Together with my sons Bob and Don and friends, and later with David and Steven along, I've made more fishing trips to Northern Canada than I can remember. Most of these were in the company of Indians, for whom I have a great respect when they are living their traditional lives.

The earlier trips were tentiing trips in Quebec. More recent ones were eleven hundred mile drives to Northern Ontario, followed by seaplane flights farther north to isolated lakes.

Rather than trying to present a diary of each trip, I'll just write some of the highlights as I remember them.

Bob and I were camped on a lake in La Verendrye Park, Quebec. We were fishing for walleyed pike one day, in our canoe, when Bob suddenly said, "What's that at the end of the lake?" The water was being lashed to white foam, and trees were crashing down. The storm wind was headed directly toward us. Fortunately, we were not far from a small island, and pulled the canoe ashore barely in time. The aspen and small pines came down all around us as we sheltered under the overturned canoe.

After the storm had passed, we returned to a scene of devastation at the tent site. Every tent except ours had blown down, some with trees on top. The narrow dirt road leading to the camp was blocked by a dozen fallen trees. Next day we learned that two fishermen on a neighboring lake had been drowned and their seaplane wrecked! We never heard or saw a new report about it. Canadians are nonchalant about such things.

On the same vacation, or perhaps another, we drove further north to Val d'Or. An Indian guide took us for miles through a watery jungle of dead trees, killed by water that had been dammed up by a paper lumbering company. The Indian drove the outboard motor boat at full speed over logs and brush piles, and stopped at a spot that looked just like all the rest. We'd have been lost forever if he'd abandoned us. The guide told us we were on a riverbed that he remembered.

Sure enough, he'd found a good fishing hole. It was too brushy to cast a lure, but every time we tossed a live minnow into the water a big pike swallowed it. The problem was, they were too big! In open water we'd have a chance, but in that tangle of branches the fish would dash ten feet, wrap the line around a branch, and break off. We caught some "small" pike, ten to twelve pounds, but lost some that were twice as big.

Returned to base, I asked the guide what is "charter" fee was, and told how pleased we were with the trip. (It wasn't his fault we didn't have strong enough tackle). To my surprise, he said, "What I'd really like is a case of beer!" Nervously I granted his wish, although I suspected we were breaking Canadian law. Just in case we'd be responsible for a drunken spree that night, we headed for the border!

When son Don was thirteen of fourteen, we had the good fortune to arrange an unforgettable adventure, fishing a number of lakes in Northern Quebec that had apparently never been explored.

The outfitter, based in Montreal, had leased about eight lakes back in the bush, only one or two of which had been fished. He had built a base camp on the largest lake, and we were some of his first clients.

A real French-Canadian woodsman and his wife and daughter ran the camp, which was accessible only by seaplane. The woman spoke no English.

Don and I had good fishing for beautiful red-bellied squaretail trout in the first lake, but one day the owner arrived with two friends and I overheard their dinner conversation. They planned to hike to two of the virgin lakes to see whether they contained any trout. Brashly, I asked if we could come along. They had a conference with the guide, in French, and he must have O.K.'d us, so we went on two explorations with them and later, two more with only the guide. We had the privelege of tramping through several miles of trackless bush, swamp and blackflies to get to each lake; and yes, there were plenty of fat trout in the first two lakes. Don and I agreed with each other that we wouldn't complain about the black flies, which burrowed into every tight spot of our clothing and left scars that lasted for months. (At the end of our stay, we learned that the guide used a fly repellent; so our stoicism was all for naught.)

Our rugged woodsman guide carried a canoe over his head on the third trip, and -- using some twine, two curved branches and a straight log which he cut on the spot with his hand axe -- produced an outrigger for the canoe so that we could fish without tipping the small canoe over. This lake was so full of two-pound trout that we caught one on every cast.

Our last and longest hike to another lake gave our guide another chance to use his woodcraft. The shores of all these lakes were lined with brush, making it difficult to cast; so this time he built a log raft in about half an hour. Here we fished several hours without a strike; then Don hooked a big trout, which broke off. Ten minutes later, he hooked another one. In spite of my shouted instructions from across the lake, he landed a beautiful red squaretail, four and a half pounds, which we took home and mounted as a souvenir of our backwoods adventure. These fish fell prey to black-and-white Daredevles of different sizes.

At the end of our Quebec vacation, with a box of delicious trout packed in moss, and carrying lasting black fly scars, we flew home with increased respect for the Couriers de Bois who used to travel the waterways and hike to portages carrying two hundred pound loads on their backs!