www.tndeer.com- March, 2011 Copyright John L. Sloan Feb. 2011
Forum
I�ll Tell You A Story-Bimaadiziwthe.
It was late June but still plenty cold at night. Each night we built a big fire outside the cabin and a smaller one in the stove inside. The deep and wide English River spread out below us and the fishing had been good for both walleye and big northern pike. Now and then we caught a musky but not of any size. At home, the fishing had slowed during daylight and the night fishing was heating up. There were more boats on Percy Priest at night than in the daytime.
I craved some smallmouth action.
I caught Robert Stillair�s attention and indicated I wanted to talk with him. He pointed with his lips toward big, log table with some chips and stuff on it and we moved there. �Boozhoo, Robert.� I said He grinned and replied, Boozhoo Old John, You are learning to speak as well as the Shinnob. Not so much like a Chimook.
Oddly I took the time to write these words down and get the spelling right. Boozhoo is the familiar greeting by which the Shinbob greet each other or a friendly Chimook-a white person. In Arapaho, the word for white person is Niatha. Oddly enough, it also means spider. Gives you an idea of the Arapaho mindset. However this story is about the Objibwe. Sure, I�ll explain.
Way up in northern Ontario where the English River sprawls and meanders, the Ojibwe people live in Bimaadiziwthe- a healthy life. Mostly they fish, hunt, trap and run guiding operations. Robert Stillair has a fine operation. Shinnob is the familiar abbreviation for Anishinaabeg the official name of the Objibwe. It means the people. They are a quiet, clean and spiritual people. Good to be around.
Now you know as much Ojibwe as I do.
�So Robert,� I say, �The fishing has been great but I would really like to catch some smallmouth. Do you know a place I can do that?�
The next morning as the fog began to lift, Robert pulled up in front of the cabin. Strangely, he was not running on Indian time but may even have been a little early. In the back of his truck was a large, freighter canoe with two swivel seats in it, fore and aft. �Boozho Old John, let us go catch some brown fish. He didn�t have to ask me twice.
We stopped at a pink and blue house with only a few windows broken out on the edge of the rez and picked up his cousin, James Blackrock. Then we began to wind down paved roads that became gravel, then sand and finally turned on a pair of tracks that led through the bush. Moose country.
�We are going to Amick. That is the Shinnob name for Beaver Lake. A river runs into it and we will put in on the river and James will pick us up at lake this afternoon. The river is full of smallmouth. I wish I written the name of the river down. It meant Crooked Knife in Amurican. The lake is one of the smaller ones, maybe 300 acres and it is part of a chain of smaller lakes.
The water is black and swirls slowly. It is not a dirty river. The color comes from the tannin in the water and the tannin comes from the trees, so I am told. It is not a swift or wide river in most places. Now and then, it widens out where some long gone glacier has been excavating. To me, it looks like a perfect smallmouth river.
�Here it is not so good.� Says Robert. �A little fudder down toward the lake is more rock and gravel, bedder fishing.� We slide the canoe in and load our gear. I look again at the water color and the sky cover. I tie on a �-ounce, black hair jig with bright chartreuse stripes and a silver jerk bait. Robert looks closely at the jig. He grins with his eyes. The Shinob do that a lot.
We load the rest of our equipment and push off. Robert spins the top of the motor, which looks to be a 3-hp Scott Atwater of about 1955 vintage. You did know the big freighter canoes were square stern to fit a small engine, right? We glide through the black water for what I judge to be about five miles. Robert kills the engine and picks up a paddle. The river widens to maybe 100 yards across, timber on one shore, rock bluff close to us. Fog hangs low on the water. It is beteen cool and chilly and my good wool shirt feels good. I pick up the jig and loft a cast toward the base of a rock wall. I get two turns on the reel handle before a smallmouth of about a pound hits it. I show Robert the fish. Robert grins. He has not picked up his rod, yet.
I show Robert the fish. The wool shirt feels good.
The river necks down again and Robert says, �Now we start catching fish.� He seems to ignore the fact I have already put six in the boat, all from one to two pounds. I had one break off but it was not a large fish. After three days of muscling big northerns, I just rushed her too much. You have to take your time with 6# line.
Robert finally rigs a rod. He ties on the exact same jig I have tied on. His small tackle box, I notice, holds just a few lures. It appears he has somewhere around 50, black hair jigs with either bright orange or chartreuse side-stripes. He grins.
I judge Robert to be about 40 and built of solid rock�either that or the hardest muscle I have ever seen. I do not know what a freighter canoe weighs but I had never seen one man pick one up, swing it overhead and carry it until that morning.
Wherever the water widens and slows, we catch fish. I don�t know what the Ojibwe word is but in plain Amurican, we were having a ball. I enjoyed the walleye and the pike fishing of the previous three days but nothing compares with smallmouth. Robert swings one about �-pound into the boat and puts it in a large Ziploc bag with a little water. He lays it in the bottom of the canoe. He does that three more times. I don�t ask.
Around noon, we pull onto a mud and gravel bar. I start gathering firewood as per Robert�s directions-hardwood only and nothing larger than my wrist. I don�t ask. Moose, bear and wolf tracks abound. When I have a good armful, I return to find four fish, still intact and completely covered in a cast of mud. I�ve heard of it. Never seen it. Seems it takes the right kind of mud.
Once the fire burns down, Robert lays them in the coals on top of green sticks the size of two thumbs and they bake. After a bit, Robert says he judges by the color of the mud casing, he lifts them out using two sticks like chopsticks. The canned corn is ready and an onion is sliced. Robert cracks the shell and the skin peels away. The fish is delicious, all finger food. We have canned peaches for desert. We eat and I realize there is no cleaning up to be done. Hard to clean up mud. The empty cans go in a garbage bag and into the boat. Robert tells me it is polite to leave one or two cans for the next traveler to have but he figures it is still littering. In the bush, yes, he would leave the cans impaled on a tree branch. Someone lost can always use a can. I have yet to figure that out but now know why I have occasionally found old cans on pine limbs way backing the boreal forest.
We drift and round a bench and the lake, Amick, the Beaver appears. We are early so we fish up and down the shore, a while as the sun warms us. Robert holds up one just right for cooking but turns it loose.We catch a couple and one walleye that I put on ice. I hear the truck coming and soon, James pulls into sight.
Robert caught this one just as we enter the lake. We caught a lot of these.
We caught a lot of these during the previous days on the big River but I craved some smallie action.
It has been a great day of fishing. I estimate we caught around 75 smallmouth. It is Bimaadiziwithe-a healthy life. I admire the way the Anishinaabeg live.
I look at Robert, point at him with my lips, Indian style. I say, �migwech.�
Thank you.
Forum
I�ll Tell You A Story-Bimaadiziwthe.
It was late June but still plenty cold at night. Each night we built a big fire outside the cabin and a smaller one in the stove inside. The deep and wide English River spread out below us and the fishing had been good for both walleye and big northern pike. Now and then we caught a musky but not of any size. At home, the fishing had slowed during daylight and the night fishing was heating up. There were more boats on Percy Priest at night than in the daytime.
I craved some smallmouth action.
I caught Robert Stillair�s attention and indicated I wanted to talk with him. He pointed with his lips toward big, log table with some chips and stuff on it and we moved there. �Boozhoo, Robert.� I said He grinned and replied, Boozhoo Old John, You are learning to speak as well as the Shinnob. Not so much like a Chimook.
Oddly I took the time to write these words down and get the spelling right. Boozhoo is the familiar greeting by which the Shinbob greet each other or a friendly Chimook-a white person. In Arapaho, the word for white person is Niatha. Oddly enough, it also means spider. Gives you an idea of the Arapaho mindset. However this story is about the Objibwe. Sure, I�ll explain.
Way up in northern Ontario where the English River sprawls and meanders, the Ojibwe people live in Bimaadiziwthe- a healthy life. Mostly they fish, hunt, trap and run guiding operations. Robert Stillair has a fine operation. Shinnob is the familiar abbreviation for Anishinaabeg the official name of the Objibwe. It means the people. They are a quiet, clean and spiritual people. Good to be around.
Now you know as much Ojibwe as I do.
�So Robert,� I say, �The fishing has been great but I would really like to catch some smallmouth. Do you know a place I can do that?�
The next morning as the fog began to lift, Robert pulled up in front of the cabin. Strangely, he was not running on Indian time but may even have been a little early. In the back of his truck was a large, freighter canoe with two swivel seats in it, fore and aft. �Boozho Old John, let us go catch some brown fish. He didn�t have to ask me twice.
We stopped at a pink and blue house with only a few windows broken out on the edge of the rez and picked up his cousin, James Blackrock. Then we began to wind down paved roads that became gravel, then sand and finally turned on a pair of tracks that led through the bush. Moose country.
�We are going to Amick. That is the Shinnob name for Beaver Lake. A river runs into it and we will put in on the river and James will pick us up at lake this afternoon. The river is full of smallmouth. I wish I written the name of the river down. It meant Crooked Knife in Amurican. The lake is one of the smaller ones, maybe 300 acres and it is part of a chain of smaller lakes.
The water is black and swirls slowly. It is not a dirty river. The color comes from the tannin in the water and the tannin comes from the trees, so I am told. It is not a swift or wide river in most places. Now and then, it widens out where some long gone glacier has been excavating. To me, it looks like a perfect smallmouth river.
�Here it is not so good.� Says Robert. �A little fudder down toward the lake is more rock and gravel, bedder fishing.� We slide the canoe in and load our gear. I look again at the water color and the sky cover. I tie on a �-ounce, black hair jig with bright chartreuse stripes and a silver jerk bait. Robert looks closely at the jig. He grins with his eyes. The Shinob do that a lot.
We load the rest of our equipment and push off. Robert spins the top of the motor, which looks to be a 3-hp Scott Atwater of about 1955 vintage. You did know the big freighter canoes were square stern to fit a small engine, right? We glide through the black water for what I judge to be about five miles. Robert kills the engine and picks up a paddle. The river widens to maybe 100 yards across, timber on one shore, rock bluff close to us. Fog hangs low on the water. It is beteen cool and chilly and my good wool shirt feels good. I pick up the jig and loft a cast toward the base of a rock wall. I get two turns on the reel handle before a smallmouth of about a pound hits it. I show Robert the fish. Robert grins. He has not picked up his rod, yet.
I show Robert the fish. The wool shirt feels good.
The river necks down again and Robert says, �Now we start catching fish.� He seems to ignore the fact I have already put six in the boat, all from one to two pounds. I had one break off but it was not a large fish. After three days of muscling big northerns, I just rushed her too much. You have to take your time with 6# line.
Robert finally rigs a rod. He ties on the exact same jig I have tied on. His small tackle box, I notice, holds just a few lures. It appears he has somewhere around 50, black hair jigs with either bright orange or chartreuse side-stripes. He grins.
I judge Robert to be about 40 and built of solid rock�either that or the hardest muscle I have ever seen. I do not know what a freighter canoe weighs but I had never seen one man pick one up, swing it overhead and carry it until that morning.
Wherever the water widens and slows, we catch fish. I don�t know what the Ojibwe word is but in plain Amurican, we were having a ball. I enjoyed the walleye and the pike fishing of the previous three days but nothing compares with smallmouth. Robert swings one about �-pound into the boat and puts it in a large Ziploc bag with a little water. He lays it in the bottom of the canoe. He does that three more times. I don�t ask.
Around noon, we pull onto a mud and gravel bar. I start gathering firewood as per Robert�s directions-hardwood only and nothing larger than my wrist. I don�t ask. Moose, bear and wolf tracks abound. When I have a good armful, I return to find four fish, still intact and completely covered in a cast of mud. I�ve heard of it. Never seen it. Seems it takes the right kind of mud.
Once the fire burns down, Robert lays them in the coals on top of green sticks the size of two thumbs and they bake. After a bit, Robert says he judges by the color of the mud casing, he lifts them out using two sticks like chopsticks. The canned corn is ready and an onion is sliced. Robert cracks the shell and the skin peels away. The fish is delicious, all finger food. We have canned peaches for desert. We eat and I realize there is no cleaning up to be done. Hard to clean up mud. The empty cans go in a garbage bag and into the boat. Robert tells me it is polite to leave one or two cans for the next traveler to have but he figures it is still littering. In the bush, yes, he would leave the cans impaled on a tree branch. Someone lost can always use a can. I have yet to figure that out but now know why I have occasionally found old cans on pine limbs way backing the boreal forest.
We drift and round a bench and the lake, Amick, the Beaver appears. We are early so we fish up and down the shore, a while as the sun warms us. Robert holds up one just right for cooking but turns it loose.We catch a couple and one walleye that I put on ice. I hear the truck coming and soon, James pulls into sight.
Robert caught this one just as we enter the lake. We caught a lot of these.
We caught a lot of these during the previous days on the big River but I craved some smallie action.
It has been a great day of fishing. I estimate we caught around 75 smallmouth. It is Bimaadiziwithe-a healthy life. I admire the way the Anishinaabeg live.
I look at Robert, point at him with my lips, Indian style. I say, �migwech.�
Thank you.
