Reel Men Go North 1989

Genre: Reality, Adventure

© 2025 Glen Munro. All rights reserved.
Reel Men Go North: 1989 is an original work of authorship. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission from the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews, educational materials, or scholarly analysis as permitted by copyright law.

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Chapter 1:

The Journey Begins

The insistent buzz of the alarm clock tore Glen from a dreamless sleep. He fumbled for the snooze button, his hand blindly swatting the nightstand until it connected with the offending plastic. 5:00 AM. He hadn't seen this hour on a Sunday in years, and the early wake-up call was a rude awakening.

He nudged his wife, a warm, sleepy form beside him. "Gotta get up, babe. Big day."

She stirred, mumbling a protest against the unwelcome intrusion of dawn. Glen wasn't sure if she was wishing him luck or telling him to go to hell. Probably both. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the worn carpet rough against his feet. They dragged themselves out of bed and headed to the bathroom; the promise of a hot shower was a small comfort in the face of the daunting day ahead. The shower was a cramped affair, the two of them taking turns under the lukewarm spray.

This was Glen's first time on the annual fly-in fishing trip. He'd heard the stories, of course – epic tales of lake trout pulled from the depths of some godforsaken lake in the Canadian wilderness. His father, Ted, a man of few passions but fiercely dedicated to those he held dear, had been regaling him with these fish stories for the past few years. To be honest, Glen didn't much care for fishing. Give him a warm beach, a cold beer, any day. But this trip wasn't about the fish. It was about spending time with his father, a man who held a special place in Glen's heart.

He'd packed the night before – duffel bag overflowing with clothes he probably wouldn't need, his VHS camcorder (he was determined to document this adventure, much to his father's chagrin), and lots of Colt cigars. As they stepped out into the pre-dawn chill, the sky just beginning to lighten in the east, Glen felt his palms grow clammy, and a nervous flutter danced in his chest. He wasn't sure what to expect from this trip. But as he started the car and felt the familiar rumble of the engine, a sense of anticipation, of adventure, began to take hold.

The rumble of tires on the gravel driveway announced Glen's arrival. Ted watched from the porch as his son's brand-new car rolled to a stop beside Walt's gleaming motorhome. A plume of dust settled, revealing Mark, Walt's son, already holding court beside the behemoth vehicle. Both their wives, bless their hearts, were gamely trying to appear enthusiastic about this whole fishing expedition.

“Hi Glen!" Ted boomed, stepping off the porch. He clapped Glen on the back with a force that nearly sent the younger man sprawling. "Thought you might've gotten lost on the way over."

Glen grinned, that familiar lopsided grin that always reminded Ted of himself. "Nah, just had to make sure the wife here didn't change her mind about letting me go." He winked at his wife, who rolled her eyes playfully.

Walt, ever the picture of calm efficiency, emerged from the RV. "Everything's just about stowed away," he announced. "Just waiting on the rest of the crew."

Ted nodded, leading the way back to the porch. "Grab a seat, boys. I've got some Caesars mixed up." He poured generous portions into tall glasses, the spicy aroma mingling with the scent of pine needles and lake water. "To Elbow Lake," he toasted, raising his glass. "May the fish be plentiful and the beer cold."

They drank, the ice clinking a counterpoint to the chirping of crickets in the gathering dawn. Ted felt a familiar surge of anticipation. This annual trip to Elbow Lake was more than just a fishing trip; it was a pilgrimage, a ritual that marked the beginning of summer. He glanced at Glen, who was fiddling with his newfangled camcorder. Ted wasn't sure what to make of that contraption, but he was glad his son was finally getting a chance to experience this with him.

As the sun continued to rise, two more vehicles pulled into the driveway. Bob and Ian, friends and both insurance adjusters, stepped out, their laughter carrying on the morning breeze. “Hi, Teddy!" Ian's voice was a jovial bellow. "Ready for another week of getting skunked?"

Ted snorted. "Skunked? You'll be eating your words, my friend. This year, I'm catching the biggest one."

The air crackled with friendly rivalry, fuelled by years of shared history and countless fish tales, some truer than others. Ted felt a deep sense of contentment. This was his tribe, his refuge from the world. Elbow Lake awaited, and with it, the promise of adventure, camaraderie, and maybe, just maybe, a fish story for the ages.

"Alright, boys, time to hit the road! Blind River awaits!" Walt announced, clapping his hands together and grinning. A wave of excitement rippled through the group. They'd been planning this fishing trip for months, and now, with the Caesars finished, it was finally time to embark on their adventure.

They said their goodbyes, a chorus of "See you later" and "Love you" echoing through the crisp morning air. With a rumble and a lurch, the motorhome pulled away from the house, the highway stretching out before them like an endless grey ribbon. Inside, the initial quiet was quickly shattered.

"Euchre time!" Ted declared, shuffling the deck with practiced ease. He winked at Doug. Ian, ever the cautious one, held up a hand. "Hold on there, Teddy. I’m in as well."

Doug chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "Don't worry, Ian. We haven't forgotten you!”

Ray, usually a man of few words, surprised them all by throwing himself into the game with an unexpected ferocity. "Deal 'em up, Ted! I'm feeling lucky." He rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Glen, his camera resting forgotten on his lap, watched the game unfold with a mixture of fascination and amusement. He was a novice in this world, a spectator to the intricate rituals of male bonding. He observed the subtle cues, the unspoken language, the intricate web of alliances and rivalries that played out with each hand dealt.

"Ha! I think that’s a euchre, Dougy!" Ted boomed, counting his points.”

Ian, ever the analyst, shook his head with a wry smile. "You guys got lucky, Teddy. Pure luck."

As the euchre game reached its climax, with the losers grumbling good-naturedly and the winners basking in their fleeting glory, Ted, fuelled by his victory, proposed a different game. "Alright, who's up for a round of Liar's Dice?” "I'm in," Ray declared, a flicker of anxiety in his eyes betraying his eagerness to win.

"Count me in," Doug added, his expression unreadable, a master of poker face.

The dice rattled in their cups, the men's faces carefully masked with indifference, each trying to conceal their hopes and anxieties.

"Three Aces," Ted announced, his voice full of confidence, passing the covered dice to Ian.

Ian produced the three aces on the table and rolled the two remaining dice. ”Three aces and a pair of tens," Ian countered, his eyes darting around the table, gauging the reactions of the others. He then passed the covered two dice to Doug.

Doug raised an eyebrow, a hint of a challenge in his eyes. But decided to believe Ian's call. He privately looked under the cup and, to his dismay, saw that Ian had lied. There were no two tens under the cup. Doug rolls the two dice and takes a private look at his result. He has rolled an Ace and a King.”Four aces and a king!” He passes the hidden dice to Ray, who knows that if he believes Doug and it's not there, he has a nearly impossible role to try and beat it. Ray decides not to believe Doug and lifts the cup to reveal the hidden contents. “Fuck! It’s there! Nice roll, Doug!” As Ray tosses a dollar into the kitty.

Glen, caught up in the excitement, watched the game unfold with a growing sense of awe. He was witnessing a primal ritual, a battle of wits and nerves, a test of manhood played out on a felt-covered table in the confines of a moving motorhome. The air crackled with tension; the only sounds were the rattle of the dice and the men's sharp intakes of breath.

The hulking motorhome, a chariot of fishing dreams and bad jokes, lumbered into the floatplane base at Blind River just as the afternoon sun began its descent. It was May 14th, 1989, and the annual pilgrimage to Elbow Lake had begun. After a cursory check-in at the dusty office, the men, a motley crew of middle-aged insurance adjusters, electricians, and builders, dispersed to their assigned cabins. The promise of dawn and the flight north hung heavy in the air, but not heavy enough to extinguish the competitive fire that still burned in their bellies. The night was young, and the clatter of dice in chipped coffee mugs soon filled the cramped cabin as another round of Liar's Dice commenced.

As the night deepened and the raucous laughter subsided, the men stumbled off to their respective cabins, each carrying a cargo of rum or beer and fatigue. Sleep came easily for most, a boozy oblivion blotting out the lingering anxieties of work and wives left behind. The rhythmic snoring that soon emanated from the cabins was a testament to the day's long drive and the evening's ample libations.

Dawn at the Blind River base arrived with the subtlety of a jackhammer. The sun, a malevolent eye in the pale sky, beat down on the assembled crew as they nursed their morning Caesars. A symphony of groans and mumbled obscenities filled the air, punctuated by the rhythmic clinking of ice cubes against glass. Ray, his face etched with a familiar anxiety, paced the gravel driveway like a caged wolverine. "That asshole pilot better not be late," he grumbled, his voice thick with suspicion. "Last year, he kept us waiting for three goddamn hours."

Just then, Doug emerged from the cabin, followed closely by Ian, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. They paused on the rickety porch, and Ian, with the booming voice of a carnival barker, announced, "You've heard of Elvis the Pelvis...now get ready for Enis the Penis!"

Doug, never one to shy away from the spotlight, launched into a ludicrous imitation of Elvis, complete with exaggerated hip thrusts and a stumbling, duck-footed shuffle. The crude spectacle, fuelled by equal parts Caesar and sleep deprivation, sent the rest of the crew into paroxysms of laughter. Even Ray cracked a smile, his apprehension momentarily forgotten.

The two descended the porch steps, moving with the cautious deliberation of men who had looked too deeply into the bottom of a glass the night before. Walt, ever the attentive host, gestured towards the makeshift bar with a grunt. "Get him a Caesar," he rasped, "He needs a goddamn Caesar.”

Walt, his own eyes bloodshot but twinkling with amusement, jabbed a finger in Doug's direction. "Look at the eyes on him!" he roared, his voice raspy from the previous night's revelry.

Doug, his eyes still glazed over with a potent blend of hangover and lingering amusement, shot back, "Shut up, Walt."

Walt, a man not easily silenced, retorted, "Look, if you're not going to listen to me, I'm not going to stand here and talk to you!"

"Good," Doug mumbled, "I'm tired of listening to myself anyway."

The exchange, a bizarre non-sequitur born of exhaustion and cheap vodka, made little logical sense. Yet, it resonated with the rest of the group, who erupted in laughter once again. The absurdity of it all, the sheer inanity of the conversation, seemed to perfectly encapsulate the spirit of the trip. They were men on the verge of wilderness, shedding the pretence of their everyday lives with each ill-conceived joke and slurred rejoinder.

The motorhome, a rolling testament to the enduring power of male friendship and questionable hygiene, finally shuddered to a halt beside the dock. The air, thick with the smell of pine needles and impending adventure, vibrated with a nervous energy. Ray and Ted, two grizzled veterans of countless fishing trips, worked in tandem, their movements practiced and efficient as they unloaded the mountain of gear. Rods, reels, tackle boxes, and coolers materialized from the depths of the RV, each item carefully inspected and placed in its designated spot. The two men, despite their occasional differences, moved with a shared sense of purpose, their camaraderie forged in the crucible of past expeditions. Theirs was a bond built on a mutual love of the sport, a deep respect for the wilderness, and an unspoken understanding that transcended the petty squabbles of everyday life.

Ray, his eyes scanning the sky with the intensity of a hawk searching for prey, lit up a cigarette. "Goddamn it," he muttered, his voice a low growl that carried across the still morning air. "Here we are, all loaded up and ready to go, and that lazy son of a bitch pilot is nowhere to be seen." He kicked at a loose plank on the dock, the wood groaning in protest. "Why the hell would he tell us to be down here for eight o'clock if he wasn't planning on showing up?"

The others, a mixture of amusement and annoyance etched on their faces, watched Ray's agitation with a detached curiosity. They knew his outbursts were as much a part of the annual ritual as the fishing itself.

The pilot, a laconic man with the weathered features of someone who spent their life at the mercy of the elements, eventually greeted the group with a curt nod. He unlatched the cargo door and, with an economy of motion that spoke of years of experience, began loading the plane. Each item, from the heaviest cooler to the most delicate fishing rod, was placed with deliberate care, the pilot's eyes constantly monitoring the waterline on the pontoons. When the plane settled to a predetermined depth, he signalled a halt. Three men – Ian, Bob, and Mark – clambered aboard, their faces alight with anticipation.

The pilot untied the mooring lines, and after a quick check of the seatbelts, the engine sputtered to life, the sound echoing across the vast expanse of water. The Beaver taxied down the channel, leaving a frothy wake in its path. Then, with a surge of power, it lifted skyward, the pontoons skimming the surface until, with a final lurch, they broke free, leaving the worries of the world behind. Below, the remaining men watched the plane disappear into the northern sky, their turn coming soon.

The drone of the returning Beaver echoed across the water, a mechanical harbinger cutting through the stillness of the Ontario wilderness. A slight breeze, absent during the first departure, now gently caressed the lake, sending tiny ripples toward the shore. The pilot, his face impassive as ever, guided the plane with practiced ease alongside the weathered dock.

More gear was swiftly loaded, the men moving with a practiced rhythm born of years of shared expeditions. Walt, Glen, and Ted clambered aboard, their faces a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The pilot, his eyes betraying a hint of fatigue, ran through his pre-flight checks with the methodical precision of a surgeon. With a final grunt, he pushed the throttle forward, and the engine roared back to life. Slowly, it gained momentum, skimming across the water until, with a final surge of power, it broke free, ascending into the vast, indifferent sky. Below, Doug watched the plane disappear into the distance, his own anticipation growing with every passing moment.

The plane banked gradually to the right, a small, pine-clad island slipping past the pontoons on the left. Below, the landscape unfolded in a breathtaking panorama of wilderness. The ancient, gnarled spine of the Canadian Shield stretched towards the horizon, a tapestry of rock and forest punctuated by the sapphire gleam of countless lakes. To the southwest, the vast expanse of Georgian Bay shimmered in the morning light, its distant shoreline a hazy blue smudge. Further north, and off to the right, the small town of Elliot Lake, a testament to man's relentless pursuit of uranium, briefly materialized amidst the endless expanse of forest. The plane droned onward, a solitary speck against the immensity of the northern sky. Below, the wilderness stretched in all directions, an intimidating and exhilarating reminder of nature's raw power.

Thirty minutes passed, each one a tick of the clock towards anticipation. Then, with a suddenness that caught Glen off guard, Elbow Lake materialized beneath them. A sharp and unforgiving granite escarpment fell away to reveal the dark water, shimmering like obsidian in the noonday sun. The plane, a fragile bird against the immensity of the wilderness, touched down with surprising gentleness on the lake's glassy surface, taxiing towards a weathered wooden dock that jutted out from a small, wooded point.

Two rough-hewn cabins, barely more than sheds, clung to a rise above the waterline. The pilot, a man of few words and a face etched by years of squinting into the northern sky, killed the engine. The silence that descended was absolute, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the pines and the insistent lapping of waves against the pilings. The pilot wrestled our gear onto the dock. Then, laden with supplies, the men began the climb. The trail, a thin ribbon of dirt carved into the steep embankment, was a testament to the generations of fishermen and hunters who had come before them, drawn by the same siren song of the wilderness.

Glen, still a bit green when it came to the finer points of fly-in trips, had noticed the rickety boards beneath his feet. He'd been fixated on the pair of loons that had surfaced near the plane as it taxied in. "Saw those birds, Glen?" Ted asked, already hoisting a duffel bag onto his shoulder. "Bigger than the ones back home, darker too." Glen nodded, "Yeah, they're huge."

The men hauled their gear up the steep incline to the cabin, a weathered structure perched on the higher ground. The pilot shoved off from the dock. The engine sputtered, caught, and roared, the propeller and floats churning the water to a froth. With agonizing slowness, the plane lurched forward, gaining speed until, finally, it tore free of the lake's grip, the pontoons leaving a pair of fading wakes on the glassy surface. As the roar of the engine dwindled, the silence of the wilderness descended, broken only by the mournful wail of a loon echoing across the lonely expanse of Elbow Lake.

Mark, never one to let a moment pass without wetting a line, rigged a rod and set out to cast from the rocky shore. He returned a short time later, a triumphant grin splitting his face, a plump fish dangling from his hand. "Dinner," he announced, though a chorus of groans met his proclamation. "Doesn't count, " Walt grumbled, "rules are clear, everyone's gotta be here in camp." Mark's grin faltered, but the prospect of fresh fish, derby or no derby, was too tempting to resist.

As the group debated the merits of immediate consumption versus the virtues of the live well, Ted, a mischievous glint in his eye, clapped a hand on Walt's shoulder and launched into a raucous rendition of their self-penned camp anthem: "We're home again, home again, jiggity jig..." Walt, a reluctant but willing participant in the ritual, joined in, his voice a rusty baritone harmonizing with Ted's off-key tenor. The wilderness echoed with their laughter, a sound as raw and untamed as the land itself.

The sight of Mark's catch ignited a familiar spark in Ted's eye. Competition, as intrinsic to him as the calluses on his hands, surged forth. With a grunt, he grabbed his rod and tackle box, clambered into one of the waiting boats, and shoved off. The little Mercury motor sputtered to life, its whine swallowed by the immensity of the lake. Less than an hour later, he returned, the sleek, speckled form of a lake trout glistening in the afternoon sun. He weighed his trophy and stated eleven pounds, holding the fish aloft for the assembled group's inspection. A chorus of grudging admiration met his display. Satisfied, he returned to the dock, consigning his prize to the relative safety of the submerged live well, its wire mesh a temporary prison for the powerful fish.

Ted heaved the small live-well from the lake's depths, his brow furrowing at the sight within. "Who the hell put a sucker in here?" he grumbled, his voice tight with annoyance.

Ian, trailing Ted to the weathered dock, peered into the cavernous maw of the unused live-well. It was a beast of a container, clearly capable of holding a more substantial catch. "We should fix this one up," he proposed, his voice tinged with the familiar inquisitive lilt. "It'd be a damn sight better than this little thing."

"Ya, that's a good idea, Ian," Ted grunted in agreement.

Bob, ever eager to contribute, offered his assistance, grabbing his toolkit and heading down to join Ted. The rest of the group, Walt included, watched the unfolding scene with a mixture of amusement and anticipation. Also being the self-appointed camp cook, Walt had been busy preparing a "special" treat for Ted and Bob: crackers and cheese, with the cheese cleverly substituted with thin slices of soap. He sauntered down to the dock, placing the plate casually on a nearby log.

Oblivious to the impending prank, Ted and Bob tinkered with the live-well. Finally satisfied with their handiwork, Bob set aside his tools and, spotting the plate of "refreshments," snagged a cracker laden with the deceptive "cheese." He took a hearty bite.

A moment of stunned silence hung in the air as the soapy taste registered on Bob's palate.