Walleye Fishermen

On our voyage last summer up Lake Winnipeg, we saw very few signs of human habitation and even fewer people. One day when we were nearing the north end of Lake Winnipeg, we could see a silver boat in the distance that seemed to be going in circles. It would stop periodically and then resume it’s circular route. At the same time we began to notice floating markers sticking up out of the water. After a while we realized the silver boat was a fishing boat and the fishermen were checking their nets. Because we hadn’t seen people for over a week, we headed towards them, but the boat kept motoring away when we got relatively close. “Okay,” I thought, “they are busy and don’t want to talk to us.”

Soon the boat began to head right towards us. When It pulled up alongside our canoe, we could see two men in slickers standing amongst many crates piled on the deck. The older man, who was still much younger than any of us, introduced himself as Corwin Sinclair. The other person was his son Nick who never spoke a word the whole time. We asked lots of questions, as did Corwin, and we discovered they lived in a nearby native community and checked their nets twice a day. Corwin told us they keep only walleye and throw everything else back and that they hadn’t had a particularly good catch that day. Nonetheless, he asked us if we wanted some fillets. Of course, having eaten only dehydrated food for days, the idea of fresh meat was mouthwatering. We practically screamed our consent. Corwin whipped out a gleaming fillet knife and grabbed a 22-inch walleye out of a crate. Within 10 seconds, the guts were in the water and the fillets were in a bag of ice. Just as quickly, he filleted two more large walleye and handed us the bag.

We must have thanked him so profusely that he felt sorry for us and asked, “Would you like a bologna sandwich?” We replied, “Yes! Yes!” Then he followed it up with “Would you like an apple? Would you like an orange? Would you like some pop?” Predictably, we answered in the affirmative to every question, and it all went in another bag. Finally they apparently ran out of food to offer us. Meanwhile the silent son had been staring unbelievingly at his dad and at his lunch disappearing, piece by piece. But Corwin reassured us, “We’re not far from home–we can get more food.” After talking to them for half an hour or so about their netting process and their lives in the tribal village and their relatives (Debbie, our native culture expert, knew some Sinclairs) we prepared to continue our journey in our now-heavier canoe.

At the last minute, Corwin asked, “Do you have any tobacco?” Well, Debbie just happened to have some tobacco in a pouch around her neck, so she gave some to him. He took a pinch and sprinkled it in the water at the bow of their boat while muttering some indecipherable words. I asked him if he was giving thanks for the fish, and he replied, “No, I’m giving thanks for you!” He explained that his people loved to see canoes traveling on the lake because it is their history that we are preserving by using their traditional method of traveling. They were happy that we were enjoying their beautiful lake. It was eye-opening for me to realize that we were not looked upon us trespassers or wannabes but as fellow enjoyers of the wilderness environment. We finally bid them a good day, and a good catch, and paddled off. We ate the sandwiches for lunch, we had walleye for supper, and ate the fruit over the next several days. The encounter remains one of the highlights of our trip.