Good, bad, ugly: Fishing was great, but trip home was a nightmare

I should have known from the very first sign.

My son, Izzy, and I recently met in Winnipeg, Manitoba for a fly-in fishing trip, and everything about it was sensational. The trip, home, though, was something else, and I refuse to let it diminish the fishing experience. It is, though, another chapter, and one that – like the fishing – will live long in my memory.

It started out nice enough, with a circle of Bolton Lake as we left in the bush plane and then a nice ride 300 miles back to the Winnipeg Airport. There, Izzy and I made it through security, and made a good choice to eat a salad bowl for lunch after four straight days of deep-fried walleye and potatoes.

We soon parted ways, with my Air Canada flight to Toronto leaving an hour before his West Jet trip to Calgary, and eventually back to Los Angeles.

First clues to 30-hour ordeal are runway back, flying suitcases

It’s when my flight landed in Toronto the trip started turning sour. Toronto’s Pearson International Airport is a major hub for not only flights throughout Canada, but for a lot of international flights, and it’s one busy airport. As we landed, I could see out the plane’s window that things were backed up on the runway, and even worse on the tarmac. As we made our way to the terminal, the captain came over the loudspeaker, saying there was a delay and we would have to wait for an open gate.

As I looked out the window, it looked like a plane parking lot, with Air Canada jets everywhere. And then, the first real clue as to what was in store for me for the next 30 hours happened. In taking in the hustle and bustle of the tarmac, I watched as an employee was driving a series of baggage carts across the lot, when two suitcases went flying off one of the carts. The driver never stopped, and neither did any of the many other vehicles that sped past the luggage on the tarmac. I could only wonder what was happening to my suitcase.

We eventually found an open gate, and when I deplaned and made my way up the runway and into the terminal, the first thing I did was to check the board of incoming and outgoing flights, only to see the word “canceled” by my next flight to Cleveland. It was pretty clear, but just to make sure, I walked farther down the terminal to another board, and it too said my flight to Cleveland, on a perfectly calm, sunny Sunday, was indeed canceled.

Now I was pretty familiar with the Air Canada section of the Toronto Airport as I had a seven-hour layover there on my trip out to Winnipeg. I didn’t plan it that way, but twice the airlines changed my flight from Toronto to Winnipeg, probably because I was flying economy, because they didn’t eliminate the earlier flights, just my seats on them.

Honey, don't wait supper; I'm going to be late ... by a day or two

Anyways, I knew where to go to check about my canceled flight, but first I had to email my wife so she wouldn’t leave to pick me up at the Cleveland airport. I didn’t pay for international calling for my trip, thinking an occasional text (which I paid a separate charge for each one) and free emails was the best way to go.

Luckily, I got ahold of her, and let her know I was working on a solution.

I found my way to the help desk a little before a host of other unhappy fliers did (including an entire Boy Scout troop from Virginia that had been canoeing in Canada), but got a lady behind a plexiglass window that A: I could barely hear, and B: I could barely understand; to help me with my problem.

Like a lot of travelers, I found out my flight to Cleveland had been canceled due to a lack of pilots, and Air Canada had no other options of getting me to Cleveland the rest of the day. In fact, Air Canada’s best option was a 4:30 p.m. flight the next day …. to Chicago, and then to Cleveland.

Now it didn’t make sense to me to fly west to Chicago for essentially a quick one-hour flight south to Cleveland, but that, their computer said, was my only choice.

Only supplies were a sock full of fishing reels and an airplane pillow

I told the lady “you better get me a hotel,” and after clearing it with a supervisor, they printed me out a voucher for a room at the Airport Marriott, and gave me two $10 food vouchers to use at any restaurant in the airport.

While that sounds good, that’s actually just $10 Canadian, which will buy you about half a sandwich at the airport. I had some snacks in my backpack, so I decided to save my vouchers for the next day, and headed out of the airport in search of a shuttle to the hotel.

I managed to find my way to the shuttle pickup, and when I flashed my voucher to the person working the front desk at the Marriott, he assured me that I was in the right place and that the entire bill would be on Air Canada’s tab.

Now, my only problem was I had a nice hotel room on the ninth floor of a nice, fancy hotel in Toronto, but I had no suitcase, no change of clothes, no toiletries. I had six fishing reels wrapped in white tube socks, an old shirt, snacks, paperwork, my passport and an airplane pillow in my backpack – that's it.

I spent the next 18 hours showering, sleeping and watching ESPN bored out of my gourd, waiting for when I could head back to the airport.

Even getting back to the airport had it moments

I checked out at 11:30 a.m. and spent nearly an hour outside on the bench watching how the other half of the world lives. I gave up my seat on the noon shuttle to a family in a rush, and caught the next one to the airport, where I had to go through security and customs before I could find my way to my gate.

In line, I was between an Australian headed to Austin, Texas, for a convention, and a man returning home to Huntsville, Alabama. He was wearing a Duck’s Unlimited hat, so I struck up a conversation with him. He told me he was in Canada for a trapshooting competition. Having shot in championships in all 50 states, he was now working his way through shoots in Canada, having just competed in the Quebec championships.

Unfortunately, there was a snafu with his gun in security, and now he was fearing he wouldn’t make it through customs in time to catch his flight to Nashville. The line was long, and only three agents were working for passengers headed to the United States.

Eventually, we both made it through, and he did make his flight, although they were boarding when he got there. I was scheduled from the same gate two hours later. With time to burn, I checked out my food options, and went with a chicken sandwich from Wahlburgers, but I still had to pay for a drink and a tip out of my own pocket.

I little late, a few glares, but he makes the flight home

Now, all I had to do was wait for my flight to Chicago and then on to Cleveland.

But, my flight to Chicago was delayed, and then we sat on the runway waiting in line to take off. That left me very little time in Chicago to catch my flight to Cleveland. I needed to change terminals, and in a slight jog, I started making my way from Terminal 2 to Terminal 1, knowing all the time my flight to Cleveland was about to take off.

Back in the U.S., I could use my phone so I called my wife, who could see online my flight was in fact boarding. Hustling down hallways and walking escalators, I made my way to Terminal 1. I could see my Gate 22 in the distance, but I couldn’t pass up a chance to stop in the men’s room first. There were no passengers in the Gate 22 lobby when I finally got there, just a ticket agent, who patiently waited as I rifled through my backpack for my boarding pass.

I’m usually not that person who is last on the plane, but sometimes, you just can’t help it. In fact, you can tell when you’re just making it in under the wire when the stewardess is addressing the passengers over the loudspeakers and you are asked to wait outside the plane as to not interrupt her.

Now, a quick flight to Cleveland, pick up my bag, and an hour’s car ride and I’ll be home. Not so fast, though.

Big surprise: Luggage lost

Of course, my suitcase never arrived in Cleveland. Why would it?

So now, while my wife is in the airport’s cell phone lot awaiting my call, I’m filling out paperwork about my lost luggage.

“Is there anything in your bag that if we opened it, we would know it’s yours?” asked the agent.

“Yes,” I said, “there’s about 100 fishing lures in there and six spools of fishing line.”

“Well,” the agent said, “it usually takes about two-seven days to find luggage. We’ll let you know.”

Two days later at 3:50 in the morning, I could hear my suitcase wheels rolling across my porch flooring. Everything made it back safe and sound.

That’s not the end of the story, though.

And, another surprise: COVID strikes

When I woke up in the morning at the Toronto Marriott, I had a scratchy throat, but I attributed that to sleeping in the air conditioning after four days of living in God’s country in the deep woods of Manitoba.

The next morning, though, I started to get a runny nose along with a sore throat, and two days later, I tested positive for COVID. Now seven days later, I still haven’t tested negative, even though I now feel fine and only ever had mild symptoms (morning fevers, achy). The real problem now is my wife is in the midst of COVID.

So, despite always wearing an N95 mask in the airports and planes, somewhere along the line I picked up the bug, and now my wife has it.

My trip home from Winnipeg was a nightmare, but it still doesn’t put a damper on my fishing trip of a lifetime with my son to Bolton Lake Lodge. It just added to the story.

Outdoor correspondent Art Holden can be reached at letsplabal@yahoo.com.

This article originally appeared on The Daily Record: Canceled flight, lost bags, COVID. But, hey, fishing was great