Unnamed Lakes

            Now and again a man such as myself needs to do something stupid. Often times it is my own idea that is the catalyst and other times I simply agree to come along for someone else’s insanity. In this instance I was merely a volunteer unwittingly tagging along. It was summer 2013 and I had taken a job at my old home town in hopes of making a little more money to pay off student debt. A perk of this job was that I was now living out in the country and could dedicate my free time after work to a lot of fishing. This was the summer I first got into fly fishing and also the first time I fished from a canoe, both of which I highly recommend.
 
            One fine day after work, as I did on many days after work, I went to a friend’s house. As it turns out a friend of ours had been given a small 4×4 pick up that hadn’t been used in years. They immediately went to town on it, they outfitted it with a working snorkel hand crafted from aluminum tubing usually used for eaves troughs. They also finished it off with a “beautiful” paint job which was actually spray on box liner, not a bad idea when you think about it though. I luckily arrived after all the major work had been done, I showed up just in time to help install the novelty horn.
 
            Once the horn was properly and professionally installed we loaded an old row boat, some paddles, and our fishing gear into the back of the truck. We then headed out one of us on a quad and two of us in the truck, me being a passenger. Our goal was to haul the old tin row boat through a treacherous and muddy quad trail to a lake with no road access to it. These lakes are quite common in that area… might be why they call it “The Lakeland Area.”  Naturally we got stuck several times along the way, being able to barely dig ourselves out each time and keep progressing forward until disaster. We had gotten ourselves stuck very badly in the last big mud hole before the lake. We had tried pulling every direction with the quad to no avail, come to think of it… we tried every get out of mud trick we know and between the three of us is quite a wealth of knowledge.
I tried everything I could think of: yelling, swearing, spitting, hitting it…
            Eventually around nightfall someone had mentioned, “Looks like I’m going to have to get on my quad and go get my tractor to pull us out.” I was rather furious at the fact that no one had told me this was an option… that we could have made use of several hours and several hundred mosquito bites SOONER! So before that happened we hauled the tin boat the half kilometer to the lake behind the quad and left it there for later. We then sat and waited for the tractor. It eventually showed up and yanked the little truck out without the slightest hint of struggle. By the time we got back to the house we had done no fishing and I was rather thoroughly coated in mud. I decided it was easier to strip out of my muddy clothes and drive home in my underpants, luckily I didn’t get pulled over or hit a check stop. That was about the stupidest I have felt in a good long while, coming home at nearly midnight cold and coated in mud not even having casted my rod.
 
            About a week later I came back out to my friend’s in hopes that he and I could drive his quads out to the lake where the boat had been left and hopefully be rewarded with monster fish for our efforts. This plan was agreed to and acted upon quickly. We drove out to the lake, paddled out to the middle near a nice weed bed and started fishing, me for pike and him for perch. After a while we had caught nothing and the wind began to pick up. We then paddled ourselves into a small cove sheltered by trees and continued fishing. I couldn’t believe two things; one that a lake that size had seemingly no fish in it and two that a lake that size could remain so hidden in the woods but I guess with no fish that kind of makes sense. Just before we packed it in we found a single minnow sized fish and it had been long since dead… not an encouraging sign. Thanks to my frequent visits to the museum I was able to identify it as a “Brook Stickleback.” We packed it in without so much as a nibble, but I still like to believe there are fish in that lake.
Monster of the deep (Approx 3 inches in length)
 
            We arrived back at the house and decided to try out the motor boat on the nearby frog lake. After a lovely drive in the boat and some fishing in crystal clear waters I was starting to feel that luck wasn’t in the air, or water, that day. Neither one of us had gotten as much as a nibble on our hooks. From there we opted to try another lake this one had confirmed, by others, fish in it. This lake, much like the first, had no official name but it did have a house and a small boat that belonged to my friend’s uncle, who luckily for us was nice enough to lend us the boat. We motored around the lake trying a few different spots until we found a nice patch of reeds to throw some hooks at. After a bit of casting and a lot of telling stories I finally got a bite and I really didn’t want to lose it. I set the hook deep and kept a lot of tension on the line. I didn’t waste much time getting that pike to the boat. It certainly wasn’t a monster but I was sure proud of it. Shortly after that we decided the fishing was a little slow and it was starting to get a bit late in the day anyway. We found our back to the house to realize we had just enough time for one more fishing spot.
I am unreasonably proud of this fish
            We pulled up on the shore of yet another lake, this time near a natural sloping bank that, based on the tracks, doubled as a boat launch. We fished briefly before we were joined by a rather large and concerningly friendly dog. It was not of any breed I could identify but it sure looked nice. The only problem was that he was prone to jumping up with large muddy paws. Also he began to wear out his welcome when he would try to bite my hook on my back cast. Eventually I was able to get enough casts out to land another small pike, unfortunately the dog tried his best to make it a meal. Luckily for the fish I was able to release it before it became an evening snack.
            So it seems based on our poor luck and/or skill we had fished four different lakes in a single day. Usually I just change my hook every cast if I’m not catching anything but sometimes you just have to get more drastic.

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Waterton

            A trip to Waterton Lakes National Park is easily one of my favorite vacations to take. The park lies in the south west corner of Alberta. From here you can literally hike into both British Columbia and Montana. This means that for me, getting there requires a scenic drive from Northern Alberta from the boreal forest across the plains, the badlands, and foothills, I am always accompanied by my girlfriend and some Alberta made classic western music. My most recent trip was taken in late summer of 2013, it was our second trip in two years to Waterton and I highly hope it becomes an annual tradition.
            We arrived late at night and set up camp quickly and as quietly as possible in the town campsite and went immediately to bed. No matter how much I enjoy the drive I still find I’m tired at the end of it. The second day we packed our things, we loaded the usual things; clothing, food, the tent, sleeping bags, etc. I however packed something a little extra, my often underused 5 weight fly rod and accompanying fishing equipment. We then went and had a chat with the wonderful folks at the visitor’s center who suggested a great hike and sold me a fishing license. It was early and the day was already looking up. We then set out from the busy trailhead onto our mainly uphill hike to the Twin Lakes camp site. The hike itself was an amazing display of the scenery the park has

I Always Snap A Photo of The Map In Case It Gets Wrecked Or Lost

to offer as well as afforded the opportunity to see something new, two baby grouse, and yes they are as cute as you imagine they would be. We arrived at our site, set up camp, and hung our food out of bear reach. It was at this time that I had noticed a family with a rather large tent set up in the communal eating area that also acted as the only access to the nearby lake. I guess even in the woods there’s a chance of running into a family of “those” kind people. I grabbed my fishing gear and headed off toward their “campsite” I was not about to let their intrusive behavior ruin my attempts at fly fishing. A few steps from my tent I looked up and saw a mule deer doe staring at me, less than 15 feet away. It was an amazing sight and feeling to be so close to such an amazing animal, of course I would never be able to get this close to a deer during hunting season. In this instance armed with only a fly rod I felt a little nervous in the knowledge that this deer could easily make me the doe, if you know what I mean. I did my best to keep my composure and take a quick video on my

“No hunting in the park, pbbbt!”

camera before it moved on into the trees. I walked passed an older couple camped near us and mentioned that there was a deer nearby and just generally extended a hello, what can I say? I’m just a friendly guy. The older gentleman immediately spotted my fly fishing gear. It’s hard not to spot a nine foot pole I guess (there’s a joke in there somewhere). We naturally struck up a conversation on the topic in which I mentioned that I was very new to the sport, to which he replied that he was a bit of an old pro and asked to see my flies. He began telling me the names and history of the various flies in my box, I do not know if he was telling me the truth or making it up but it sounded impressive and I couldn’t remember it anyway. He then explained that at this time of evening the fish will come up to eat insects off of the surface. After our lengthy conversation he introduced himself as Van, and then proceeded to point out that there was a beach far away down the shoreline that seemed to have a drop of a few feet out and suggested I try there. I was in no position to doubt or disagree, so Erin and I

Monster of the deep/ Sasquatch quality photo

headed down to the beach.

             It was a chilly evening but I still felt it was necessary to wade out, tender parts deep, into the glacial water. Shockingly Erin declined the offer to join me in the water and chose to remain on the shore as a spectator. I quickly learned that, despite not practicing, my fly casting had not much improved. That being said I was still able to land my fly just far enough out for fish to take it. There was a small ripple where my fly was followed by a sudden, short and rapid wriggling of my rod back and forth with an abrupt downward pull. It was a strange fighting sensation I had never felt from a fish before. As I stripped the line the trout flailed and skidded across the surface. He was a monster, the biggest brook trout I had ever caught nearly five inches across… ok so the bar is set rather low when it comes to my fly fishing adventures but on the plus side that just means I get excited easier. This amazing catch was followed by nearly ten more and all it cost me was two flies lost to a log on my back cast, good thing my girlfriend wasn’t there to see me screw up… wait… dang. However all in all I would say it was a great evening of fishing and certainly good practice for my casting skills and running into someone like Van proved to be extremely helpful and may have saved the trip as I would have been a pretty unhappy camper had I not caught anything. That evening my sleep was hindered by the fact that I was soaked to the bone in ice cold water from the waist down.

This photo captures why I was willing to stand waist deep in glacier water



            Eventually the third day of our trip came into existence. We decided to walk to the nearby Goat Lake and back. I again loaded my fishing gear into my bag and we headed uphill. Our trail to the lake led us

Just Before Climbing To The Ridge

above the tree line over Avion Ridge with an elevation of just over 2400M. I myself am not a fan of heights and today was no exception. We gained elevation slowly through thin scattered trees and eventually broke above the tree line onto a narrow goat path which comprised of smooth hard rocks with loose shale overtop, I was nervous to say the least. Erin opted to take the longer higher path across the top of the ridge while I tried to stick to the lower looking path. Unfortunately shortly after separating, the path I was on got narrower and higher. I’m not sure entirely what happened next but I recall breathing rapidly and shakily taking a drink from my metal water bottle and forcing myself to keep walking. Eventually I made my way to where my path met with Erin’s. She walked causally along in front of my while I sweated and crawled on all fours along the path behind her, I’m sure it was a sight to see.

Just “relaxing” on the hillside


              We eventually made it to the end of the ridge and found that we now had to descend a bit of a boulder covered cliff. We eventually meandered our way down to the lake at which point, and it pains me to say this… I was too tired to fish. Instead we opted to have a bit of a nap on a boulder… ever been so tired you slept on a rock? I have. After our nap we headed downhill to make a full loop back to twin lakes. Once we go to the bottom of the largest hill, we realized we had forgotten my sweater at the top. “Someone” had used it as a pillow and forgot to grab it when we left. We had decided that we had traveled too far and were starting to run too low on water to turn back uphill to go get it. I asked a couple passing us on the trail if they could grab it and leave it at the information center in town. Sadly I never did see that shirt again. I hope it has a new home and is doing well. We made the long walk back to camp, if I recall it was about a 12km round trip, and I was relieved to see that the invasive family had left. I assume they moved on to annoy another campsite, they were however kind enough to leave a tangled mess of fishing line on the shore by where they camped. By the time we had arrived back at camp we were nearly out of water so I began boiling water and pouring it into our water bottles, this chore has convinced me to stop being cheap and just buy a water filter for hiking. I then wandered back to my fishing spot for a bit, the ice cold water felt good on my sore feet and knees. Again Erin declined to join me in the glacial pond, women are so strange. I fished and caught more reasonably sized, to me, trout. I fished until I felt the early stages of hypothermia kick in, at which point I came to shore zipped my wet shorts into half wet pants and immediately regretted not going back for my sweater. Erin and I boiled water and added it to dehydrated beef stir fry, which as best I can recall was about the longest 15 minutes of my life. The food was delicious and we headed back to the tent to try and warm up, at about this time the beef stir fry started to upset my fragile stomach, our tent was now cold and rather foul smelling. Somehow we survived the night without Erin kicking me out of the tent for health and safety reasons.

            As expected the third day did arrive. I was up early and snuck out of the tent as quietly as I could, needless to say I awoke Erin but she declined to join me for morning fishing. I walked back and waded in to the cold morning waters and began fishing. There was little to no action on the water until the sun started to rise. I then caught two small fish bang…bang, one after the other. Sadly as the sun came up it heated the mountain tops causing air to rise and cold air to pull off the lake and blow past me. This made casting impossible for someone of my limited skill level and it also magnified the cold. By the time I brought in my second small fish my hands were so cold it was a real challenge to dislodge the small fly from its mouth. I decided it would be safest and smartest to head back. I shivered all the way back to the tent and grabbed the stove to start making something warm to eat for breakfast. The stoves sparked seemed to have quit working at a most inopportune time, luckily I brought matches, and unluckily I was so cold that I couldn’t use them. I swear I have read a story about a man freezing to death in the arctic because he was too cold to light matches. Either way I was in a t-shirt and wet shorts with a cold wind in the shade, I had never been this cold in my life. Living in Alberta you experience -40 Celsius at least once a year, it’s a temperature so cold that if you touch metal with your bare skin it gives a searing pain like a burn, and I have still never been as cold as I was that morning. Just cold and wet down to my bones, I was sure I would never be warm again. I was starting to tell Erin I was dying and wanted to be cremated. She was kind enough to light the stove for me. I then put on dry shorts, she also gave me her base layer shirt to warm me up, so I squeezed into a shirt designed to be skin tight on my girlfriend. I am not a small man. I will spare you the details but if I were not so cold it would have been very funny to see me in a skin tight shirt that was far too small. Eventually we ate and packed up and I started shivering my way down the trail with Erin back toward the tail head. The trail out was narrow and tree lined and it seemed that some ambitious spiders had hoped of catching some hikers, I try to be chivalrous so naturally I offered to let Erin walk in front of me, she didn’t go for it. Naturally given my opinion of spiders I opted to walk slowly and use my knife to cut the webs out of the way, it just seemed easier than touching them. Eventually we made it to the trail head and let’s just say that after that three day hike I was just happy to see my truck. 

Bonus wallpaper picture courtesy of Miss Erin

 


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Photo Drop Part 2 (Bows and Guns)

I was debating whether or not I wanted to buy a bow and start getting into bow hunting. Could I afford it? Is it worth the effort? Then I made this shot. Granted it was only at seven yards… It was still enough to make me buy that bow and convince me to take up yet another hobby. I think this year will be the year I finally go big game hunting with my bow. Previously I had stuck to target practice and smaller game, in fact I’v got a few good photos of me bow hunting gophers but I doubt I will ever post them here as they are a bit on the graphic side. (comment and I’ll email them to you if you really want to see.)

I took this photo during the 2012 season in which I got my “Last Chance Buck” on the day I snapped this photo the only deer I saw were well after legal light. At least I have this great photo from the experience, I like it mainly because it shows off my first and favorite hunting rifle, an older .243 with a Mannlicher style stock on it. (I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you the brand but it starts with an R and has a Mauser style action if that helps)


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The Stuff Weekends Are Made Of (Part 3 of 3); Big Tyson’s Gopher Safaris

Every year for as long as I can remember my mother’s side of the family has gone to the Vermillion fair. Ever since I moved to the city I have spent less of the weekend at the fair and more of my time at the farm taking in every occasion to enjoy the outdoors. Summer 2012’s fair weekend, I think, has been one of the best to date. This story however cannot be told chronologically but rather divided by subject.

Me and My Cooey, My First Rifle

            I have been dating my Girlfriend Erin for about four years now, and as best I can tell I am one of the few people in her social circle who owns guns and hunts, in fact as odd as it may seem I got the impression most of them have never shot a gun before. Naturally my love of firearms immediately rubbed off on a few of them such as, my now good friend, Jason who now owns a few guns of his own and on a few occasions has out preformed me at the range. As well as our friend Nikki who went with Erin to get their firearms licenses. The catch to all this is that because we live in the city and all have jobs it’s hard for me to actually take most of these people out shooting. 

       The Sunday after the Vermillion fair however, the conditions were perfect as many of our friends had come out for the fair and were now spending a portion of the day at my mother and step father’s farm where I had spent my teenage years. I of course took this opportunity to teach anyone who wanted to learn how to shoot a gun. Everyone was willing to try so naturally I ran through the obvious rules: always point in a safe direction, finger off the trigger, action opened, etc. I taught them on my old Cooey .22 single shot but found it was a touch heavy for the ladies of the group and eventually shifted to my much lighter Savage model 29B, A beautifully built pump action .22 but sadly it does not lend itself well to beginners as the action needs to be run hard and tube magazines are not an easy thing to figure out at first. After that I showed a few of our small group how to use my semi automatic Ruger 10/22. I found however that it was kind of hard on my nerves to give beginners a semi automatic. There were no incidences throughout the training and all my pupils did very well however some were much more enthusiastic than others… perhaps as a result of the fair’s late night festivities. After a while of plinking at the trusty ole’ metal gong that so many hours of my youth were spent terrorizing with .22 shells, Jason and I decided it would be a fun idea to take some people gopher hunting. The only ones who took us up on the offer were Dell and Jason’s Girlfriend Shannon, who wanted to come along as a spectator. Everyone else decided to head on home or have a nap, in hind sight maybe I’m a boring teacher or it had something to do with the fact that the fair the evening before had a well stocked beer gardens… Either way the four of us hopped into Dell’s truck and headed toward a patch of field that I knew had a lot of gopher activity. As we pulled up we could see gophers running to their holes and perching up to stare into the distance. We were looking for gophers and we found a lot of them.

           Naturally as we pulled up close, got out of the truck, and started loading guns they all started to hide. We had with us four .22s; my Savage 29B pump action, my Ruger 10/22, my trusty Cooey single shot, and Jason’s 10/22 as well as my bow. Naturally I started with my bow, Jason took his gun, Dell took the old Savage, and Shannon armed herself with her sunny disposition. Over the next two hours we had all swapped guns, though I was the only one interested in my bow. Jason and I were getting very few gophers and Dell was getting none at all, we were all having an off day I guess and I think our trading guns was very similar to when I have poor luck fishing and change my hook more often than reasonable. Jason had been out gopher shooting before so he

Dell and His First Trophy

was already hooked, he knew how fun it could be on a good day. My fear was that Dell would lose interest with his lack of success, nothing ruins a person’s first exposure to a sport than perceived failure. There seemed to only be a few gophers out and we were having a hard time hitting them. I could see Dells shots were close, I’m sure he gave a few haircuts, I was very impressed given that today was the first time he had shot a firearm. I still think I rushed him into gopher hunting but he was rearing to go so I felt he was ready.

         Finally one stood up about 50 yards out, ran, stopped, and stood up again, Dell took his aim, steadied himself, and shot. There it was, Dell’s gopher in the distance, doing the death throws and flails that every gopher hunter has seen. All at once he had gotten his first gopher, I felt the need to get a picture of such a momentous occasion. We stuck around a bit longer with some more success then decided we best get back for some dinner. When my mom cooks nobody wants to miss dinner. The way home from the fields I opened and closed the gates from field to field. At each stop I gathered some wild flowers into a small bouquet for Erin at the house, I’m never too busy to try and score some extra points. The whole wile however I couldn’t help but wonder the finance, logistics, and potential for a gopher safari company… it’s not at all dangerous and everyone who has done it seems to enjoy it. But I suppose there aren’t enough gophers here for it to work. Maybe they already have them in Saskatchewan…

            When the weekend was over, we all went home seemingly in unanimous agreement that next year we would all be coming back out again for more of the fair and gopher hunting. I suppose I should run that past my mom and Darrell since it is their house. In the end of it all I had learned that long range shooting is about more than equipment and has far more math involved than I had thought. Bow hunting gophers is a whole pile of fun but takes a lot of practice. Being hung over at a shoot is a lot easier than I had thought… but still quite undesirable. I own enough .22s to arm a small gopher extermination force, even if we do need some practice. Finally a good weekend like this is the result of good company sharing both our interests and skills. 

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Photo Drop Part 1 (Fiji Stuff)

I decided when I started this blog that I would post stories on Thursdays… if I have any. But lately I have been thinking maybe I should just post photos once in a while. So here’s my attempt at that, no long stories, just some photos I like and a short write up of what they are and why I like them.

I took this photo on Erin and I’s Fijian vacation. We arrived at our hotel after dark and nearly trampled a herd of these. I’m not sure if they are frogs or toads (sadly I don’t fully know the difference). I do know they are very docile and about the size of a computer mouse.

Keeping with the Fijian theme. The western style food in cheap hotels, hostels, and restaurants is typically not good. The easiest way I have found to describe it is to say “Its like they were shown pictures of western foods and are doing their best to duplicate it.” My favorite example of this was one hostel had a “Pizza night” which was normal pizza crust with ketchup, chopped carrots and celery all topped with cheese… The usual travel trick of coating food with cheese to make it taste better is brilliant except that I am lactose intolerant. Needless to say during our trip I was hungry and craving good food. At home I eat a lot of red meat, which is expensive and rare on a small tropical island. The photos you see here are of quite possibly the best meal I’ve ever eaten (it competes with my Fijian shore lunch which I have already blogged about). This meal took place in a remote village along the river that we arrived at via jet boat as part of a tour. We were not told there would be lunch served and I certainly did not expect it to contain some of the best tasting pork sausage you can imagine. I believe there was also fried coconut and tapioca… just imagine an extraordinarily delicious hash-brown.  The usual tasty fresh fruit was also included, but that sausage was the star of the day. It also made for some joking between Erin and I… Because of Fiji’s distant historical tradition of cannibalism that even our tour guides were often willing to joke about… Which I’ll admit was a bit unsettling at first.


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The Stuff Weekends Are Made Of (Part 2 of 3); Long Range Shooting

Every year for as long as I can remember my mother’s side of the family has gone to the Vermillion fair. Ever since I moved to the city I have spent less of the weekend at the fair and more of my time at the farm taking in every occasion to enjoy the outdoors. Summer 2012’s fair weekend, I think, has been one of the best to date. This story however cannot be told chronologically but rather divided by subject.

 

            Although the official reason for my trip out to the country was the Vermillion fair, between you and I, the real reason I took time off work and drove three hours, was to go to this shoot. For the past few years my stepfather, Darrell, has hosted a long range shoot and for the past few years I have often stopped in and seen the equipment and said “hi” to those partaking in the festivities. They can only be described as friendly, informative, and non-competitive. There are no awards or scores, just men and their guns. I was extended an official invite to this year’s event and I was not going to miss it. 

           The shoot was scheduled to start Saturday morning, however for me it started on Thursday. I arrived at the farm Thursday morning ready to help set up. We began by loading Darrell’s custom built, by him, steel plates and gongs into the back of a side by side ATV and believe me when I tell you these things are heavy. I was informed that their weight is no accident, it turns out even at a kilometer a bullet can still penetrate the lighter steel plates… and even some of the thicker ones. This to me really drove home the importance of knowing what is behind your target when hunting. After the heavy loading I was offered, and immediately accepted, a cold beer. It was very warm that day. 
  
            We then drove the little side by side to the 1000 meter target. As we bounced and scraped through the trees and brush along to quad trail, I understood why he opted not to just take the truck. Arriving at our destination involved a rather nerve wracking climb up a steep hill, with a somewhat overloaded ATV. I know it was overloaded because when we stopped and applied the parking break it started to roll down the hill. We immediately blocked up the back tires and began unloading and setting out the new targets among the old along the hillside. When it was all said and done there were about twenty targets on the hill. They ranged from about three meters wide and a meter tall to about four inches by four inches. What grabbed my attention was that this small target had bullet marks on it. While on the hill, Darrell was considering the placement of the targets while I paced and did the same, it was at this point I noticed a large piece of black plywood, an old target. For reasons I still do not understand I grabbed it and flipped it over… snakes, probably five garter snakes, which is about five more than I would have liked to have seen. Two things occurred to me 1. We don’t have a shotgun on us or the quad 2. I really wish we had a shotgun on us or in the quad. I quickly flipped the old plank back on them and told Darrell that we had to do our best to remember a shotgun next time.

            The next day, now Friday, we loaded the ATV with a weed whacker, duct tape, old cream coloured house paint, paintbrushes, and a shotgun. We arrived at the 1000 meter hill and I was told to use the tape to cover holes in the targets from previous shoots and glob the paint over top. He explained to me that when the plates are shot, if the bullet does not go through, it will still knock the paint off leaving an obvious smudge where the bullet hit. This explains the large amounts of surface rust he had let build up on the targets. He began cutting the grass in front of the targets while I began taping and painting, for the first half I was impressed at how well I was doing at keeping the paint off myself and for the second half I was cussing about my ruined paint stained pants. After we finished painting and cutting grass I grabbed the shotgun with intent to evict those snakes from our world. I ran the slide, walked up and with authority, I flipped the old plywood sign and found nothing, they wised up to my plan. Disheartened I didn’t get to shoot them and happy I didn’t have to see them I unloaded the gun jumped in the ATV and we went to the 700 meter targets to paint them and hang a few gongs. While there we spotted another snake but it escaped before any level of excitement could be reached. I was also able to spill a bit of paint on my shoe, good thing too, I was worried I might not get any paint on it. We then went and painted the 400 meter plate a large one meter by one meter chunk of steel I was told would be for some of the guys bringing their black powder guns. This shoot is sounding better and better. We then returned to the house and I was informed there is one last thing we have to do… load Darrell’s cannon onto the trailer because there were request for him to shoot it on Saturday for the participants to see. It was about this time I was starting to realize that excitement was going to keep me from sleeping that night. After we loaded the cannon we were done for the day and I was off to a friend’s bachelor party for the afternoon and evening, that story will not be told here, or anywhere else.


        The following morning I awoke in a daze in an undisclosed location in a condition that we’ll just call sub-par. I immediately made my way back to the farm for the shoot and arrived at about the same time people were starting to get geared up to get out to the range, perfect timing. The shoot itself was quite exciting and I got to try out a large amount of hardware far outside of my tax bracket. The first gun I shot was a .223 wssm (Winchester super short magnum) at about 750 yards and with a bit of assistance

The .223 WSSM

from the owner, Darrell, and bit of math,  also provided by Darrell. I was informed of what to set the scope to and sure enough each shot was bang on with that swinging gong as proof. It really gives a sense of accomplishment even if you didn’t do all the hard work like building and reloading. I asked what the math was that he used, and I was told it was thanks to his ballistics calculator app (yea I guess there’s an app for that too) all he had to do was enter in his bullet weight, velocity, coefficient, and distance of the shot. Naturally I asked what coefficient and I’m still not 100% on this but I believe it has to do with the bullets resistance as it goes through the air and this shaky understanding was only obtained after an entire group had done their best to explain it to me, bless them and their patience. I also spend a majority of the morning acting as spotter for other shooters and chatting with other people at the shoot. Then around lunch time we changed it up, Darrell loaded up his cannon and carefully took aim at the 400 yard plate. I had my doubts he could hit it. The fuse was lit, several cameras were rolling, everyone was covering their ears… then a thunderous boom came out of the cannon followed seconds later by the loud twang of that big lead slug slamming into that 400 yard plate followed by amazement, laughter, and applause.
       
          The day continued on and a long time friend of the family offered to let me shoot his .338 Lapua, an offer I quickly took him up on.  I pointed it at the 1000 yard target, adjusted the scope, took aim, took a deep breath and fired, and missed. I repeated this several times and to no avail, oh well you can’t win them all and it was still an amazing view. Next it was on to the 50 BMG this was the one I was drooling over. To the extent of my knowledge it’s the biggest meanest rifle available to us Canadians. I loaded the first round, had someone step in as a spotter for me and took aim at one of the cream coloured targets, about two feet by two feet wide, a gutsy target given my skill with the Lapua. I get comfortable, take aim, squeeze the trigger, and fire. At this point I should probably tell you, shooting a 50 BMG is not like shooting a normal gun first its loud, very loud, so you wear two pairs of hearing protection, small inserts and the large muffs. Second they have a large muzzle break (presumably for user safety) this reduces recoil but as a result has a strange effect on the gun. It seems to float when fired only for a split second but you can feel it. The recoil pushing back and the muzzle break pushing forward the result is a gun caught seemingly in mid air and in limbo only to come rattling and crashing down

View At 1000

in an all around exhilarating experience. The first shot I fired missed, but not by much, I loaded a second and fired and got a little closer. The third was right on I could see the paint chip, I did it! I shot 1000! That was all my shooting for the day I was happy with that and I know I’ll be back every year, especially if I’m told there will be another delicious pulled pork dinner afterword.

 


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The Stuff Weekends Are Made Of (Part 1 of 3); My First Bowhunting Experience

Every year for as long as I can remember my mother’s side of the family has gone to the Vermillion fair. Ever since I moved to the city I have spent less of the weekend at the fair and more of my time at the farm taking in every occasion to enjoy the outdoors. Summer 2012’s fair weekend, I think, has been one of the best to date. This story however cannot be told chronologically but rather divided by subject.
Throughout the winters my imagination is often filled with many things, one of the main ones in 2012 being my recent discovery of archery. My original intention was to use my bow to take a bear in the spring, that plan sadly fell through and I instead used my trusted 30-30 for the occasion. So for this weekend, I treated myself to some small game heads and set my sights on some local gophers at my mother and step-fathers farm. Thursday morning I did some work at the farm for an upcoming shoot, we’ll touch on this later, followed by sighting in my bow’s top pin for twenty meters, the remaining two pins were intended for thirty and forty meters however that’s farther than my bow skills will allow, so they were not sighted for this event. My brother Kyle and I were given a tip that there were some gophers setting up shop in a field east of the house. Just as fast as we had heard, we were off. Me with my bow and my brother with a beautiful German made .22 magnum, he’s not one to do something halfheartedly.

We came to the field and found a lot of gopher holes as well as evidence that a badger had been doing some real-estate development, it is at this point I’m starting to really appreciate Kyle being there, well more accurately I appreciated the .22 magnum and Kyle’s proven marksmanship. The gopher patch was split in two by a patch of trees so, Kyle and I first walked along the southern patch and saw a bit, but nothing we could take a shot at. I then began to walk the northern patch while Kyle retired himself to keep an eye on his south patch from the comfort of his trucks seat with the radio on. I learned early in my walk that twenty meters is pretty close for a guy like me to be able to get to a skittish gopher. I learned quickly that soft, slow steps and smooth slow movement would help get me closer. Finally! I see a gopher in range… I take aim… Thwunk! And a miss… I walk slowly to my arrow, I was close, and that makes me feel a bit better. I stand quietly watching and sure enough a second appears. I shoot again and miss again, I am thinking more practice is in order. I walk sadly over to my arrow in the dirt only to find I broke my game head. I stick it in the dirt fletching up… no sense carrying it around if it’s broken.

 I should mention, at this point in life I was too broke to afford at quiver. A few more minutes pass and I see another gopher, this one I’m not missing, it’s standing looking around, probably wondering what the noise is. I take aim I take a deep breath… I squeeze my release… thwunk and whack… I got him. My feeling of accomplishment rapidly shrinks when I see it’s still barely alive, and crawling down a hole with my arrow. I watch in amazement and disbelief as I witness a 30 inch arrow sink and disappear, like a battleship going down. I walk up slowly only to realize that with its

The Gopher’s Trap For Me

dying breath this gopher set a trap for me. It pulled my arrow down a badger hole! I look inside from a distance, about a foot down the tunnel makes a hard turn that I can’t see past. I can, however, see the last few inches of my arrow sitting there. That red and white fletching taunting and tempting me. I run back and grab my broken arrow out of the dirt and use it to try and fish the arrow out of the hole… its stuck and I can feel it vibrating. I can’t help but wonder if my prey is wounded or being eaten. I don’t like the thought of either. With a firm thrust I stick my broken arrow into the ground to mark the hole… I will get this arrow back. I run back to the truck where Kyle is sitting and enjoying the radio. I, with a bit of laughter, explain the situation.

Luckily for me he at least has a single leather glove in his truck for me to borrow, I would however prefer something along the lines of a pair of falconing gloves and some large tongs. I don’t know much about badgers other than they dig big holes, eat gophers, have sharp teeth and claws, and are not generally known for being friendly. Kyle and I walk back to my broken arrow. Me with my bow him with that 22 magnum, he jabs the barrel down the hole and I take a few deep breaths and reach in, I grab the arrow and it shakes violently, as I pull it out I see the gopher is alive barely he slides and falls off the arrow to his death, I don’t feel too good about that. A quick death is always the goal when hunting anything and gophers are no exception. 

I did however get my first animal with my bow, it was just a little more difficult than I had hoped. After this I went back to the farm to practice on my target more and on Sunday I went out with my bow and some friends and of five of the gophers I shot my bow at, I killed four quickly and humanely, and missed one by mere inches. I learned with a bow that practice is key and so is slow and quiet movement which, I’m sure, will help me practice for deer season.


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Last Chance Buck

         

Last Chance Buck

Last Chance Buck

It had been a hard couple of years for me on the deer hunting front. There had been a few long cold years, four I think, since I had shot a deer, and I go every year. Last season I had seen only a single eligible deer for my tags. A small doe that my brother had pushed out of the bush for me during a hunting trip near Rocky Mountain House. To this day I am unsure if I cleanly missed the shot or if my .243 Winchester had been slowed down and stopped by the long thick grass in between. All I know is that that little doe haunted me, I hate failure, especially when it related to firearms or hunting. This season I was a little more prepared. I had my new binoculars and a new scope on my gun, if I missed this year I knew it would be my fault. So far I had gone out every chance I got. Including driving an hour and a half each way in the afternoons after my classes at university. Keep in mind I was done school at noon and it was dark out by 4:30pm. I managed to see a whole lot of nothing at all, until the long dark drives home. In my head lights I would see deer crossing the dark snowy roads in herds.
             It was finally coming down to the wire, I had one weekend left. On the Friday morning I drove out to my mother and step-fathers house, where I met up with my brother and hunting we went, and I did not see a thing. He however, managed to shoot a running coyote, I guess he wouldn’t starve if it ever came down to it. Throughout the next two days I put on a lot of miles walking, and got some pretty cold appendages sitting on bales and waiting at the edge of various fields, again, to no avail. I did however manage to spot several coyotes, take and miss a shot at one, not the best for a person’s confidence I must say. On Saturday afternoon I went to Troy’s house where I had shot my bear and my last deer. His land is rumored to be littered with deer and I had no reason to doubt his word. He dropped me off on a nice wide cut-line and told me to walk to the end and guaranteed I would see something, I saw a whole lot of snow. That evening after legal light, of course, we saw quite a few deer, not that that gains us a whole lot but, sometimes it’s just nice to know they still exist. That evening I drove back to my mother’s house to be ready for another hunt in the morning, I may have been rattled but I wasn’t giving up that easy.
            Sunday morning came and I was that lovely special kind of tired that you only get from sleeping in someone else’s spare room in an unfamiliar bed, no matter, I had some breakfast, suited up, and headed out. I walked along a large familiar loop around the property, at the farthest point from the house, the north end, I went a little further north across a frozen swamp and up a bank to a plateau where my brother and I had spotted deer tracks on Friday. I slowly crept up the bank and across the small plateau at the top. Suddenly a coyote about 50 yards away took off trotting away from me at an angle, I took aim, squeezed the trigger and missed, it slightly changed directions, I ran the bolt on instinct and muscle memory, I lined up another shot and was able to miss again. This clearly wasn’t my weekend… or the coyotes here are special. It was at this point I decided to walk back to the house and double check that my rifle was sighted in. As I wandered into the yard with what I’m sure was a disheartened look on my face that resembled a pouting toddler. I ran into my step-dad who was in his garage doing… I’m not sure what he does in there most of the time. Naturally I regaled him with my tale of the day and ended on the note of “maybe this hunting just isn’t my thing.” To which he replied “no, I miss those coyotes all the time too and I have no idea why. You’re not doing anything wrong that’s just how hunting is sometimes.” The more I think about it the more he had a point, that’s the point of hunting, no guarantees just luck that can be swayed with a bit of skill and hard work. That being said I still opted to fire a few rounds at our 100 yard target just to be sure. Sure enough it was bang on, I’m still not sure how I feel about that. It’s nice to know your equipment works but it hurts to learn that you don’t.
            I then walked off into the fields my ambitions now set a touch lower. I just wanted to see a deer, some validation that they exist and move during the day. I walked far across a field east of the house hugging the tree line and trudging through snow the whole way and curved back north and followed a path someone had plowed with a tractor. The weather had been chilly with wind but it died down once I exited the field and entered a beautiful wooded pathway. The snow was falling now, nice heavy flakes, it was picturesque which reminded me… I didn’t bring my camera. As I wandered back along the path I heard a commotion in the trees and saw a familiar flash headed away, a white tail deer and it was gone, but I did see it so mission accomplished… I guess. Visibility was poor but the weather was warm so the walk didn’t seem so bad. Suddenly off in the distance just beyond clear vision I saw something. It was low, sleek and black. I could barely make it out but it was big, about the size of a Rottweiler with a long bushy tail and walked like a cat crouched and stalking. Having a cougar tag in my pack I immediately thought that’s what I saw. My heart pounded as I watched this creature walk three quarters of the way across the trail then half way back it looked like a house cat sniffing around then it disappeared. This sighting lasted maybe a few seconds, not even time enough to get my binoculars up. The safety of my rifle immediately and instinctively turned off. I walked slowly with the rifle shouldered and all my senses in overdrive. I slowly walked towards where it crossed with my eyes firmly fixed on the trees where it had disappeared. As I got to where it crossed I could not find any tracks in the snow. To this day I do not know what I saw, it was too big to be a marten or a fisher, too dark to be a cougar, and it was too cold out to be a small bear, plus it had a tail, and since I did not find tracks I cannot discount the possibility of me going insane. But I suppose some things are just mysteries. I continued travelling west and passed north of the farm house. As I walked from one field to the next I froze in the gate way, there it was, a beautiful buck but he was far away. I guessed he was close to 400 yards out, not a shot I’m willing to take, especially with my shooting lately. I pull up my binoculars and watch him, he looked big, but they all do when you’re excited. He looked away and I start walking towards him hoping to move in closer, he turned back looked at me and casually strolled, as though he did not have a care in the world, into the nearby trees at the edge of a swamp. I anxiously walked over to his tracks and followed where he went into the bushes, it’s a maze of deer tracks in there and I quickly lost his trail, he was long gone in who knows what direction. I slowly walked the rest of the way to the house watching in case he doubled back. I get to the house and grab a quick snack and quickly devise a plan for the remaining daylight. I grabbed an old blanket, for insulation, and walked back out to the field where I had seen that buck. I sat atop the blanket leaning against a lone tree in the field along a hillside that overlooks the trees and the pond the deer had run into only a few hours earlier, my hope was he would return. I sat under the tree staring at the steep hillside on the opposite side of the pond hoping for excitement and waiting for sunset. When suddenly I saw movement along the hillside. I could barely make it out with all the brown brush growing on the hill but through my binoculars I could see it was a buck! That’s it, this is the one, he’s coming home with me the catch is he’s pretty far away my guess was between 300 and 400 yards away. I get up and move toward him, my hope is to get through the trees and make the shot from on the frozen pond. I barely made it to the edge of the field and realized I would not make it in time, I have got to try from here. I sat flat on my behind and propped my elbows on my knees for stability, I can still feel the cold wet snow working its way into the back of my hunting clothes. I take aim, just behind the shoulder, I’m sure he’s 300 yards out so I aim just slightly high of center, I take a deep breath to steady myself and squeeze the trigger. With a loud bang the buck breaks into a full sprint, I’m sure that I missed but I keep watching him through my scope, to the day I die I will never forget this sight. He ran to the top of the hill behind a patch of trees and out the other side I thought he was gone but then he collapsed, got back up just as fast, only to fall again, to get back up, and fall again, this time down the hill with three perfect cart wheels and landing into a fence.  I immediately called the house and ask Darrell to come out with his truck and help me get the deer to the house, luckily for me he said yes. I then walked around the pond, despite being frozen I was not about to trust walking on it. I get to the deer to find it had fallen into the fence post antlers first and it had a broken tine, I assume these two incidents are related but I searched and failed find the broken tine anywhere.

Taken on the hillside (note how big bodied he is, photo taken with a cell phone)

The truck arrived and we drug that big bodied buck about 30 yards up a steep hill and into the box of the truck and back to the house to be skinned. I was later told, by Darrell who had previously ranged all the fields that my shot was around 220 yards. While skinning I discovered that my shot, possibly more luck than skill, but I’ll never admit that, had passed through the top two ventricles of the heart, about as good of a shot as I could hope for. To myself I refer to this deer as “the last chance buck” because well, not only did I get it on the last day of my last weekend for hunting that year, but before I had got it, it was a hard couple of years as far as deer hunting goes and I was starting to doubt if I could or should continue doing it. This buck appeared exactly when I needed it to, to preserve my love of hunting, lucky for me and thanks to this buck my hunting addiction still remains and is probably stronger than ever.

A final photo of the antlers showing the broken tine on its right (our left)

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Fiji Time

Following a chain of interesting and obscure events that I still don’t fully understand, my girlfriend and I found ourselves backpacking across Fiji in June of 2011. It’s a delightful little country filled with friendly people, all of whom can spot two tall, white, tourists a mile away and are often willing to try and sell them something. We spent most of our time on the main island traveling from town to town via the local bus system and taxis, both of which made me question whether or not Fiji has any form of automotive inspection standards before deeming them “road worthy” the only indication I had of which side of the road is the proper side to drive on was that the steering wheels are located on the right hand side.
In the capital city of Suva we wandered the streets to the local markets and to the mall and along the way I saw inspiration. We passed a run down but well stocked fishing shop. I immediately went inside. The store was poorly lit with flickering fluorescent bulbs and all the plastic packages had a healthy coating of dust on them. The whole store reminded me of that back corner of gas stations or hardware stores in small towns. They’d have those few basic hooks displayed on cheap peg board and thoroughly coated in dust waiting for a passerby who has forgotten his lures at home or a small child who sees one he thinks will work. I vividly remember being such a child and suddenly felt like one again. I was surprised that most of the hooks on the shelves were the same as the ones I would use for freshwater at home. I guess I expected them to be a little more… exotic or something, but then again why mess with a classic? It was at this time that I decided I wanted to try fishing while I was there, however the workers in the shop were not able to guide me towards someone to take me. Perhaps that’s not a common request or it may have just been too great of a language barrier but, oh well, I was there for a few more weeks I was sure an opportunity would present itself eventually… hopefully… I would hate to come all this way and not go fishing while I was there. We then left the shop and found a movie theater and decided it had been a while since we had sat down and watched a movie especially on in a theater and it had air conditioning so it was not a hard sell. After the movie had ended I thought we were being kidnapped… Maybe I should explain… Allow me to explain…
 We went into the theater at about five pm and the movie ended around seven pm and Fiji being so close to the equator, it gets dark at about six pm. Despite all the locals so far being friendly we were clearly out of place foreigners in a strange city, at night. So we opted to take a taxi back to our hostel, it was only about eight blocks away: four east and four north. We flagged down a taxi and jumped in, this particular cab was in some serious disrepair, I have driven some horrible cars in my life, I was a student for many years, but this one was making noises I had never heard before. We told him to take us to our hotel called “Coral Coast Hotels” or something along those lines, my memory of the name eludes me. The taxi took off with a broken exhaust rumble and screeched a u-turn now taking us west on the main road, I immediately start to panic but did not want to say anything because I was not fully sure what was going on. Erin at this time, had not noticed we were going the wrong direction. Suddenly we were taken down a series of confusing back roads at high speeds while to driver talked furiously fast on his blue tooth head set in a language we don’t understand. It is at this point I started to look for a soft piece of ditch to bail out onto and pull Erin with me but sadly it seems the whole city was paved. Eventually the car slammed to a halt as my nervous perspiration soaked the seat below me, thinking of it now that seat was kind of gross to begin with… The dust settled in the glow of the headlights and the driver turned around to see a terrified look on my face for a split second before I saw the sign reading “Coral Coast Apartments” I was quite relieved to say the least. I explained the confusion. The driver then laughed and drove off like a madman to our hostel, I guess that’s just how he drives and I’m just a little paranoid.       
 
Later in our trip we decided to spend some time on a small hostel on the island of Nananu-I-Ra. To get there we were dropped off on the main road to walk a few kilometers with all our gear down a scenic gravel road lined with sugar cane fields. Naturally I “enthused” Erin with my “impressive” knowledge of sugar farming’s impact on history. We eventually arrived at the end of a road at a little marina, where no one knew who we were or why we were there, but many people offered to drive us out to the island, we opted to wait for the hostels boat to come to us just to be slightly safer. Eventually they got there to pick us up. I feel it is important to mention that in Fiji they have an expression “Fiji time.” And it seems it can only be said with a smile, and it refers to the idea that no one in Fiji really takes the concept of time too seriously, it was both refreshing and a little frustrating. Our mode of transportation arrived in the form a small and questionable boat to take us 1.5kms across what I would consider open ocean, although an experience sea farer might not consider it that. We arrived at one of only two resorts on the island and were greeted by a few staff members who informed us that there weren’t enough guests to justify opening the kitchen. 
Wonder what it’s story is.

In fact we were the only guests at the aged hotel and to my knowledge that was the last we really saw of the staff. Believe me when I tell you very few things feel as creepy and haunted as being seemingly the only people at an island hotel. Luckily we brought our own food with us for just such an instance. On our way to the room I noticed a large amount of what my prairie eyes recognized as gopher holes. I immediately realized how unrealistic it was that there would be gophers on a secluded Fijian island. The next morning after an evening of tourists vs. a rather large cockroach, I found myself awake before Erin. I stood quietly looking out the window in amazement, there were dozens of ghostly white crabs coming out of the holes in the ground, and they were skittish. As soon as I would make the slightest noise they were gone. We then went about walking and exploring the island, mainly to look for other people or signs of life. We made our way to the other hotel and found there was a group of about five Germans and that’s about it. We then got down to the reason we came there, the guide book had told us of great scuba diving and only one scuba guide named Papoo. We gave him a call and he agreed to meet us the next day at 8 am at our hotels dock, we promptly spent the rest of the day basking in the warm sun and further exploring the nearly deserted island.

Waiting for the boat.

 Papoo arrived the promptly at 8:47am the next morning. He arrived in an aged white boat with a sporty red stripe down the side. Papoo was a large man not as tall as me but certainly tall for a Fijian and appeared quite well fed compared to the other locals I had seen so far, he had a broad friendly smile boasting bright white teeth and long frizzy hair in a bit of a natural afro, and he certainly was talkative, loud, and friendly. I liked him immediately. He was accompanied by his wife and young son. The plan was simple, he was going to teach me to scuba dive briefly and give Erin a refresher course at the same time as it had been a while since her scuba certification. He took us to a nice sloped beach with a short stone retaining wall holding back lush green grass, atop this grass were various huts clearly modern and a bit of a hotel gimmick which is often seen in this part of the world. The resort in front of us had been shut down for a few years according to Papoo. He explained the basic in and outs of scuba and had us suited up and swimming in no time. We swam for maybe 15 or 20 minutes but it was amazing to see such a colourful array of fish around the seaweed and across the clean sand.

Erin by the boat.

We were then give snacks, the food around Fiji I found was not particularly good but, this was amazing and just what I needed; digestive cookies and a cool chocolate flavored drink, it reminded me almost of a chocolate version of iced tea, it was far better tasting that what you are imagining right now trust me, and it was just what I needed at the time. He drove us slowly back towards our resort while we discussed to possibility of a longer deeper dive the following day. It was during this time that I noticed a large classic red and white Rapala in the cup holder of his boat, Papoo just went up another notch in my book. I asked him if the fishing was good and if he would be willing to take us out. He naturally jumped at the idea, as did I. He offered us a reasonably priced package deal for a dive and an afternoon of fishing for the following day. We accepted and he dropped us off at our dock and said he would be back at eight am the following day to take us out for our adventure. Much like a child on Christmas Eve, I did not sleep much that night.

The next morning Papoo arrived at 8:25am and our day began. He drove the boat to the edge of the reef where his son jumped out and after some searching tethered the boat to a hook sunk in the reef. I didn’t see much for landmarks or GPS on the boat so I’m not really sure how he found that spot. We then got suited up and he explained that I would fall backwards off the side of the boat and he and Erin would meet me in the water. I really didn’t want to go first but I wasn’t about to look like a sissy in front of him or Erin so I rolled in what can only be described as poor form and waited for what felt like a long time. Naturally in my youth I had seen the film JAWS far too many times and was not super comfortable with swimming in the ocean but I did my best to remain calm. Eventually Erin and Papoo were in the water too. He signaled and we began our descent along the edge of the reef. I don’t know how far down we went but it felt like it took a long time. This moment marks one of the most terrifying and surreal moments of my life, the three of us were spaced far enough apart that I couldn’t see them, as I did not have my glasses on. As I slowly descended, there was a solid cliff wall behind me and it stretched as far as I could see in every direction, including up. Ahead of me was the open ocean, a seemingly endless abyss of empty blue space it’s hard to put into words but I felt trapped in a sense that I could go as far as I want in any direction and not go anywhere almost like purgatory. Eventually we reached a nice sandy bottom I never thought I would be relieved to be at the bottom of an ocean but it happened. We then swam through an opening in the reef and found ourselves in a beautiful oasis of sea life comprised of plants and fish of the most beautiful colours. We made our way around the reef in what I hope and assume was a route planned by Papoo that led us through some long, dark, and what I found to be frightening caves that you would have a hard time fitting a modern television through. Along the way Papoo would point out fish and make gestures to us to ensure we were ok and not running out of air, I kept a very close eye on my air pressure gauge. As all was well with our gear we gave him the thumbs up. Papoo replied with a slow broad clapping of his hands with his fingers wide apart, then interlocked his fingers and rested them on his stomach and gracefully swam powered by his feet, even with a respirator on him I could see his smirk, this was a man who was completely content at that moment in his life. In a path my mind could not grasp we eventually made our way back to the boat with what I consider to be the experience of a lifetime behind us in the reef. Now it was time to do what I wanted. Our guide pulled out two stout rods with sizable crank bait lures on them. We began trolling along the edge of the reef making full use of all 85hp the engine had. It seemed to me that we were going pretty fast for catching fish but I have never fished salt water before. Sure enough within minutes of setting out I had a fish on the line. The heavy rod bent ever so slightly and I could feel the fight on the other end of the line I reeled and reeled the fight felt like a large and angry northern pike, a species with which I am very familiar. I eventually brought in a long, thin, sleek and silver fish with long narrow crooked teeth that resembled tooth picks. The guide then informed me of the obvious, this was a small barracuda, I was ecstatic. We then began trolling again and Erin was now on deck for the next catch, we trolled for what felt like an eternity. The whole way Papoo was laughing and yelling something along the lines of “COME ON! WE NEED A TUNA!” eventually we hooked something and I felt the boat slow down. The engines were shut off, Erin was handed the rod and we were going live! That poor girl could barely spin the reel, it was the strangest sight to me, and she’s not a weak woman by any means. After a few minutes of giving it all she had, Papoo started to help… and then eventually took over… and then handed the rod to me. I sat on the side of the boat and propped by feet against the back and started reeling. I would lean back as hard as I could and quickly reel in the slack as I leaned forward, this is to this day hands down the hardest fight I have ever gotten from a fish, for a few minutes I was sure I hooked the reef or was about to pull the drain plug out of the pacific ocean. Eventually I saw a small fin break the surface of the ocean. I was relieved to see that I was pulling in a fish and not an old sunken boat. I eventually brought the fish to the boat and Papoo was kind enough to lift it in for me. I saw on the end of my line a large tall-bodied fish with a hook stuck in its side. Both the shape of the fish and the foul hooking contributed to the difficulty in pulling in the fish. Papoo was kind enough to explain as I am very unfamiliar with the fish of the area, and based on how many types I had seen scuba diving, I question if anyone could know even half of them. I was told it was a silver trevally.

 

Barracuda
Silver Trevally

Our fishing time was now over, but Papoo with classic Fijian hospitality invited us to lunch. With great curiosity I agreed. Our guide then brought the boat back to the abandoned resort where we had our scuba lessons the day before. Papoo, his wife, and his son promptly began gathering twigs, sticks, branches. They then built a small fire and tossed the silver trevally on top.  Once it looked nice and burnt on the outside it was placed onto some large leaves and set on a conveniently left behind picnic table. Coconuts were cracked open and we were shown how to eat lunch “Fiji style” simply rip a piece of fish off the side dunk it in the coconut milk and enjoy, or for added fun put some fish on a piece of coconut rind and enjoy. Despite looking a little burnt the fish was cooked to perfection on the inside and I still consider this one of the best meals of my life, based on the taste, the scenery, and the company.

Shore Lunch
Shore Lunch

Posted in Fishing, Travel and tagged , , , , , with 2 comments.

Welcome

Hey! My name is Tyson Sommerville. I’ve created this blog to share my love of the outdoors. I will be posting hunting, fishing, hiking, and travel photos, stories, and some videos for you all to enjoy. Please feel free to comment with suggestions and questions and if you enjoy it share it with your friends, otherwise it’ll just be my mom who follows my blog… Hi Mom!


Posted in Fishing, Hiking, Hunting, Travelwith 2 comments.

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