We had long wanted to fly fish for Canadian brookies–those large sparkling trout that were plentiful and praised for sportfishing. The lodges that catered to this fishing were nestled in the Canadian wilderness, most of them accessible only by float plane. The smaller brookies that lived in our home streams were easily my favorite to stalk, but the brookies in Canada were supposed to be giants comparatively. 

We booked the trip at a lodge that was 72 aerial miles from the nearest town. They only booked a small number of people weekly, and true to form, were only accessible by float plane. We were required to wait at a small town to be flown in, weather permitting. All the other flight legs hopscotched us in from home.

Those several short hops played havoc with George’s back, which he had hurt only a week or two prior to our trip, and which was exacerbated with his tall frame and the increasingly smaller planes we had to take. He had at first wanted to see a chiropractor in the small town we waited in, but it was not to be.  I felt bad for him as the week progressed and portions of the trip tweaked his back. I could tell this trip was not going to be ranked in the best of his memories….

We did hook into several large brookies, and our guide was personable, knowledgable, and chatty. Talking with him, we decided to forego a few of the bumpy boat outings, as they were too rough on his back. However, he was happy to report that the next group coming in, due in a day and overlapping our outing by a few days, also had a doctor within its personnel. At first, George’s eyes lit up, hopeful. I mean, out in the middle of nowhere and a doctor would be coming in?  But then the guide added, laughingly, that the doctor was a gynecologist! Hopes dashed, but we all enjoyed the irony and laughed.  When we quieted, he then said, “You aren’t gonna believe this part. That gynecologist? His name is Dr. Kum”.

……yes, we laughed even more heartily. No, the gynecologist could not help George. However, he had elected to bring his son, who turned out to be the Sports Chiropractor for the Harvard Athletic Department, who didn’t really fly fish. What are the odds!!? In the end, I traded the son flycasting & fly fishing lessons for a session for George, true to our new mantra “It’ll all work out in the end.”

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