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A father and son story
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Here We Are |
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L
We spent a week in the Club Clauparo two hours northeast of Chicoutimi, Québec., and 60 miles of dirt roads. What a trip! Let me say that my fingers cannot find the right keys to put down a description of this. The best phrase would have to be, "You just had to be there"
This camp is a fair-sized outfitter, caters to both American and Canadian and has native brook trout of over 6 lbs. I think especially of this one lake thre which to me is the ultimate experience in trout fishing. There is a 75 minute walk to get there and it is a "catch 'n release" lake, reserved for fly fishing only, and accompanied by a guide. There are trout up there over six pounds and although I do not know at what age or size trout stop breeding, this catch and release lake is used to keep the big breeders making more of the same. So you walk up with your gear and plan on walking round trip, two and a half hours. You will catch big trout, three pounds being the average, and you will return to the camp knowing what good day's trout fishing consists of, and you will sleep well, trust me.
I was treated to a father and son communion, something which is very precious, something that refreshes an already strong and healthy relationship. these times together can only be interpreted as "extra-special" and like the environment here, cannot be put on paper, but only experienced by a father and son, in a spiritual fashion.
Not only that, but we were the recipients of the noisy loons, calling in the night after sundown,, over a calm lake. The birds of prey, each seemingly having their own lake, patrolled over us.. Ducks, too young to fly scampered on their tail feathers, their wings trying their best to get them out of harm's way as we passed nearby in a skiff. One evening at sundown we were witnesses of a snow owl getting ready for a night of prowling.....the Snow Owl, the majestic Harfang des Neiges, in French, or Ook-Pik in the Innu tongue...a true symbol of the north country. Many other animals made their presence known. Bear droppings up th e road a bit from the camp, unafraid partridge who seemed to dare motorists to run them down.
Did we catch fish? Yes, we did. Trout are hemophilacs.....the bleed, they die. Those we kept, the others we released. Did we get our limit? Were they big? Does it really matter? Here we are ,two people as nature's guests, in her living room and she is serving us up an experience that shall never be forgotten, and I am sitting here asking myself how could I take out more trout than I could eat. We ate a meal of freshly caught trout, a glass of white wine to let the spirits, the Manitou, know that our appreciation of his gift to us can only be accompanied, not enhanced, by the White man's version of a gastronomical handshake. We iced down a few to bring back to our conjoints, so they too, could share the benefits of our sejour.
It is a time to mentally purge yourself, a time for preparing for the rigors of the next season, the big white one. We helped around the camps, hauling wood, bailing out the boats, clleaning cabins whose tenantshad vacated them. This work is rewarding and it has become a ritual with us. We go up there for a few days, but we enjoy working too. Jacques always finds time to string up his hammock in or near the woodshed, to catch a nap to the scent of fresh cut spruce and birch.
The camp people up here pick berries, they assemble together evenings for a cup of tea, yak and watch the day turn into night, watching nature put on such an incredible show.
This, to me, is the ultimate communion..Thanx for reading me.....
