The teetering, hundred-year-old collection of wooden buildings that form my father’s fishing club in backwoods Quebec is arranged in a row like a Wild West town, where mosquitoes are the hostile locals. To reach his favourite fishing spots, Dad sometimes has to stop his motorized quad in front of downed trees and change into Kevlar trousers to chainsaw his way through.
Nearby lakes without large fish are often stocked with trout for sport – a practice which, after careful study, Dad has adopted on behalf of the club. When I visited a couple of weeks ago – for my son’s fishing initiation – he described his stocking process. He gets to the lake with the juveniles from the hatchery and looks for a spot near the shore where schools of minnows congregate. Then he puts his little bitty lake trout, or what have you, into the water next to the tiny adult fish.