JUST BEFORE a floatplane leaves the water and takes to the air, there’s a moment of uncertainty and anticipation that never fails to take me by surprise. Despite the fact that I rode in such aircraft hundreds of times during my time as a guide in Alaska, I’m still not immune to the thrill of that instant. The transition from water to air is never as abrupt and defined as I expect it to be, and in those last seconds — when you can feel the lift in the wings even as the floats continue to skim the surface of the lake — the plane seems to be bridging the two elements of air and water. It’s only when this lingering tension finally breaks that I know I’ve left the security of civilization behind and am on my way into the unpredictable world of the bush.

It was with great excitement, then, that I and my friend Sandy Hays (who was along to take pictures) boarded a DeHavilland Otter last August, bound for Lac Holt. I hadn’t flown into the bush for several years, and I was eager to recapture that feeling of being surrounded by miles of wilderness in every direction. Although I knew virtually nothing about the region to which we were headed, I had been told that there were huge landlocks to be caught (Canadians call them ouananich), and that was enough to pique my interest.

What really sold me on the idea of visiting Lac Holt and writing a story about it, however, was not the fishing opportunities. As regular readers of American Angler are no doubt aware, we publish very few stories about remote lodges, because we believe that many of those destinations are beyond the means of the average fly fisherman. So when my friend Siegfried Gagnon, who works at Tourisme Quebec, told me of a remote lodge that costs about $200 a day, I was intrigued but skeptical. After all, most Alaskan lodges will set you back more like $800 a day. Not to mention that an East Coaster has to shell out another Grand in airfare just to get to the forty-ninth state.

I met up with the owners of Lac Holt, Gilles Marquis and Lisette Bouchard, at a fly-fishing show in Massachusetts, and just a short conversation convinced me that this was the real deal. They showed me maps of the territory, explained the various accommodation plans, and described the fishery. Having spent a lot of time listening to lodge owners puff up the fishing possibilities of their waters, I was pleasantly surprised by the candor of Gilles’ sales pitch.

“I tell people that this is not a trophy fishery,” he said, his thick accent belying the fact that he speaks near-perfect English. “There are many big trout and salmon — and many anglers catch them — but it is not like Alaska or the far north of Québec. What we offer is a wonderful wilderness experience and lots of fish. And there’s always the chance you’ll catch a giant.”

So I set off to Québec to see what kind of wilderness sporting experience you can have for less than the price of an average Manhattan hotel room.

The Other Bush

We Americans sometimes forget how massive Canada really is. When I broke out a map to scout the area I’d be fishing, I was amazed by the sheer size of Québec all by itself: it’s more than twice the size of Texas and measures more than 1200 miles from the U.S. border to the tip of the Ungava Peninsula. There’s plenty of territory stretching out to the east, as well, and that’s where we were headed.

Lac Holt is nestled among the ancient, rounded mountains some 50 miles northeast of Havre-St.-Pierre, which lies on Québec’s Côte Nord (“North Coast”). Havre-St.-Pierre — a 12 hour drive northeast of Québec City — is almost at the end of the road that parallels the St. Lawrence. (The fact that there is a road, however, means that, to visit Lac Holt, you need never get on a commercial flight, which cuts costs even further.)

What was apparent once the floatplane began climbing away from Havre-St.-Pierre was that all civilization is clustered near the coast and the road. After just a couple minutes in the air, we were over uninhabited wilderness that stretches north uninterrupted into Labrador. The coastal plane soon gave way to hills, and then a range of mountains that run in parallel ridges, with many lakes and rivers between them.

Lac Holt Outfitters’ main lodge, which accommodates 8 guests, actually sits on the shores of Lac Watshishou — a huge, sprawling lake, which is more than a dozen miles long and which features many arms, bays, and coves. Its outlet is a 2-mile-long river that empties in Lac Holt, which then drains into Petit Lac Holt via an even shorter river. Lac Holt Outfitters has four other cabins spread around the territory, for guests who want more privacy and who are willing to bring their own supplies.

On the Water

After we dropped our gear off at the lodge, Gilles, Sandy, and I hopped into a boat and headed for the unnamed river that drains Lac Watshishou. Gilles told me that the best spot for trophy salmon was right at the top of the river, so we began by casting streamers there. The action was pretty slow at first — it was the middle of the day, after all — but I soon landed a couple of 12-inch salmon. Now that we’d gotten the skunk off, Gilles suggested that we go on a short hike to get a look at the river.

Because of the fragmented geography of the region, there are few long rivers that drain large areas in eastern Québec. Instead, there are thousands of lakes connected by short stretches of fast-moving water. The river between Lac Watshishou and Lac Holt is only a couple of miles long, but it contains dozens of rapids, riffles, and pools that make for perfect fish habit. The water reminded me of Maine’s Rapid River, where I first learned how to fish for landlocked salmon, so I immediately felt right at home.

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