Travel
Lac La Martre offers world-class fishing at an Indigenous-owned lodge, whether you’re landing your first fish or chasing your next trophy
Monsters prowl the shallow waters of Lac La Martre, a lake nearly three times the size of Toronto. We see them with our own eyes, glistening in clear waters, hunting their prey, and, with any luck, the hook we’ve disguised to look like their prey.
“That’s a big one!” says our fishing guide Braydo Dorren, a smile lighting up his sunburned face. He’s spent all summer on the lake exposed to the elements, but like all enthusiastic anglers, he never gets tired of the hunt. Especially when he’s helping a 10-year-old land his first fish.
Anglers have been flying up to Clemy Island, a remote island on the lake, since June — making the most of the thawed ice and the lodge on Lac La Martre, which is open for business between June 14 and September 15. Some have been flying up for 20 straight years, and they’ll show up next year because they appreciate just how unique this place is.
My son and I joined them on an Air Tindi Twin Otter flight from Yellowknife, packed with supplies for this three-day adventure in the remote Northwest Territories. Not that anyone will be roughing it. With humble origins as a spartan outpost fishing camp, the lodge offers cosy cabins with en-suite bathrooms, a comfortable living area, a stocked bar, and all-inclusive meals. There’s also a wood-fired sauna, canoes, board games, high-speed Wi-Fi, and a fire pit to observe the aurora borealis dance overhead. It’s enough to catch the attention of any bucket-lister, but we’re here to catch-and-release the main attraction.
Lake trout and northern pike are prized heavyweights in the world of freshwater sport fishing. Technically a char, the trout are absolute beasts, often measuring more than 100 centimetres and weighing more 30 lbs. The lake’s top predator, they live for decades and are notoriously tricky to land.
Northern pike offer a different proposition for anglers. Fast, aggressive, with rows of sharp teeth and a slender camouflaged body, pike look like they escaped from the film set of Jurassic Park. Both predators capture the imagination, especially when that imagination belongs to a kid on his first fishing trip.
When you fish in southern Canada, you’re often looking for something to eat or maybe brag about. Fifty centimetres? Bully for you.
“The average guest can expect to catch two trophies a day,” explains Jesse Cadrain, the lodge’s supervisor. Trophy fish typically refer to a combination of size, age, rarity, species and the difficulty of catching it.
Down south, a fish that might be the catch of a lifetime is merely a fish you catch and release here, several times a day. Initially, I wondered why people pay good money to spend all day roasting in the sun (or getting soaked in the rain), standing in a small, open-top aluminum boat, repeatedly casting and reeling. Then I realized it’s similar to my personal obsession with pursuing unique experiences. With every cast or journey, you just never know what’s going to happen, and one way or another, we’re all out there fishing for stories.
New to angling, my son and I have a lot to learn. Fortunately, guides and veterans are only too happy to talk shop. They tell us how the dazzling variety of lures, spoons, jigs, crankbaits, flies, and soft plastics are all designed to mimic prey and appeal to the characteristics of a particular fish, in a particular environment, at a particular time. The sport lies in the technique, guesswork and patience, especially when you sight your underwater opponent. Suddenly, it’s a game of wits and wills, with wily fish striking the lure but avoiding the hook, taunting the line, and getting ever so close before backing away.
Dorren steers the outboard engine towards a shallow bay. Low, moody clouds hover over this vast sea-lake, with wildfire smoke strangling the distant horizon. He attaches a lure that resembles a silver fish and explains the art of casting, reeling, and hooking a catch. Just a few minutes later, we feel the sudden thud of our first strikes. My son is utterly bewildered. The fish he knows usually come breaded in blue boxes with a white-bearded captain on the cover. Or served in delectable slices of nigiri, rolled into sushi, or plated as the maple-soy salmon or black cod I prepare in the oven. This is the first time he’s felt the pull of the live creature, thrashing and gnashing as he struggles to reel it towards the boat for Dorren to net, unhook, and measure. My son’s first-ever fish is only about 58 centimetres long, a tiny pike by the lake’s standards.
Dorren points out the pike’s patterns and features, and gently hands it to my son, who releases it back into the lake. What a catch!
Moments later, I land my own at about 89 centimetres, and a half hour later, my son lands a 99-centimetre pike, too big for him to hold, but a massive moment — and a trophy photo — to always cherish.
Lac La Martre offers one guide for every two guests, a super high ratio that puts you in the company of pros who know the lake intimately, ensuring a steep learning curve. Guests typically head out in the morning after breakfast with a packed lunch, and return for a cold beer before dinner. The lodge is owned and operated by the Tlicho Nation, who have self-government over an area spanning approximately 39,000 square kilometres. Their commercial arm, the Tlicho Investment Corporation, has interests in construction, logistics, equipment, retail, property management, labour, and other services, but sees growing potential in tourism.
“With diamond mines facing an uncertain future, tourism feels like a natural and renewable resource, especially with the incredible land, lake and cultural experiences we can offer,” says Samantha Stuart, Tlicho Adventures’ Director of Tourism. It’s an opportunity to expose guests and staff to Indigenous culture and practices, and mine the potential of sport fishing as a long-term economic driver.
“Studies here have shown that the biomass in this lake is incredible,” adds Cadrain, explaining why anglers will travel to extreme lengths to catch the one fish to rule them all. A fish they hope will beat the lodge’s reported record of a 129.5-centimetre, 36-pound northern pike, and a 117-centimetre, 37-pound lake trout.
“We’ve been fishing in Manitoba, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Ontario, Alaska, and I tell ya, this is as good as it gets,” says a guest from Minnesota, who confirms he is here specifically for the trout.
“We’re only here for the pike,” contrasts another American guest, visiting for his 20th straight season. “The cabins sure got a lot more comfortable, and the Wi-Fi is great,” he adds.
Around 80 per cent of the lodge’s guests are repeat clientele, traditionally from the U.S., but increasingly from Canada, Europe, and even further afield. We share a table with Annette and Jason Robbins of Brisbane, Australia, who added Lac La Martre to a six-week bucket list trip of Western Canada. Avid anglers, they’re glowing after landing numerous trophies above 101 centimetres, witnessing the northern lights, spotting a bear, and taking their first floatplane. “It really is hard to put into words the effect this place has over us now,” Annette writes on Facebook.
Oh, it’s a big one alright. A 37.5-inch (95 centimetre) lake trout that put up a mighty contest for my 10-year-old son. Dorren helps him haul in a beautiful fish, its orange spawning colours glistening in the northern sunshine. Anglers wait their entire lives to hook a fish like this, and quite frankly, I don’t know where the kid goes from here. Ninety centimetres? One hundred centimetres?
“With angling, there’s something deeper going on here,” muses Dorren, who escaped the urban sprawl of Calgary for a life in the woods. “Fishing for sustenance comes down through bloodlines, it’s part of our roots.” For the Tlicho who have lived on these lands and waters for millennia, fishing has a much deeper cultural relationship.
Alice Corbett, one of several Tlicho employees at the lake, tells me her family only eats the lake’s whitefish, and stay away from the trout and pike. When Dorren unexpectedly lands a 26-inch (66 centimetre) whitefish, he gives it to a delighted Corbett to share with her family. For our traditional shore lunch, we catch two pike that are neither too large nor too small. Move over farm-to-table and welcome to water-to-plate.
Dorren and Cadrain start a fire, heat up oil in a skillet, skillfully remove the fillets (to the fascination of the kids), and dip the pieces in a seasoned flour. First, they add hand-cut potato fries to the skillet, followed by the pike, with canned corn heating up on the grill. Swimming in remote water so clean you could drink it, the pike is tender and absolutely delicious. “Most of our anglers prefer sandwiches, as they’d rather be fishing than spend the time preparing a meal like this,” says Cadrain. I personally feel the shore lunch is just as memorable as the fishing required to make them happen
It’s been three bucket list days in the north. My son has bonded with other kids, along with Cooper and Bailey, the cuddly dogs who really own the lodge. We canoe around one of the adjacent islands beneath the golden evening sun, the water as still as mercury. My son braves the heat of the wood-fired sauna, but cleverly psychs me out when it comes to jumping into the cold lake. He discovers that fish are actual creatures, worthy of our respect, and they can be as big and fierce as wolves. He learns about Indigenous art, culture, and language (Máhsı Alice). He proudly transcends his urban comfort zone, and comes to appreciate what it means to be immersed in the raw beauty of the Canadian north. On the flight home, I ask him if he wants to go fishing again.
“Yeah, but only if we can go back, because those are the only fish I want to catch,” is his reply. Even the most experienced sport angler will understand the sentiment.
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