Gimli, one hour north of Winnipeg, is a popular summer resort, attracting hordes of city dwellers with its broad sandy beaches and slightly ramshackle charm. But on a late September morning, I find myself in this empty town on the western shores of Lake Winnipeg.

Up before dawn, I’m here to meet Arni Matheson at the harbour. He’s a local commercial fisher who, every day, hauls in hearty whitefish from the lake. The town’s combined efforts account for nearly a quarter of the 4.5 million kilograms of pickerel (walleye) caught each year, earning them (and dozens of other nearby fishers) close to $3.5 million for their efforts. From here, the fish are distributed across the continent and end up on the menus of top North American chefs eager for authentic “new” tastes.

Gimli’s fishing industry was founded in 1875 when 350 Icelandic immigrants arrived after a series of calamities, including a volcanic eruption that crippled their economy and livestock. The bounty within Lake Winnipeg mimicked the fishing they knew from their homeland, and so they settled the town. Originally, Gimli was created as an “Icelandic reserve,” a self-administering community with its own laws and constitution. Although that arrangement ended and the reserve opened up to non-Icelanders in 1897, the Icelandic impact on the culture of the area has remained.

It’s calm at the marina. But the lake’s quiet mood should not be completely trusted.

“The weather can change in a minute,” says Matheson. “When it blows up, you hang on to the nets in spite of the wind—it’s great.”

Fishers quietly prep their boats while a handful of day-workers watch, keeping their distance, waiting for fishers in need of a helping hand.

Besides the help, a fishing buddy is said to bring luck on any fishing trip. So, joining us is Rob, Matheson’s regular worker.     With his laconic nature, toothy grin and wool cap pulled low over his eyes, he looks like Relic from the Beachcombers TV show.

I climb aboard Gimme Shelter, Matheson’s 23-foot skiff, and soon after we are bumping lightly over waves in the dark morning.

The grainy, intoxicating smell of hops permeates the air—the town’s largest employer, the Gimli Distillery, is the sole producer of Crown Royal whisky.

We reach Matheson’s gillnets just as dawn breaks. His territory is marked with buoys, each bearing his official quota number.

Matheson and Rob handle the nets; they put me in charge of music. I pop Honky Tonk Blues into Matheson’s CD player. He gives me a thumbs up. The fish approve, too, I guess. They are gathering en masse.           

“October is the best time for fresh pickerel.

The water is cold, the fish are pristine,” says Matheson as he and Rob yank fish from the nets and toss them into plastic bins. A good haul means Matheson brings back a few hundred kilograms.

We stay out until mid-morning, then head back to land and Matheson’s cutting shed, where he deftly cleans the fish. Speed and precision are important, as he and his fellow fishers need time to return to the waters for their second trip of the day. The cool fall season (the beginning of September until the end of October) usually brings down the trips to just once a day, but the first two weeks of the season are still warm enough to head

ut twice.

With this abundance of fish in Gimli, it’s no surprise local menus feature plenty of pickerel preparations. A stop in town isn’t complete without at least trying a couple.

Matheson himself likes to prepare his pickerel with his mom’s special recipe. Just pan fried with flour, an egg, sautéed onions, mashed potatoes, corn and beets; Manitoba style, he says. But there are almost as many ways to eat it as there are fish.

Leaving Matheson to his craft, I walk along the pier where murals painted by local artists depict the history of Icelandic settlers. Even today, the town is known as New Iceland and residents with Icelandic descent are referred to as West Icelanders in the homeland. Precisely what you discover at the New Iceland Heritage Museum that pays homage to the town’s heritage as well as the Huldufolk, the hidden or invisible people that even some of the most rational of Icelanders believe in.

Roaming the streets, I see a guy with an Icelandic flag tattooed on his arms, and teenagers trying on thick Icelandic sweaters at Tergessen’s, Gimli’s century-old general store. That’s when I see Matheson and his fellow fishers going out on the lake again for their second catch of the day. There’s something oddly comforting when you recognize people on the streets and are invited into the rhythms of their lives, on a trip that lasted less than 24 hours. It’s the simple wonder of those patterns that keeps me coming back.

If you're in Gimli, and all this fish talk is making you hungry, check out our list of local eats and Icelandic treats.