Well, I was sitting on the penthouse balcony of my cousin's condo, watching the Toronto nightlife erupt beneath me while enjoying a nice camel striploin steak, when I started to think about good ol' Dr. James Henshall and his numerous fishin' exploits some 150 years ago.

As legend has it, Henshall was a physician on the Union side during the American Civil War, and while Morgan's raiders were storming across Kentucky and the wounded and dead piled up outside his hospital tent, ol' Henshall just couldn't be torn away from his favourite bass stream flowing out from just around the bend on the Ohio River.

A good fishin' hole, especially one with some big fish in it, can turn a fella insanely selfish. I've been in just such a predicament many times myself. The phone company wants their money? Don't bother me because I'm out at the Hearne Channel, and besides, I already spent all my money on pickerel rigs.

Anyway, I figured this usually uncontrollable urge would be suitably suppressed during my two-week family vacation to Ontario. I mean, how tempting can some dipsy-doodle sunfish be? But after five days wandering garbage strewn streets in the pouring rain, I was ready to test any pond, stream, or ditch creek that trickled by.

My girlfriend's family lives in an idyllic village on the outskirts of Ottawa; my folks left Yellowknife two years ago for a likewise quaint little Ontario town on the shores of Lake Huron. Both these bergs have little streams flowing through them, and so leaving Toronto and its pavement-ridden dearth of suitable fish habitat behind to continue our vacation in more rustic surroundings with some fishin' possibilities was greatly welcomed by yours truly.

I fish the North so much and elsewhere so little these days that I often forget how exciting it can be for the unaccustomed visitor to tie into a big one or even just to catch some we find decidedly average here.

I'm often queried and sometimes criticized for using the F-word (OK, fartknocker) to describe any number of countless and forgettable pike four to six pounds in weight that I catch each year.

My girlfriend's brother Corey landed one at Pauline Bay this summer that was 44 inches long. Needless to say very exciting. He might as well have had Ed McMahon hand him a $1 million cheque and the keys to a brand new Ferrari with a gaggle of Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders in the back. Fishin' with him in Ontario, I caught two pike that would've been fartknocker food up here.

And yet people are crazy about fish down there. I made my first pilgrimage to the fabled Pro Bass Shop in Vaughan, Ont. while on my trip, which I can only describe as a sort of magical gumdrop fairyland for outdoor enthusiasts. Rivers full of giant rainbow trout flow past the store's gates while stuffed and stern-looking black bears stare down at you from plaster mountain walls high above as you peruse the world's largest tackle bargain bin. I don't even know why customers even bother venturing outside to fish. They'd probably have better luck in the moat in front of the store.

Nonetheless, I fished everywhere I could on my trip and the largest fish I caught was a redhorse, which we would call a sucker up here. The rest were shrimpy little bass and the dinkiest of dinky, little trout.

It was plenty to ponder as I gorged on the mound of bactrian beast meat, freshly acquired from St. Lawrence Market, waiting for the big city lights to dissolve away and take me home again.

Cheers, nice vacation but it's good to be back in the big, wide North.

- Mike W. Bryant is assignment editor for Yellowknifer. Contact him at 766-8236 or by e-mail at minder@nnsl.com