THE GIANT BROOK TROUT OF IGLOO LAKE
Part 1 - An Anniversary Present of Birds, Fish, and Friends

Australia has its opals; South Africa hasits diamonds; Labrador has the world's biggest brook trout. Last week, a ten-inch native brookie slid out of my hands, back to its deep, cool, shaded pool. It was a big, old trophy for this little brook. A size #16 Adams tied on a barbless hook totally fooled him and made his release quick and easy. He raced back to the streamside, underwater roots that were his hiding place. It always amazes me, considering all the local development that any native brookies can still survive here. In many placesalong the tiny, cold, pristine brook, I can actually jump across to the other bank and usually need cast only my leader to reach a fish. If it were a diamond, it wouldn't be a carat, but rather more like a chip, but pure blue white and perfect. At 10 inches, the trout was indeed a trophy-sized fish for these waters, as big as its genes and habitat would allow. I took him from a secret Auburn brook that I treasure, and whose location I would as willingly divulge as I would give away the secrets of a best friend. It is a rare little gem of water, where the last of the area's native brook trout stubbornly survive, hidden and protected by the cool, shaded swamp that guards them from fishermen, who, by and large, are satisfied to catch bigger stocked fish and prefer easier waters to access, closer to roads and bridges. I fondly thought back to flyfishing in Labrador, and unforgettable encounters with his giant cousins.

Years back, we had spent our second honeymoon flyfishing Labrador's Little Minipi River. For our twenty-eighth anniversary, I wanted to do something special with my wife and best friend, Helen. Luckily, I had married a woman who would choose fly fishing for giant brook trout with me over shopping at Tiffany's with my credit card. We would honeymoon again, this time at Labrador's legendary Igloo Lake.

Igloo. Well-named, considering it's usually the first lake to freeze in Autumn and the last to be ice-free in spring. At 1,300 feet, this gem of trout water is set high above its surrounding waters. Its elevation has its consequences.

We were well-advised to bring along some cold-weather clothing, more suitable for autumn deer hunting than summer flyfishing. The winds of Labrador are often merciless. But the care and friendship of Vince and Dorothy Burton, our hosts at Igloo Lake Lodge, the only habitation in this region, warmed our hearts, as did the aromatic evening fire of ancient juniper, balsam fir, and black spruce. This Romeo and Juliet couple pioneered together the opening of this remote treasure to the flyfishing world. Their sharing it with us is now a memory we will never forget.

Before you start packing your bags, you should know that it's not easy to get to Labrador. You can't drive there. That's partly why the flyfishing is world class. Flying time is about equal to what it takes us to get to the Amazon. Boston, Halifax, St. John's, and an overnight in Goose Bay. Next morning, weather-permitting, a fly-out via bush plane or helicopter over a vast, roadless wilderness. Seventy-two miles as their ravens fly. You could never walk it. Half of the passage is water. Countless lakes, ponds, bogs, and morasses of soggy peat, interrupting tundra and dense taiga forest. It is a barrier that has protected this treasure from exploitation and ruin. It's why caribou have big feet. The ubiquitous waters furthermore hatch out guarding hordes of blackflies and mosquitoes that viciously attack any blood-bearing intruder. Enough of them to suck you dry, given the chance. On windless, warm days, there are clouds of them, like laser weapons, seeking mammalian heat. On the rare days when the Labrador winds blow gently, relief-seeking moose and caribou desperately submerge themselves or climb to ridge-tops where breezes give them moments of peace. Deetless, they will lose a liter of blood per week to their vampirical attackers, unwittingly supplying their tormentors with the proteins necessary to produce their eggs for the next generations of bloodsuckers.

We would bring plenty Deet with us. OFF, CUTTERS, BEN'S, head-nets. The biting, sucking savages consequently couldn't deter us at all. I wondered with admiration, though, at what the Indians and Inuit did to survive here in times past.
Thousands of unnamed waters, for the most part never-fished, magnetized our imaginations on the hour-long, anticipation-loaded flight to the lodge in our classic Beaver bush plane. Upon landing, and drifting us deftly into the dock, legendary bush pilot Jim Burton helped chief-guide Wayne, and Chef Todd pack in our supplies and equipment, everything from Cabernet Sauvignon and Coors to prime steaks, fly rods, and toilet paper.

Greeting us, too, at the dock was a chorus of secretive but very vocal songbirds, most unknown to the otherwise experienced fishermen and guides. The lead singers here are the Northern Waterthrush, Rusty Blackbird, Fox Sparrow, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Yellow and Myrtle Warblers, Pine Grosbeaks, and Gray Jays. A family of four little woodchucks that the guides and chef had adopted meanwhile scurried into their south-facing, shore-side den, waiting cautiously for a later snack of peanut butter and crackers.

We knew immediately there were fish here: a low-soaring, territorial Bald Eagle scoured the waters near the lodge with its ten-power binocular vision, looking for a trout dinner. We knew we were in wilderness when a Merlin, a mid-sized falcon, rocketed across the bay, hungrily tracking down a tree swallow like an F-16 fighter pilot.

During our week in paradise here, the birds would add much to our pleasure. Arctic terns would gather over waters where hatches of caddis and mayflies were emerging. We followed them the very same way striper and blue fishermen at Cape Cod follow the Common Terns and gulls: to find FISH.

In both instances, the birds are interested in the same bait, in this case insects, that the fish are feeding on. We noticed, too, that swallows and rusty blackbirds cruised the air space over the lake looking for hatches for the same reason. All of these hunting birds were our unwitting friends and allies. Where there were hatches, there would be both birds flying and giant brook trout rising voraciously to the high-protein and fat hors-d'oeuvres.

It was such a delight to see and hear birds that had flown here, all the way from the jungles of the Caribbean, Central and South America. Swainson's, Gray-cheeked, and Hermit Thrushes; Blackpoll, Wilson's, and Tennessee Warblers along with Alder Flycatchers that joined North American resident species including Spruce Grouse, Willow Ptarmigan, Boreal Chickadee, White-winged Crossbill, White-crowned, Lincoln's, Tree, and White-throated Sparrows, Juncos, Three-toed Woodpeckers, Ravens, Osprey, Sharp-shinned and Goshawks, Great-horned, Boreal, and Hawk Owls. In the wetlands were Greater Yellow-legs, Snipe, Surf, Black, and White-winged Scoters, Pintails, Black Duck, Canada Goose, Common and Red-breasted Merganser. It was a pleasure to identify them for our guides, hosts, and fellow guests. We couldn't fish anywhere without hearing the enchanting song of the Northern Waterthrush, emanating from the dense, soggy coniferous understory.

Some monomaniacal Ahabs come to Labrador only to fish. They miss a lot. Besides the birds, Labrador's wildlife spectacle can include numerous surprises. We watched a mink hunting the shoreline for fish. Big and black, he'd be a serious predator on nesting songbirds, trout, suckers, pike, rodents, and even ducklings. Red squirrels, kangaroo mice, pine martens (sable), caribou, wolves, and black bears all act as though they own this northern paradise. In fact, one particularly big, bold bruin walked into the new screened-in porch just to have a look at what Chef Todd was cooking. Any left-over food scraps are consequently transported quickly across the lake and into the forest to keep bears' dining habits away from the lodge and as unintrusive as possible.

But we came here for giant brookies, mainly. The Eagle River watershed, with its Park Lake, Crooks Lake, Minipi Lake, Osprey Lake, and Igloo Lake is the biosphere treasure, unique on this planet, for giant brook trout. It should be preserved like a Rembrandt masterpiece. You can't buy another one anywhere else. If it ever disappears, our world will never be able to replace it.

Helen and I chose Igloo Lake, not because of its wonderful wildlife, but rather because its legendary giants readily rise to big dry flies, which we prefer to cast. They AVERAGE THREE TO FIVE POUNDS, and catches of fifty trout a day are the incredible norm, if the winds cooperate and die down.

On our first afternoon, chief-guide Wayne took us to a wind-sheltered stretch of water where Helen could make 60-foot casts to cruising fish feeding on emergers. An enormous fish hit her size#8 bomber. Her 9-foot for a #6 line Sage graphite rod doubled over and her reel screamed as line raced out. Five minutes later, with well-warranted caution, she held up an eleven-pound Northern Pike.

Pike are the crocodiles of the North, attaining lengths of three feet or more, and feeding on anything that swims, including voles, ducklings, and even giant trout. Few trout survive long without being scarred by their attacks. A scratch from their numerous, long and needle-sharp piranha-like teeth, or even a brush with the hard tissue under their gill plates can cause nasty cuts and infections. Their mucosa must be loaded with bacteria.

At our guide's instruction, Helen temporarily paralyzed the dangerous fish by pressuring its eye sockets. No permission was necessary for her to quickly release the muscular predator after a quick photo. Because they kill so many trout, there is strong, knee-jerk sentiment to kill them and provide a free dinner for the bears or eagles. The assumption is, of course, that the pike are hurting the fishery by eating so many trout. On the other hand, the pike control surplus numbers of trout, insuring that the survivors, with more food available to each of them, are the biggest, healthiest fish they can be. The situation reminds me a lot of the fabulous trout fishing in New Zealand, where giant eels eat great numbers of fish, insuring that those that do survive have plenty food to grow to prodigious proportions. It's the reason New Zealand produces many 8 to 10 pound rainbows and browns. The trophy nature of these Labrador fish is derived in large part from the pas-de-deux of predator and prey that is their destiny. Without the pike, larger numbers of smaller trout would dominate these waters. In life and trout fishing, you don't get anything for nothing; you can either have a lot of little fish, or lesser numbers of really huge fish.

Hard to believe the following days would provide more thrills. Labrador becomes an addiction. It beckons the world's most ardent fly fishermen. From Lee Wulff to Bobby Knight, they have made their pilgrimage to Igloo to pursue, in the wildest of settings, the world's most beautiful game fish. When I think of that gorgeous red, blue, gold, olive, black and white, ten-inch trophy from the little brook in Auburn, I realize both waters are treasures that deserve love and protection forever.

<< Part Two >>

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