At first glance, planning a fishing trip should be a pretty simple endeavor.

Make a list of everything you need … well in advance. Check it. Double-check it. Then put all your gear in a pile … throw it in a truck … and head out.

Simple, simple, simple.

Or maybe not. There are, you see, plenty of ways for a semi-creative angler to make a mess of things.

As you may or may not have read, I spent last week in the far northern reaches of Quebec. The destination: Timbuktu Lodge, which is attractive, in part, because you’ll never find it on a map, or in a glossy brochure, or on the Internet.

Timbuktu isn’t a business. No money changes hands … unless, of course, a couple of visitors head to Labrador City – 125 miles to the north – and those who stay behind decide they just can’t live without some bread, or potato chips, or a bottle of the local rot-gut, a rum-ish brew called, for good reason, Screech.

At that point, cash is handed over, and merchandise bought. Other than that? Well, let’s just say that even the Canadian exchange rate can’t do justice to the deal you get at Timbuktu.

Timbuktu is a camp, plain and simple. Tim Lander owns it and opens it to his friends and relatives … and friends of his relatives.

Luckily, he has several brothers, and one of them is a close friend of mine. That friend will remain unnamed here, for two good reasons: First, he invited me on the trip, and I feel indebted. And second, he’s the person who helped prove, once again, how many things can go wrong when four guys pack up two trucks, drive 16 hours, and try to have a perfect week of fishing.

Think I’m exaggerating? Taking creative license? Telling a fish tale? Read on.

Day One: Fishing Buddy shows up at my house, where I’ve eagerly piled my gear in the driveway. I hand him two fishing nets. He puts them in truck. I tell him to give them back, so that we don’t have to load coolers and other assorted cargo on top of them. He does.

We finish packing … apparently … and head north.

We dodge moose between Rockwood and Jackman. Thirteen of them (yes, we counted). We sail across the border after assuring a chipper customs agent that we aren’t trying to carry any firearms or pepper spray or other contraband into the country.

And eventually, in Baie Comeau – a bustling little town on the St. Lawrence Seaway – we stop to buy our final supplies, including licenses.

Timbuktu is 180 miles or so, due north, and this is the last we’ll see of civilization. The end of our journey is in sight. We’re excited.

After stocking up, Fishing Buddy enthusiastically throws open the rear door on his enormous SUV, and I hear the sound of plastic shattering. I see batteries rolling across the parking lot.

And I see a freshly fractured fish-finder that will not see any use on this trip.

Bad karma.

Farther north, we head. In all, we cover 723 miles (yes, we counted). By this time, it’s Day Two.

We unpack … claim a bunk … and get ready to fish. Yes, we’re tired. Yes, we smell bad. And yes, there is a lake in front of us … and we plan on getting right to work.

I try to put the fish-finder back together, and Fishing Buddy offers to use his impressive duct-taping skills to help. No go.

We decide to rough it, and head to the boat, resigned to the fact that we’ll have to find fish … and the rocky bottom of the lake … the old-fashioned way: By accident.

En route to the beach, I remember something else.

I haven’t seen a net, yet. I dig through the truck. Dig through my bags. Dig around in the camp. Retrace every step I’ve taken.

No nets.

They are, of course, back in Bangor, leaning against my truck … right where I put them so they’d be out of the way until we packed them.

Still, we persevere. We load up a small boat that we (later) name the Edmund Fitzgerald, and shove off.

Fishing Buddy takes the helm. Well, he would have, had the Edmund Fitzgerald been large enough to have a helm. Actually, he crouches in the stern, grabs the pull-cord, and gives a brisk tug.

The little motor chugs to life, and pushes us forward. The prop grabs a mouthful of sand. Fishing Buddy grabs the motor’s handle … before something bad happens.

Something bad happens anyway: The handle breaks off in his hand.

No problem, he says. I can steer with my hand. He tugs the cord again, and the motor catches. It roars. It whines.

And we sit, motionless.

We have broken a shear pin, it seems. We try to paddle to shore … but find (of course) that we have no paddle.

We do a variation of the dog-paddle, reaching overboard with our hands. After five minutes or so, we reach land, as our fishing friends sit on shore and chuckle.

We repair. Or, more accurately, two other (more handy) anglers in our party repair for us.

Fishing Buddy and I stand around, hold tools, and sheepishly swat flies.

Eventually, we fish. Honest. We do.

But that’s another story for another day.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.