The first thing I remember is the sound.
Not the loons or the wind, but the crackling, lonely pitch of the last sheets of ice succumbing to the spring. Jamie and I stood at the edge of the rocky outcrop just staring wide-eyed at the vast expanse of Kabinakagami Lake. We had just landed mere minutes before, the float plane already on its journey back home across the thick wilderness of Northern Ontario. We can’t decide if it’s still winter or if spring will truly kiss us on this trip. Turns out, it’s both—often in the same afternoon.
On our first evening, Kaby Lake looked almost gentle. The main basin still wore traces of thin ice, but the shorelines were open, calm and reeking of the monsters we were so desperately about to seek. We quickly threw our bags in our cabins and strung up our fly rods.
“This is going to be wild,” I said.
Jamie just grinned. “What did you expect?”
We were there to film an early-season episode of The New Fly Fisher, showcasing the absolute beauty and breathtaking expanse of the Northern Ontario wilderness. Ice-out means hungry pike and feisty walleye, but it can also come with a few…snarls. Those darkening clouds in the distance began to taunt us, just waiting for the motor to rip and rods to cast.
Ice-out fishing is a little like trying to have a conversation with someone who keeps changing topics. The fish are hungry after a long winter, but they’re also quite moody. One moment they’re stacked in the first dark drop-off outside the lodge, the next they’ve slid into a sun-warmed grassy pocket you would swear was too shallow to hold anything bigger than a perch.
We hit the water and started in tight, focusing on narrow necks and subtle gaps in the fallen tree structure. I tied on a weighted olive-green and bright-orange streamer (perch, please!) while Jamie chose something bigger, brighter, and with a little flash. He’s the optimist here, and I quietly wished I could be so daring.
The first good fish came right where the map said it should: a rocky pinch-point where the last of the ice still clung to the shaded face. I made a cast along the edge of that white, grainy shelf and started a deep, slow and steady retrieve. Halfway back to the boat and right before thinking “what am I doing with my life”, the hit of a promising toothy creature struck undeniable.
When the pike finally rolled into view, its sides caught by what little sun the sky was offering, I gave a sharp WHOOP! We laughed as I fought the fish with the vigour of an angler who sat shaking her fists at the falling snow, just desperate for spring fishing. This felt like getting away with something—catching such a vivid, hungry fish that still smelled faintly of socked-in winter.
By day two of our trip, the weather decided to show us who was really in charge. We woke to a sky the colour of aluminum and a wind that cut through every layer of my clothes, my skin, my soul. I pulled on my cold-weather gear characters (merino, fleece, puffer, shell) and still felt like I’d forgotten something ultra-essential. At the dock, tiny pellets of ice stung our faces as we loaded into the boat.
“This is a very specific type of romance,” I chattered, folding my buff over my head.
“Please let them dance with us today”.
Out on the lake, the world narrowed to the boat, the fly line, and the next cast. Huge white caps crashed and cracked through us as we flew to find sheltered water. All I kept thinking was where the wind had less teeth, and the creatures used theirs. I watched Jamie at the back of the boat, shoulders hunched against the weather, making patient, methodical casts into a shoreline that looked like home.
The day became a test of small decisions: do we tuck behind one more island? Switch flies every 10 casts? Leave fish to find fish or stay and hope they will turn on? When you’re cold, and the sleet hits you sideways, every choice feels like the total unknown. What if they’re just…too cold?
In one quiet bay, half-choked with last year’s dead weeds and framed by black spruce, the day suddenly shifted. Jamie switched flies to something a bit smaller with just a touch of chartreuse—the kind with just enough attitude to stand out in black water. With a tight cast to the bank and two long, slow strips, the line finally went tight.
The pike that surfaced was pure Ontario villainy—long, thick jaws of winter-fueled intention. It came in hot, flared in the shallows and then hammered the fly again right at the boat. For a split second, I just existed in the electricity of that connection. The space between two anglers and one very aggressive, super hungry cry for a hook-set.
Jamie didn’t whoop, as I did. He was completely dialled; wild to wild. Ice spears are collecting on his moustache like confetti. We landed that fish quickly, held it just long enough to feel the power in its shoulders and finally watched it disappear back into the shadowed water. The bay went quiet again, but something in us just shifted. You don’t need many fish on days like that. You just need the ones who are ready to show up and spit in your face. That, my friends, is pure bliss.
Back at the lodge that night, the storm wrapped itself around the peninsula. Ice rattled on the cabin windows, and the fireplace screamed with uncomplicated heat. We hung our wet bones up to dry and lay out on the comfortable couches.
