THREE RODS AND A CANE
For these backcountry anglers, navigating challenges on and off the water was the biggest reward of all
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“Um, guys, I think I’ve hooked something,” said Pete Kloppenburg, sitting at the bow of our boat.
“Cool. Good job,” I replied, still staring intently over the stern, with my hand on the tiller. We were in a tricky spot by the main outflow of a small wilderness lake, and I was trying to keep us out of the fast current so we could cast into the deep water in front.
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Then Wes Nelson, the other member of our trio and an experienced angler, barked, “Set the hook! Set the hook!” A second later, he banged me on the knee and said, “Heads up, Scotty. He’s definitely got a fish—and it’s a pretty good one.”
I looked up to see Pete’s rod arced dangerously over, then exchanged glances with Wes. Whatever was on the other end of the line was about to deliver a moment none of us would forget.

SETTING THE HOOK
Three days earlier, our floatplane had touched down on the glassy surface of French Lake, about 30 minutes by air from Cochrane, Ontario. In many ways, this wasn’t my typical fishing adventure, but that was by design. Usually when I plan outpost trips, I assemble a group of serious fishing types, often including my close friend Wes Nelson.
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But this time, Wes and I had decided on something different. Instead of adding another hardcore angler, we invited Pete Kloppenburg. The three of us have been close friends since university in the early 1990s, but Pete had virtually zero fishing experience. He’s a long-time cottage owner in Ontario’s Muskoka region, and loves spending time outside, but he hadn’t picked up a rod in many years.
“Are you guys sure about this?” he asked more than once as we planned our adventure. “I know you love these trips, and I really don’t want to slow you down.”
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There was more to that question than his fishing inexperience. Pete has multiple sclerosis, an autoimmune disease that significantly affects his mobility and stamina. It’s a quiet, stubborn disability, the kind that people don’t always see right away. But it’s there, with every step. Almost 15 years after his diagnosis, Pete now uses a cane or walker to get around, and he tires easily. None of that mattered to us.
“That’s the whole point of an outpost. We make our own schedule. The fish will be there when we’re ready,” I assured him.
“Think about it,” Wes added. “No cell service. No neighbours. Just three old friends, a cabin in the wilderness, and more pike and walleye than you’ve ever caught.”
Pete’s expression turned pensive. “Will there be beer?”



