These intrepid anglers planned to explore the NWT’s remote Aylmer Lake. The weather had other plans

In the 1830s, Sir George Back was one of the first Europeans to lay eyes on Aylmer—the headwaters of the Back River, named in his honour, are a mere kilometre from Aylmer’s north end. Then in 1907, Ernest Thompson Seton, the renowned wildlife artist, author and co-founder of the Boy Scouts, led an expedition across the lake, leaving behind a handful of cairns as the only signs he’d visited; he described his exploration of Aylmer in his 1911 book, The Arctic Prairies. Since then, few have traversed the lake, other than a handful of adventurous canoeists, the odd geologist, and McNeil’s team, so Dave and I were keen to be among the first anglers to explore it. As it turned out, that was easier said than done.

Dave and I were both well aware that Arctic weather can be unpredictable, but we’d intentionally selected a time of the year when a high pressure system typically sits over the region, bringing warm, stable conditions. Unfortunately, the timing of our adventure coincided instead with what Kevin would later describe as the windiest week he’d experienced since buying the lodge.

We had expected our biggest challenge to be the flesh-loving blackflies and mosquitoes, and we’d come fully prepared, loaded to the gunnels with bug spray, bug jackets, head nets and Thermacells. That all ended up being little more than ballast, however, as the winged annoyances hunkered down out of the wind throughout our week.

I suppose a lot of trips are born the way ours was, conceived at a kitchen table out of nothing but maps and dreams of big fish, quiet water and sunny days. For some reason, those dreams always leave out details such as bad weather, mechanical breakdowns and other barriers to a utopian experience. I assume that’s a natural defence mechanism, our brain doing what it does best. I mean, what’s the point of dreaming if the hero doesn’t get the girl in the end?

In any case, after a night at the lodge and a hearty breakfast of French toast the following morning, Dave and I had loaded up the 16-foot Lund and were heading west by 9:30 a.m. The skies were overcast, rain fell periodically and the wind was up, but that mattered little as we had already designated it as a travel day. Onward we went, motoring within emergency distance of the shoreline, vigilant about the risks on the vast Arctic lake, including hidden rocks and rogue waves.

Early in the afternoon, we pulled out of the wind and into the mouth of one of Aylmer’s many tributaries, drifting in the shallows while we grabbed a quick bite and watched chunky Arctic grayling cruising all around us. Though tempted to pull out the rods, we pressed on, knowing we still had many kilometres to cover.

By early evening, we’d reached the mouth of the Lockhart River, Aylmer’s largest tributary, 70 or so direct-line kilometres from the lodge. It’s hard to say, given what Seton accurately described as Aylmer’s “ambiguous” shoreline, how far we actually travelled in the wind and waves, but we arrived tired. With that, we set up our tents, ate dinner, talked about the next day’s plans, and hit the hay.