this trip wasn't just about fishing anymore. It was about connection. With the rivers. With the birds. With the silence. With something real. Finally, towards the end of the day, I decided to leave again. Heading towards the Saugeen river. I am now settled near landing stage number 12. Tomorrow, I will explore upstream, discover this river which I do not yet know, then continue on the road. And honestly…I'm already looking forward to seeing what she's going to show me.

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