A Cutthroat Hike
This is a story I had published in Hooked Magazine (Volume 14 Issue 1 of 2021). My original was about three times the length and they asked me to trim it down so it would fit in the magazine, I think they were correct in asking me to do that
“As I stripped line in, I saw a flash and cut through the water, I yelled to Erin ‘wait, I think I may have actually caught something here.’
Abraham Lakes
Amidst the chaos of Covid lockdowns, my wife and I decided, last minute, that we needed a break. Travel bans had caused our local national parks, Jasper and Banff, to fill. We opted instead to make use of some crown land and alpine lakes near Abraham Lake just southwest of Edmonton. This area, colloquially referred to as Abraham Lakes, was also quite busy but we figured the further we hiked in, the less crowded it would get.
Landslide Lake
We did our best to get organized and after a few pitstops my wife, my dog, and myself were at the trail head at 730pm. Luckily, we were on vacation and weren’t beholden to a clock. We hiked in until about 930, set up camp, and had dinner beside a small fire. In the morning we would hike the rest of the way to our destination, Landslide Lake.
On the second day, the trail was mostly treed with a few steep inclines, some bridges, and a few great vantage points with mountain views. Just before the lake, the trail skirted a huge boulder field, likely the lake’s namesake. The lake itself was a real beauty, larger than I expected. We set up camp, Erin relaxed with Jasper, our dog, and I assembled my fly rod. I was really dragging my heels for fear of failure. It had been years since I last fly-fished. I was in that terrible mindset of “If I don’t try, I can’t fail.” I think Erin could tell and spurred me along. I headed for a bay we spotted on the way in, it had a nice boulder sticking out that looked like a good place to fish from.
The Fishing
Unsure of what to use, I opted to try a dry fly that imitates a mosquito. I got up on my rock and surveyed. It appeared it was the right time and place, the fish were rising. I made a few shaky false casts and my line piled up in front of me, it was ugly. A few more casting attempts later and things were looking a little closer to a proper cast. Finally, I managed a proper presentation. I watched a small blue-green fish approach and inspect before biting and diving, I pulled up and set the hook. I kept the tension and brought the small fish in, I pulled the line up out of the water, the fish wiggled and wriggled… and was gone… with my hook. I guess my knot tying wasn’t up to snuff. Luckily my fly box, much like my fishing spot, was well stocked with mosquitos. I tied a fresh one on and went back to it. I quickly landed three more small cutthroat trout, my first ever.
Eventually one of my wild back-casts caught a small shrub behind me. I went and started untangling my hook from the branches. A minute into it, I broke out laughing as I realized I was untangling a Parachute Adams some other fisherman left behind. I got it, some line, and my own hook out of the tree, and resumed. We took a break to have dinner. Afterward, I went back alone but didn’t have any luck.
Lake of the Falls
Day 3 we headed to Lake of the Falls. The hike down from Landslide Lake wasn’t too bad, but the hike up to Lake of the Falls was an absolute slog. After what felt like a week of uphill, we were rewarded with a nice flat walk along an oxbow stream. As we got up to the lake itself, we passed a little bay, this one was shallow and clear, we could actually see fish in it, suspend motionless, with the occasional gentle rise and grab of a bug. We found a campsite along the shore that looked like a good fishing spot and staked our claim.
Personal Best
I assembled my fly rod and Erin went for a glacial swim, the water was so cold I could barely dip my feet in. I had other priorities anyway. No fish were rising, but I recalled one of my first fly fishing experiences an old man told me the bigger fish tend to eat bigger bugs sinking down. I tied on a woolly bugger and hoped. I cast a bit and had a few bites, but no fish wanted to commit. I asked Erin if she wanted to try, she had never fly fished before but she’s a quick learner. Within minutes she landed the first fish of the day. With a satisfied smile, she handed me the rod and said “try to catch up.” It didn’t take long, I managed to land a nice little trout or two. Then while fishing a drop-off, I connected again, this time with something bigger. As I stripped line in, I saw a flash and cut through the water, I yelled to Erin “wait, I think I may have actually caught something here.” A minute of angling later, I had landed a very respectable cutthroat, the largest trout I had ever caught. Keep in mind I’m pretty inexperienced. We got a few pictures and released it. Tragically, around dinnertime, my woolly bugger managed to get snagged on something underwater and broke off… I was tempted to go in after it, it was the only one I had packed. I opted instead to replace it with a bloodworm. I cast the line out a few times but only connected on one more fish.
Bull Trout
The next morning, while Erin made her coffee, I snuck ahead and wiggled my way through the trees, rod in hand, to the little bay we had seen the day before. My bloodworm and I, gave it the old college try. A few casts and fewer nibbles later, I had one on the line, a real scrapper. It appeared to be a brook trout, a personal best one too. I snapped a photo and sent it on its way. I didn’t bring my net so I was grabbing with wet hands and getting them back into the water as fast as possible. Unfortunately, in my haste, I made a mistake, it was actually a rare bull trout. Something Reddit pointed out to me. Had I the presence of mind, or the time, I could have easily checked the dorsal fin (a lack of black dots on its dorsal fin is an indication that it’s a bull trout).
Pack Out
Shortly after my catch, Erin arrived and we headed out, we had a long hike ahead of us. It turned out that that terrible uphill slog, although worth it for the fishing, is quite dangerous to go down with a dog tied to your pack. Jasper is a runner, so we keep him leashed. While descending a steep hill, he sometimes pulls, causing me to slide, which scares him, causing him to pull harder. Overall, though, he did very well. At the end of the hike, all three of us were hot, tired, and thirsty. Erin opted to cool off in Abraham Lake. I only got my feet wet, but I dipped Jasper in against his will. We stopped in Rocky Mountain House for pizza and Jasper slept like a log the entire drive home. The next day at work my feet hurt, but I was too busy showing off my fishing pictures to even think about that.
Posted in Fishing, Hiking, Published Workwith 2 comments.
A Limit and A Band
I am still pretty green when it comes to waterfowl hunting. However, there is one thing I know, the two goals of knocking birds out of the sky, is to get your legal limit for the day, and the other is to get a banded bird.
For goose hunters chasing Canada geese, that magic limit is 8 geese per person hunting that day. Reaching this limit is the ultimate show of prowess for a hunter. There is no other real way to show success beyond perhaps dabbling in a variety of birds also called mixed bag shooting. To accomplish this takes an intersection of preparation, shooting skills, and in my case, luck.
The bands are a tracking system, it’s a simple serialized metal band wrapped around the leg of a duck or goose. The simple explanation is that young waterfowl are caught and banded. At that time, the location, species, sex, and approximate age are recorded. A lot of birds are banded each year, but they represent only a small portion of the waterfowl population. If an individual is fortunate enough to encounter one, most commonly by shooting it, but in some cases, if a clear enough photo can be taken to read the band (shoutout to my bird watching friends), the serial number is to be called in. You tell them where, when, and how you encountered it, and they tell you their information, which is already pretty fascinating to me. They also send you a certificate to thank you for your participation. To my knowledge, they use this information to understand life span and mortality rates among waterfowl. For duck and goose hunters, that little metal band is a very coveted possession. The bands are often clamped onto a hunter’s lanyard as both a power display and a lucky charm.
Well, with all that said, I managed to get double lucky this fall. It started like most waterfowl hunts, I asked my buddies to take me out. As luck would have it, my buddies Dylon and Tyler were free, Dylon’s father-in-law, Andrew, also came. We decided on an afternoon hunt because that was the only time we were all free. We grabbed the goose trailer and went. The goose trailer is the greatest luxury I am aware of, a trailer loaded with waterfowl gear at all times, just hook up and go, THAT is living. If I ever win the lotto I’m going to have a different trailer for everything I do. We got to our spot just as the rain started to come in. We considered shutting it down right then and there, but well, we were all there and it looked like it might all clear up. As we were putting out the last of the decoys birds were starting to come in and the rain started to slow.
We jumped into our blind and got organized. It took exactly one pass of birds for me to realize 2 things. 1. I was rusty, very rusty. 2. Andrew knew what he was doing, I watched him nail a double with a Remington 870 (shooting 2 birds in 1 pass with a pump-action). I hadn’t met him before that day and was unsure of his experience, he clearly had more than me. Anyone of any skill level would of course be welcome, but it’s nice to know I’m still the least experienced in the blind. As the evening progressed it became clear we were really onto something with this spot and this spread. The geese came in in waves. As time went on I shook off some of the rust. Eventually, the thought occurred to us that we may be getting close to our limit. Inbetween passes of birds we took a minute to count them up. For four people we were allowed 32 geese, we were sitting in the mid-20s. We decided to start keeping closer track. As luck would have it, we managed to hit our limit. Sadly, as we packed our decoys and gathered up our empty shotgun shells off the ground, birds were still flying over and having a look at us.
We got back to the shop and the reality hit us, cleaning that many birds was going to be a real chore… Well, nothing to it but to do it. We all set to work on cleaning. As we were working we were chatting and I was asking a bit about bands and how rare they were. Dylon had explained that he worked briefly for an outfitter, a professional taking paid clients out nearly every day would see about 2 bands a year. Almost at the same moment, I noticed something flash from across the table, the bird Andrew was cleaning had a band on it and no one had noticed. I gave an immediate “hey look look LOOK!” there was silence, then a lot of celebration. It was the first band any of us had gotten, and everyone else there had nearly a decade under their belt. Dylon looked like he might do a flip he was so excited. We immediately checked all the other birds just in case. From there we went online and turned in our information on the band. When it asked for the hunter, we had no idea who had downed the birds (statistically it wasn’t me). So we opted to put “Primula Outfitters” it’s sort of a joke among our group. The area we hunt used to be called Primula, according to the old farmers in the area. There’s also a bit of animosity toward outfitters so it’s kind of a joke against them. Local outfitters get paid thousands for a hunt, my buddies get the occasional case of beer as payment. Although the standard is to clamp the band onto your lanyard we didn’t know who it belonged to so we just decided to put the band, still on the goose’s foot, on a plaque and hang it on the wall of Brad’s shop. He didn’t come with us on this hunt, but he often does come with us, we hunt on his family’s land and use his shop every time. There you have it, I was able to get double lucky on my first hunt of the season and hit two big waterfowl milestones in a single outing.
We were informed that it had been banded near Edmonton in 2017, it was a male, and at the time of banding it was too young to fly.
Posted in Huntingwith 1 comment.
Thoughts On Single Shots
This was originally published in the March/April 2020 Canadian Firearms Journal you can subscribe to the magazine by joining the NFA at www.NFA.ca
As I write this, the current Canadian government is promising gun control which would see a ban on semi-automatics. In light of this fact, let me state clearly, immediately, and without apology. I do not support ANY gun laws. I want to be clear, I fear, what you may have read, is that I don’t support tough gun laws. What I meant was, I do not support any. Licenses can be made nearly impossible to get and work as a restriction in themselves. I want people to be able to own full-auto, unregistered, and suppressed. All these anti-gun people want to do is sell you the idea that there are good guns like hunting rifles and bad guns like assault rifles… then all they have to do is slowly lower the bar until all guns are moved from good guns to bad guns. So DO NOT mistake this article for a “no one needs a semi-auto to hunt” article. If you fall for that flimsy argument it ends with “if you need a compound bow, you’re not a very good hunter”.
My love of the M14 aside, I have always had a strange love of single shots. In fact, my patriotic love of Cooey firearms recently led me to jump at the chance to pick up a model 84 for a wallet-draining $50. The previous owner had lost the front sight, so a quick comb through the old parts bin and a bit of filing and it was right as rain. The first three shots out of that gun resulted in 3 dusted clays floating to earth.
I love making old guns work again. This fascination likely started when I was young, about 12 I believe, and I restored my first rifle. A Cooey single shot bolt action .22. The barrel had to be sanded and re-blued, it still bears my fingerprint from touching it too soon. The stock was sanded, wet sanded, given a once over with steel wool, whetted to stand the fibers up, and hit again with steel wool. I’m not sure I’ve ever been prouder of a project. I spent a lot of my high school years pushing ammo through that gun.
Years later I treated myself to a Ruger 10/22 and sold it shortly after. I found I killed fewer gophers with it because my shooting fundamentals vanished into thin air when I knew I had a followup shot… at the time I had 25 followup shots, actually… but the gun control state changed that. I sold that rifle and went back to my Cooey, occasionally rotating in my bow, an old pump action .22, and most recently a .17hmr bolt action. They all work well but I still find the single-shot works best for me. Maybe it’s the nostalgia factor.
Next in life, I started to dabble in long-range shooting. I started with a $100 used Savage 110 in 300 win mag. I found a hand-load recipe that worked very well for it. I also treated it as a single shot so I could index the brass. Allow me to explain: I take a marker and make a black line up the side of the case right above the “3” in “300 win mag” on the headstamp. I then make sure all casings are resized and loaded on my press with that line facing the same way. When I load them into my gun the line is up. This way, if there is anything out of alignment on my press it will be consistently out of alignment in my ammunition. As a result, I have stretched this gun out to 1000 yards (walking it into the target), I am confident in my cold bore (first shot on target) out to 500 yards. I actually ended up taking my first mule deer with that Savage.
Gas guns and bolt guns, with magazines, can be amazingly accurate, of that fact, there is no denying. There is a reason PRS shooters use them. However, it is still worth a mention that for a budget gun, a single shot will do impressive things. A true single shot bolt action will also be more rigid in the receiver, and rigidity leads to repeatability and accuracy. This may explain why so many long-range and precision shooters, such as F class and benchrest, use them. Funny, and telling, story… My mother once used a custom .223 wssm built on a Gaulin single-shot action at a “poker rally” long-range shoot. She ended up with a full house and won a custom .260 Remington built by EM Precision. My mom’s a cool lady.
Most recently I found myself getting into waterfowl hunting. Some friends and I went out and I brought with me a beautiful Benelli Super Black Eagle semiautomatic shotgun. I had a great time, but sadly, I found I circled back onto my old gopher shooting problem. Perhaps some people, such as myself, just shouldn’t hunt with semiautomatics. The next trip out, mostly as a joke, I brought my old H&R single shot 10 gauge. I bought it cheap, used, many years ago for no reason other than the price, $60 if memory holds true. I actually ended up finding I had better luck per fly over with the single shot. All this season it is all I have been using. It feels very weird to leave a Benelli behind for an old break-action, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Despite my friends telling me “you can’t hunt with a single shot” I haven’t noticed myself lagging behind the group. Maybe I just need to work my way up to a semi-auto. So should I now buy myself a nice double-barrel shotgun or a nice pump action as the next step toward my recovery?
I spend a lot of time waxing poetic about cheap single shots, which, let us be honest, is my wheelhouse. However, I feel I would be remiss if I did not mention that there are some beautiful single shots in existence that I would be plenty happy to own. A few examples that come to mind, of guns that I have shot, are: the AR-50, a single shot, bolt action, 50 BMG, look it up, its as fun as it looks. Another is the Ruger No. 1 a high wall action well known for its ability to handle powerful cartridges. My step-father used one in 7mm Remington Magnum as his go-to hunting rifle for many years. A funny story comes to mind, about a pumpkin. It was late fall and some of my step-dads friends had come over to sight in a new 7mm one of them had purchased. Sufficiently satisfied with its grouping and placement on paper, they decided to try and shoot a medium-sized pumpkin at 200 yards. After 5 or so attempts that struck little more than dirt, Darrel, my step-dad, ran into the house. He returned with his No. 1 and one of his hand-loaded rounds, the only ammunition his guns see are hand-loads. A quick aim and a gentle squeeze later a medium-sized pumpkin was a big sized mess on the hill. That story more shows the importance of practice rather than the superiority of single shots, but I still felt like sharing. The last firearm of note is a Blazer K95, I simply do not have the vocabulary to explain the beauty of this gun. It is miniature in stature yet feels a natural size when shouldered, as though it were made for me. The attention to detail is staggering. The one I handled had the full-length wood stock, from bow to stern all of the grain of the wood pieces aligned. It’s the kind of gun I felt I needed white cotton gloves to handle, it shocks me that people would subject them to the abuse that hunting often demands… but maybe someday when I am rich I will understand.
So, perhaps it’s true, that I don’t need, or currently want, a semi-auto for hunting. But it will be a cold day in a well-known hot place before I tell someone they shouldn’t have one for hunting, or really any other reason. That reason, of course, being none of my, or anyone else’s business. My gun safe has a great many single shots, and they sit right alongside my semi-automatics, and hopefully, they always will.
Posted in Hunting, Marksmanship, Published Workwith no comments yet.
Grassroots Rimfire
This article was actually also published in the January/February 2021 issue of The Canadian Firearms Journal.
I recently had the pleasure of trying something new, to me. I was cordially invited to participate in a 50-meter prone shoot. To my understanding, we followed the rules set out by the Alberta Smallbore Rifle Association (www.absbrifle.ca) more or less. You’ll have to forgive any technical errors in this story as I am still unsure of all the rules and regulations surrounding the event. They were explained to me on a need to know basis, and I can’t help but feel some exceptions and allowances had been made to allow anyone to compete with whatever they brought. It was all for fun, so I feel no one was hurt, but professionals may take issue with it, understandably so. If you would like to correct me, there’s a comment section below, I am always happy to learn.
The shoot took place at the home of a family friend, Russ. Despite my owning several .22 LR rifles, none of them seemed up to the task of a marksmanship competition, neither did I, for that matter. At any rate, my Stepdad, Darrell, was also attending the event so he was kind enough to allow me to use his rifle and ammo. He also paid my match fee, bonus. The rifle we were sharing was a CZ that had been highly customized for long-range precision. This meant heavy with a high-power optic, he also affixed a support sling and lent me a glove. I was informed that this put us into the “hunting rifle” category, while most other people were using iron sights and were shooting sans-sling putting them in “sporting.” I was told the basic rules, we had 30 minutes to shoot a total of 20 rounds at four targets. We were allowed to take as many “sighter” shots as we needed at the appropriate targets (placed near the top of our target paper). The shooting had to be unsupported, meaning no bipods or sandbags. At this point I could feel myself starting to panic, my only goal at this point was to avoid embarrassment…
Lucky for me, there were nine of us and only three could shoot at a time, so I got to see some other shooters go first. It looked simple enough, but 50 meters can sure seem far away some days. When it was finally my turn, it was well… ugly. The days light rain had turned to heavy rain, luckily the shooting line was sheltered. I struggled to understand how to best utilize the sling. Also, in my fury of discomfort holding a 10 plus lb rifle I shot my neighbor’s target. Wayne, the fellow next door, was using a beautiful Marlin 39a with a Skinner peep sight. We both agreed on which hole in his target was mine, it was the one that looked like a flier. After that first volley, I was in second-last place in my division and things weren’t looking up.
We took a break and had some amazing chilli for lunch. We ate inside Russ’s garage, which, was more of a comfortable workshop complete with a wood stove. While we ate, we noticed the rain had turned to huge snowflakes. February in Alberta, you never know what the day will hold. The first group went out to shoot again in that heavy snow. Then just as they finished and Darrell got comfortable on the line, the snow stopped, a lucky break for us. His volley went well but, somehow, he only put 19 rounds on paper, none of use could figure out where the 20th went. Best guess was he loaded one of his 4 magazines with only 4 rounds. After him it was my turn. I learned from my first round that 30 minutes is a long time. I took some real time to get comfortable and find a way to make the sling work for me. In the previous volley I had really used a lot of my bicep to hold the gun up. This time I slid the sling farther up my arm, above my elbow and put my hand behind the sling swivel. This allowed me to relax my arm and get some serious stability. I also dropped the optic down from 20x to 12x just to reduce the shaking. This volley went substantially better and I felt quite good about it.
After that volley we decided there was enough daylight for a 3rd volley. Everyone’s targets had seemed to improve as the day progressed, but I felt I really improved by my 3rd time around. By the time the dust settled, Russ had beaten me by a mile, but I still took first in my division, of only 4 people… and it was a tight race. Had it not been for the 3rd round that simply would not have been the case. There were no awards or prizes for winning since it was such a small event put on for fun. However, Russ, to keep it exciting, took our match fees and took half to pay for targets and lunch and raffled the other half off in a 50/50 style draw. Wouldn’t you know it? I won that too. If you recall earlier in this story, someone else paid my match fee, I used a borrowed gun and borrowed ammo… I was up $90 after a day of free shooting. Hard to beat that deal. I consider that money earmarked for a proper match rifle. Hopefully, I’ll get invited back next time.
My final, and best, target is now hung up on the wall of my gun room. I like it there, as a reminder that these grassroots fun shoots still exist. Seems these days everyone wants a social media bonanza with sponsors and prize tables. I worry that sometimes I lose sight of the point of shooting competitions: to be a better shooter than I was before and make some friends along the way.
Posted in Marksmanship, Published Workwith no comments yet.
Skyline Solo
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne, He travels the fastest who travels alone.
Rudyard Kipling
On account of a slow economy compounded by a pandemic, my work is a touch slow. So, from time to time my boss will tell me not to come in for a few days. On a Wednesday evening leading up to one of these impromptu 4 day weekends, I decided I wanted to do a hike. As luck would have it, I was able to book 2 nights on the Skyline trail in Jasper, a hike that usually books up months in advance. I guess there’s a lot of cancellations these days with a pandemic and closed borders. I booked the sites and started packing. I had to be in Jasper, at the Signal Mountain trailhead, by 9 am the following morning to drop my car off at the end of the hike and catch the shuttle to the trail-head. I went to bed and set my alarm for 3:45 AM.
My alarm screamed me awake and the day began. I loaded up the car and hit the road. There’s certainly something enjoyable about driving around in the wee hours of the morning, the world seems empty and peaceful. I arrived at the pickup spot an hour early. I had given myself extra time for the construction; turns out it wasn’t an issue. So I sat in my car and read my book. I also chatted briefly with a couple doing the same trail but they were hitchhiking instead of catching the bus, something I don’t have the guts for.
The bus arrived and I was one of only two passengers. An hour later I was dropped off at the southern trailhead, near Maligne Lake, and started walking. The first few hours of the trail was just a walk through the trees in the rain, truly nothing exciting. It started spitting light rain almost immediately after I started walking. Luckily I kinda saw it coming so I already had my rain gear on.
Pro tip: Put rain gear on immediately if you experience any rain. Otherwise, you risk going from “it’s not raining hard enough to bother putting my rain gear on” to “I’m so soaked there’s no point”
Eventually, I started to gain elevation and broke into some mountain meadows, the views were good, but the rain was getting heavier and patchier. Early in the afternoon, I hit my campsite, Snowbowl. The rain stopped long enough to set up my tent and add a tarp for extra wind protection. Then I and my rain-soaked clothes laid down in the tent. Laying out in waterlogged gear in a tent on wet ground is a chilly affair, that I assure you. Luckily my down jacket in my pack stayed dry and it fits under my raincoat. Side note – always make sure your gear is compatible, there will be times when you have to use it all at once.
After a few hours of laying around, dozing, and listening to podcasts, I decided to try and make some food. I wasn’t feeling too hungry, or particularly well, as I was sleep-deprived and cold. The rain had stopped, but it was still a thin layer of overcast. I decided to make some mac and cheese and see if I could force some down on principal. Never skip meals on a hike.
I let the noodles sit in the pot in cold water for about 10 minutes to let them soften before boiling, this saves fuel. As I was boiling the water, my stove began to sputter and die out, was I out of fuel? My guts gripped with terror at the thought of eating cold chicken and rice for dinner the following day. I grabbed the IsoPro bottle and gave it a shake, there was fuel in there. A hard twist of the stove and it was right as rain, guess I just didn’t put it on tight enough. Macaroni complete, I took 1 bite and suddenly realized I was ravenously hungry. I ate the entire pot, about as fast as I could. A cup of tea for dessert and I was in bed.
I read my book for a bit, then the exhaustion took over. I woke up around 2 am to the sound of the wind flapping my tarp against my tent. At first, it sounded like an animal walking around my tent. After about 5 minutes of careful listening, I decided it was either the wind or a bear standing completely motionless and breathing silently. Either way, I was going back to sleep.
I slept in until about 8. I waited a bit to see if the sun would come out and dry the tent, however it soon became clear it would not. I packed up, brushed my teeth, and started walking. It didn’t take long for me to start hitting some serious snow patches and mountain views. A fellow hiker would later tell me “the park office said this is the most snow they’ve had in July in 20 years.”
After some amazing snow-dotted mountain meadows, I found myself above the treeline, walking the side-hill of a rocky valley. The wind and rain were coming and going. When the wind blew, it carried the cold with it. I came upon a good sitting rock just as the wind briefly calmed. I knew a hard and sketchy summit was coming so I took this chance to have my breakfast. I had what I usually have when out hiking: cereal.
The recipe is simple: dehydrated milk, granola, and freeze-dried fruit, then just add water when you’re feeling hungry. Usually, I make my own at home before the hike but this time I brought some Mountain House brand version, it was quite good.
Breakfast done, it was time. I had to round Curator lake and climb up to The Notch. Circling by the lake was no issue, but the incline up to The Notch was, well, ugly. It started as steep switchback and quickly turned into a low visibility scramble over boulders. Because of the low clouds, seeing more than 30 feet seemed impossible. That said, all the snow cover made an accurate guess of distance impossible anyway. More than once I mistook a patch of snow below me for Curator lake.
There were times the closest hints of a trail were boot treads and the telltale holes from hiking poles digging in. The real terror was being on that steep, scree-covered bowl wall, and hitting a large snow patch with a split in the trail. I couldn’t see the end of the snow, one set of tracks went straight up like a snow ladder, and one went along the side of the wall. I was doing my best to avoid snow. There had been a few instances on less vertical terrain where running water had eroded the snow from underneath, causing me to break through, something I didn’t want to do at the angle or height.
Unfortunately, the trail I took, just led me to another vertical snow ladder. I climbed up it without much issue, but at the top of the snow patch there was no trail, just a few footprints, or rather, slid around stones from where people had stepped. Walking on the wet scree was very much like trying to climb a steep sandy hill, every step caused me to slide a foot down under my weight.
After a few meters of elevation gain, I found a slightly more solid footing. I was able to step from stone to stone, still sliding down the hill a bit, but this was still an improvement. After a few hundred yards, I hit another snow patch. In a brief break in the clouds, I could see that the patch took me over the edge of the bowl and the snow seemed far more level. I trudged over it, thankful to finally be able to walk upright.
The snow had led me right to the summit sign. I had made it to the highest point of the trail: The Notch. Visibility had gotten better, but still not enough to see anything of note. It was enough for me to see the next trail markers, though now I didn’t need them quite as much since the trail was a little more clearly packed down.
Not wasting much time in the wind and rain at the top, I carried on with the trail. I put my sunglasses on, pulled my scarf over my face, and pulled up my raincoat hood. The wind was cold, cutting, and cruel. I kept my head down and walked cairn to cairn. More than once I felt lost. The trail seemed to lead me the wrong direction. I didn’t trust my senses in those conditions. I just followed the trail, glad to see any form of marker when they appeared.
I remember walking a ridge-line and only briefly getting a glimpse between clouds at the lakes and trees below, with the low visibility I had no idea how high up I was. Eventually, I looked up and saw the silhouettes of hikers. I got close and said Hello. We chatted a bit and I mentioned that if it hadn’t been for their boot prints I may well have gotten lost. We hiked together for a bit, eventually losing some elevation and gaining a lot of visibility.
I guess this is the only proof I’ve been there
When my trail friends stopped for lunch, I kept going. I prefer to snack all day while I walk instead of stopping to eat lunch. Shortly after leaving their company, a series of steep switchbacks led me into a treed valley full of streams. A few of the streams had hard-packed snow acting as a bridge, something a man of my weight is always nervous about.
On the far end of the valley, I found my intended campsite, Tekarra. I arrived at 2 pm and it had just stopped raining and looked as though it may start again any second. I weighed the options and decided I didn’t want to sit in my tent in the rain waiting for it to be an appropriate time to cook dinner, then wait in my tent for an appropriate time to go to sleep. I opted to hike out to the end, an additional 14 km. The couple I had met the morning before, when I had parked my car, was at Tekarra having lunch. They were also hiking out that day.
Immediately after leaving the site, I had to cross a river with high water. I did my best to boulder hop, but my boots went from wet to soaked as a result.
The remaining trail was relatively uneventful, just a bush trail with some snow patches and parts of trail eroded from flowing water. At one point some trail-runners passed me and informed me there was only 10 km remaining. A few minutes later I ran into them again as they had stopped at the top of the fire road to strip off some layers before running it out. I had a sit myself and drank some water. The couple from the lot caught up to me.
We had a friendly chat with everyone, the runners were off, followed by myself. The couple stayed back to rest a bit. Shortly after my departure, they passed me with ease and a spring in their step. I felt rather worn out.
After what felt like a very long and painful walk I came across some hikers who informed me I was 4 km from the end. This news disappointing me because I thought I was seconds from the end. I shortly found a sign that confirmed they were correct.
After a walk that felt long enough to induce fears of purgatory, I finally rounded a corner and saw cars. As I walked into the lot, I saw the couple driving out. I got changed as fast as I could out of my wet hiking clothes. The mosquitoes were terrible, I got some bites in some places I would rather not mention.
I promptly drove into Jasper and bought supplies for the drive home: an iced chai latte from Bear Paw and a pizza from Northface Pizza. I also phoned Erin to let her know I had finished a day early and was headed home. I had hiked just over 30 km that day.
Posted in Hikingwith 2 comments.
Money, Time and Blood: Life of a 3-gunner
This was originally published in the Canadian Firearms Journal July/August 2019 edition. This was intended as a humour article, I hope you like it. I had a shortage of appropriate photos for this story, the drawings of me were created by the owner of https://www.canadiancutthroat.ca/ I highly recommend going and having a look at his website.
Getting into the sport of 3-gun can be daunting. There are a lot of rules, a lot of gear, and you preform in front of a group. However, do not be dissuaded. The rules are pretty intuitive once you get into it, they’re all safety and common sense oriented. Don’t sweat embarrassing yourself, everyone eventually does and they all seem to have a pretty good attitude about it. As for all the gear… it only costs a small fortune.
If you are thinking of getting into 3-gun, or any other shooting sport, you should start by asking yourself these few questions:
Do I have too much money?
Do I have too much free time?
Do I see my family too often?
If you said yes to at least two of these, 3-gun may be right for you. The simplest way to get into it, is to go to a match. Contacting the league beforehand is a good idea too. Sounds simple, but social media is littered with people who are stockpiling and perfecting their gear to be all set to someday go to a match. Show up with what you’ve got, if anything, and some boxes of ammo (9mm, .223, and 12 gauge). I guarantee someone with lend you gear. My first match was quite the swap meet. I was borrowing holsters, guns, mags, and belts from five different people, but they cobbled something together for me. Be prepared to lose that first match. Go slow and try not to get disqualified for a safety violation.
Immediately after that first match, while you’re still flying high from all the fun. Go home and research some entry level guns and gear and write up a budget. Show that to your spouse and get approval… now when they look away, add a zero to the end. You won’t spend that now, but you will. Allow me to explain.
You’ll probably start with a basic AR, like a Norinco or M&P, a basic 9mm like a Glock or M&P9; and just whatever shotgun you have… and, of course, you’ll need a bunch of magazines, I like to carry 40 rounds for both my rifle and pistol. Next, it’ll be a belt, a holster, magazine pouches, and a few shotgun shell caddies. You’ll see the cost of the caddies and nearly cry… Before you ask, no there are no cheap caddies and they almost never show up for sale second hand. This will land you in your original budget, get your foot in the door and get you doing matches in the limited division. You’ll likely run a season or two this way. Then you’ll need an optic, and those don’t grow on trees and of course, you will want a good one, a cheap one might lose zero with all those barrel dumps. If you want to stay in limited you go with a red dot; if you want an actual scope, that will put you into Tac-Ops. If you’re getting that into it, you may as well upgrade that old pump action shotgun of yours to a semi, but due to Canadian law and weird capacity loopholes, you need one that takes 3.5″ shells, but will reliably cycle 2.75” target loads. Its also around this time that some folks, such as myself, begin to try to do their own gunsmithing. You take a Dremel to your new shotgun to open the port and a soldering iron to it for stippling. The there’s the rattle can paint job so your gun stands out a little on the rack. Just a heads up, if you don’t paint it a masculine colour, some people will act personally offended… guess how I know that.
After a season or so the cost of ammunition will start to get to you, so now its time to get into reloading. Since volume is the name of the game, you can hunch over your old single stage endlessly or you get a progressive press, and a good one, since a squib or double charge could be dangerous. Buy once cry once right? Congratulations, your reloading setup now cost almost as much as your original 3-gun budget. That’s ok, it’ll save you money on ammo, have to think long term here.
All ammo costs you now are components, your evenings, and usually a dedicated room in your house. At least you can now store all your other gear in that room, too.
This fancy hand loaded ammo combined with your optic will really show you how limiting your AR is, better upgrade that barrel and that trigger. While you’re at it, keep your eyes peeled for a sale on a handguard, you’ll probably try two or three with various types of vertical and angled grips. In the end though, that super expensive ultralight one will probably be the answer.
Another great way to save money is to start volunteering for the league, that often gives you free entry to the matches. You now also get to design stages, help more with setup, and RO… but that’s just an extra few hours a month, right?
A common route guys go to get free gear is to get some form of sponsorship. Of course, to do that you will need to get good, which means practice. Good thing you have that fancy reloading gear. It’s also a good idea to do a lot of dry fire practice every day. This isn’t to make you a better shooter, this is just to post to Instagram to help you get followers.
Since companies that sponsor you want you to use as much of their gear as possible, you may as well go to open class so you can put an optic or two on everything. At which point you will need to go to a magazine fed shotgun and a custom tuned “race pistol”, to stay competitive. Once you’ve started spending all your time posting to social media and spent all your money on gear, you just might get a sponsorship deal, which might help you get a discount on gear, which is now redundant. But now you can brag that you are sponsored. You’ve even got that fancy jersey (that you bought) to prove it! As a sponsored shooter, you’ll be expected to attend as many matches as possible, which means no going to your in-law’s family reunion “Sorry honey, can’t miss The Battle of Alberta.”
All along the way, you will be doing this so you can spend 14-hour days getting sunburn, windburn, frostbite, or just downright soaked in the rain. Oh, and don’t forget the sprains, the cuts on your hands and knees, and the occasional bit of lead ricochet. I once caught a small piece of lead in my hand while filming another shooter. My doctor had to dig it out with a scalpel. Before that day, I had never seen a medical profession giggle. It was clearly the highlight of his week.
But on the plus side, you get to go fast and shoot a lot… for about four minutes, total, per day. It’s kind of like golf, the better you are at it, the less of it you do in a competition. If you are looking for something less damaging to the body, the wallet, and your family, I would suggest either gambling or the rodeo circuit.
For me though, if I am going down in a blaze of financial ruin, it’s with an AR in my hands and hot brass falling down the back of my shirt. If you want to join me, www.3gun.ca lists most matches happening in Canada. Let me warn you though, there’s a lot of running.
Posted in Marksmanship, Published Work and tagged 3-gun, firearms, shootingwith no comments yet.
The Iceland Saga Vol. 2 Laugavegur Trail
The first part of this series can be found here. Don’t forget to subscribe by entering your email on the right.
The day was young, the air was cold, the tent was wet… but that’s Iceland. A price that is well worth paying for an adventure. My nervous stomach was doing flips as we boarded the monster of a bus. Imagine a greyhound bus with oversized tires and a lift kit, that’s what I climbed onto shortly before sunrise. The bus made a few more stops to collect passengers. I watched out the window with interest as we turned off the pavement onto a dirt track. The trail itself wasn’t too terrible. It was soft sand, for the most part, but it was narrow and winding. The driver was clearly familiar because he was impatiently tailgating and honking at the slow-moving land rovers we crossed paths with. A few times we forded deep creeks that justified the tires on the bus. Eventually, we ended where we intended. We had made it to Landmannalaugar, now we just had to make it out.
When we first pulled in, my mind immediately thought of a refugee camp. It was raining, it was muddy, there were sad little tents everywhere and cold, wet people milling about. I immediately, and somewhat pointedly, crumpled this comparison and threw it in the trash bin in the back of my mind. These were tourists, here of their own accord, and I likely represented the poorest of the lot. There was a small shop that sold the basics, it was two old school buses pushed together and converted. I didn’t need anything so I didn’t bother going in. Just as well, the reputation of their prices preceded my arrival. Erin and I slipped into a communal cooking shelter and changed into our rain gear, as did several others. The rain was pretty steady at this point and I nearly ruined my trip before it started. I bent down to pick something up and managed to rip the front of my waterproof hiking pants. I thought I was going to have to hike the rain in soggy pants for 4 days. Luckily, Erin had some medical tape in her bag, surprisingly, that was sufficient to hold it together for the duration of the hike.
After a sufficient amount of stalling, on my part, we found the trailhead and started walking. The first bit of the hike was along the green valley floor, the trail was well worn in. Abruptly the trail stood on end, had it not been packed down and marked I would have assumed we hit the end. Up we went, then some more up… then some more… I didn’t know Iceland had this much up in it. The green shrubbery gave way to a rocky mountain top. The rain and wind picked up. Eventually, we lost most visibility, we walked through the misty fog barely able to see the next marker. The trail was occasionally dotted with cairns to help. Along the way, we passed a memorial dedicated to a young hiker who lost his life in a snowstorm in 2004. I place a rock on top of the growing pile at the memorial, and with a bit more solemn and introspective tone, I continued my hike. We arrived at the first campsite shortly after. It was still raining and windy and the campsites were all quite rocky. It was also only about 2 in the afternoon. We had some lunch, we ate what we called “SADwiches” they were a slice of ham and a slice of cheese in what tasted like a burnt compressed pita bun. Erin and I decided to press on to the next campsite which was only a few hours hike away and at a much lower altitude. We hoped by then the rain and wind would slow. As we pressed on, the landscape rolled us up and down deep and narrow drainages, passed shrubs, and then through the barren rocky land. At one point in our up and down and questionable ice bridge crossings, Erin noticed she didn’t have her phone. We then had to backtrack nearly a kilometer to find it. I told her, as punishment I would shame her on my blog. Eventually, we hit what felt like the edge of a mini-mountain range. The trail led down the side of one last little mountain and into a big open lowland. Down below we could see the land all had a gentle slope leading to a lake, we could see the campsite, Alftavatn, next to it. We made our way down and set-up camp. Luckily for us, the rain had nearly stopped, just the lightest drizzle and no wind as we set up. Every campsite had cabins, bathrooms, and showers. The showers were expensive and the cabins were only for those renting a bunk in them. Those of us who tented, congregated around the edges of the buildings, hoping the slight overhang of the roof would protect us from the rains that were inevitably coming. The remainder of the evening passed without a noteworthy event. We were ahead of schedule and I was plenty tired, sleep came easy.
Day two held a bit of everything, including a cold river crossing very early in the day. Immediately after the crossing was a long flat walk, it was on an open black plain surrounded, in the distance, by sparse mossy green hills. We eventually found ourselves in the mountains and crossing old volcanic terrain. I was beginning to feel a lot like a hobbit delivering jewelry. We reached our camp in the early afternoon. I purchased our camping permit while Erin used the washroom… We discussed it and we were both ok to press on to Thorsmork. I asked if a refund was possible, instead, they made a note on my permit that it would be valid at the next camp. We pressed on through the mountainous terrain. Eventually, the terrain became more treed and the rain began to pick up. I was beginning to regret not staying at the last campsite but we were well on our way to completing the Laugavegur trail in just 2 days. I finally hit my tipping point, every big trip beats me at some point. I always drag myself back up, but it still happens. In this case, we came down a hill in the rain to see a wide graveled flood plain. Narrow rivers spread like veins across the landscape. I was cold, exhausted, miserable, and starting to get vocal about it. Erin and I tried to hop from sandbar to sandbar but they all dead-ended eventually. Finally, we bit the bullet, in the cold rain, on the sharp rocks, we changed into our sandals to walk across the streams. Even that wasn’t easy as they were moving at an impressive pace. One miss step on slick rock or into a deep hole would send you tumbling down an icy stream, in this weather a soaked pack, and as a result, soaked bedding constitutes a literal emergency. We hit the far bank without incident. I sat on the bank shivered, dry heaved, and nearly cried. I don’t know if it was a panic attack but it sure felt like some kind of stress and exhaustion induced attack. For about five minutes I sat in the rain, with Erin casting a worried and unsure eye, and felt the absolute worst I have ever felt in my life, in every sense of the word. My stomach hurt from stress, my feet hurt from cold, my knees hurt from use, my head hurt from dehydration, my soul hurt from exhaustion. Slowly, I put myself together again. I took off my soaked sandals, wrung out my socks, slid them on and forced my boots into place. Things weren’t going to get better if I stayed sitting. It was time to go. We slung our packs and started walking. As luck would have it, it was calm trails through the trees all the way to nearby Thorsmork. We set up our tent and were thankful for the small communal tent they had set up for campers to cook in. We hung out gear to dry, cooked some supper and made tea to try and chase the cold from our bones. Words cannot describe the comfort one feels climbing into dry pajamas and a warm sleeping bag after a day like that. I took a deep whiff of fresh Icelandic air and I was asleep. We had just completed the Laugavegur trail in two days. In the morning we could catch a bus back to town or we could hike.
We had technically already completed the Laugavegur trail. The last leg was from Thorsmork to Skogafoss. This was the hardest part of the hike for me. I was already good and tired, physically and mentally. Then Iceland had a good sense of humor and threw some heights at me. The highlight of which was when I had to climb and drop down a few ledges, walk across a narrow peak, then climb back up another steep cliff and ledge combination with the assistance of a chain bolted to the side. While maneuvering the chain, my hiking poles, that were slung around my wrist, were doing their best to tangle between my legs. I looped my elbow around the chain, pulled the poles off my wrists, debated dropping them off the cliff, decided against littering, collapsed them and tucked them between my pack and my back. Once I completed the chain ordeal, I was rewarded with a nice steep hill to go straight up. I was glad I opted to keep the hiking poles. At some point we crossed between two large glaciers, over mountains, and crossed barren black volcanoes, the two youngest volcanoes in the world, I am told. Finally, we reached a river that would eventually feed Skogafoss. We walked along its edge, high above the water on more cliff edges. Every few hundred yards there was another spectacular waterfall. I knew we were getting close because I started to see people in increasingly casual clothing and good moods. Eventually, we reached the falls. The top of the falls, actually. It was crowded and spectacular. Erin took some photos and I stared, sore-footed and dead-eyed at the flights upon flights of metal stairs for us to climb down. As my stiff legs and sore knee carried me down the steps I overheard someone on the way up complaining about the stairs, I had just enough energy to stifle my laugh. Erin and I hit the bottom and hi-fived, lazily. We had just hiked 80km in 3 days. All we had to do now was figure out a ride back to Hella, where our car was parked.
We walked to the information center on the far side of the little town at the bottom of the falls. They were closed, so we went to the attached restaurant, they closed 10 minutes later… We walked to the nearest bus stop and tried to decipher the schedule, as best I could tell the next bus was coming at 9 am… in 3 days. We debated sleeping there, as there was a little campsite available. We sat down at a little picnic table next to some other hikers and gathered our tired and flustered thoughts. Just as Erin was digging out the ingredients for tea, the hikers said “hey, our bus is here” and as a holy apparition, there it was. We repacked our bags, fast, and ran over and asked if they had extra seats, they did. I don’t remember the price and even now, I don’t care. Half an hour or so later we were in our car. We drove to the nearest gas station and I bought a bacon-wrapped hot dog and other necessary supplies. We drove to our next campsite, Selfoss. While preparing a snack a girl at the table next to us told me we simply HAD to stay up to see the northern lights. I didn’t have the energy to stay up or to explain that I am quite spoiled here in Canada when it comes to aurora borealis. In fact, Erin and I saw them on our wedding night in the middle of Edmonton.
The following morning we went to see another waterfall, Gullfoss, truly a monster of a fall. All I remember was being tired and sore walking from the car to the viewing point. For lunch, we stopped at a little cafe and as luck would have it, they had thermal bread which was something I really wanted to try while I was there and seemed to be having trouble locating.
The final day we took our time getting to the airport, we stopped at the famous blue lagoon baths and had a look. It was nice to walk around, Erin grabbed a coffee and we were on our way. It was too crowded and far too expensive considering we had already gone into the hot springs at Myvatn. All that was left now, was to catch our flight home and sleep in a bed for the first time in a long time. On the flight home, I realized I had actually set a personal record, eleven consecutive days in a tent.
Posted in Hiking, Photo Drop, Travel and tagged hiking, iceland, travelwith no comments yet.
The Iceland Saga Vol. 1
March 2019, Erin had a birthday. For many years leading up to this birthday, she had always expressed a desire to go to Iceland. I remember her talking about it back when we were in New Zealand. So, I worked as much overtime as I could for a few months leading up to her birthday. I lied and told her I wanted to save all my overtime for a new rifle or possibly a new vehicle. I told her she should probably save a bit too as our car was starting to act up. When her big day came, we were on a ski trip to Golden and went to a fancy restaurant. While Erin couldn’t hear, we told the waitress it was her birthday. She suggested we really surprise her and do cake first. We were shown to our seats, served our drinks, and had our orders taken. Shortly after the waitress came up, apologized and explained that the restaurant was build in a converted house that’s just over 100 years old. She further explained that they were having some electrical issues and needed to flip the breaker and shut the lights off for a moment. We all shrugged a “whatcanyoudo?” Suddenly, cake and candles rounded the corner. We were all surprised for some reason, but we quickly helped sing. Erin was handed her gifts and I gave her an Iceland guide book and wrote “let’s go here” on it. In a note, I explained that I saved money for the trip, and that was her gift. I then realized I had failed to plan the trip… so I guess it was half a gift…. classic men… get it together. Anyway, Erin and I (mostly Erin) planned the trip in short order and in late August we took to the air to get to the ice.
Our flight landed at 6 am local time. As our bus took us into town I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the landscape. It seemed little more than moss and rocks. It was beautiful but truly empty. We found our campsite and got settled in. Food and accommodations can be quite pricy in Iceland, so many people, like Erin and I, opt to bring a tent and camp the entire time. Our initial itinerary was to catch a bus to Landmannalaugaur (a hiking hub/basecamp) and hike the Laugavegur trail. We expected the hike to take 4 or 5 days. Then we would rent a car and explore the towns along the coast. BUT FIRST, I needed breakfast. Thanks to the conveniences of modern technology, my phone was able to point us to a bakery. We bought ourselves some ham and cheese-filled pastry, light and flakey like a croissant. Upon returning to our campsite we saw a severe weather warning for the hike we were intending to do. When it comes to changing plans and rolling with the punches Erin is a champ, and I tag along. Her plan was simple. We would flip our itinerary. Travel the coast first in a rental car and, time and weather permitting, do the hike at the end. We took the remainder of the day to explore Reykjavik, as blind luck would have it, there was a large cultural festival happening. Along the streets, there were theater-style plays, a rock concert, art installations, street vendors, and all the shops had sales on. I had fish and chips from a street vendor and they were amazing.
The following morning we went and retrieved our rental car. Turns out there was no issue picking it up a few days early. We tore down our camp and struck out west for adventure. We spent the day driving into the West Fjords. No small task, I must say. It was a long journey full of sharp twists and turns in the rain. All done heroically in a very small hatchback that was making some very troubling noises from one of the rear tires… glad I got the extra insurance. Along the way, we made several stops at roadside turnouts to see various craters and waterfalls. We eventually found a campsite we liked, in Isafjodur, unfortunately the weather left something to be desired. It was raining, still. We set up our tent and hid in the little common area to cook some supper. We chatted with the other campers and enjoyed the heater on full blast. We then went back to our tent and did something wild and new… we had snacks, in bed, in our tent. It was amazing, you simply cannot do that in Canada or you’ll be a snack for a bear, or wolf, or cougar, or some other large predator. To me, its the hardest part of camping, I love a midnight snack.
The next morning we decided to do a little hike. It was straight up from our campsite along a waterfall and actually crossed it a few times. It was a real hard push but the view at the top was well worth it. It was also a good opportunity to test out my new hiking poles. I somehow seem to keep ending up taking untested gear on big trips. After the hike, we went into the town. We hit a small museum in town before leaving. It was primarily the history of the village and its fishing but I also came across a polar bear hide and an old Brno .22 similar to the one my step-dad has. The story has it, that in 1963 a polar bear drifted from Greenland on an iceberg and a local out collecting duck eggs was able to successfully shoot it. I also learned that for many centuries Iceland’s primary building material was driftwood that made its way to Icelandic shores all the way from Siberia. Both of these fascinate me equally. I feel like, had he not shot the polar bear, no one would have ever believed him. I also doubt that either Siberians or Icelanders knew the relationship they had. We then drove to Akureyri, far east of the West Fjords region. We would have loved to stay and explore the Fjords more but travel was quite slow in that landscape and we had limited time. Once we arrived I was treated to a real Iceland delicacy, a hotdog cooked in Pilsner beer and wrapped in bacon. Served on a soft bun with crunchy fried onions. It was amazing. We ended our day with a soak in the local pool.
The next day was to be our biggest. We drove straight to the hot springs in Myvtan. We were told they were a less busy version of the famous blue lagoon hot springs. The water was hot, and the facilities clean, it was a good way to start our big tour. In the area there was a lot to see:
Pseudocraters (created by water escaping through lava flows)
Grjótagjá (which was featured in Game Of Thrones… we did a lot of quoting)
Hverir (boiling mud pools that constantly change a small portion of the landscape)
Viti crater and accompanying geothermal powerplant (it looked like a space station)
Dettifoss (the most powerful waterfall in Europe)
We then made the long drive to Asbyrgi it was a long drive down a one-lane gravel road. When we set out we did not realize how long it would take us. It was still worth the visit though. It is a huge valley created in a matter of days, thousands of years ago, after volcanic activity broke an ice dam and several large glacial lakes drained into the sea and eroded the landscape along the way. Inside the valley, the walls were steep and jagged, the trees inside were thick and lush, at the end of the valley was a pool of still water. Erin and I walked in and there were a few other tourists looking at it in total silence. No one said more than a gentle whisper. Something about this place demanded silence, no one dared question it. We walked back to the car and made the long drive to our campsite in Egilsstader.
The next day was our last day to really explore with our car as we had solidified our plan to start the hike the following day. By this time in our trip, we had circled back to just east of Reykjavik, so the sights became a little busier. The first stop of the day was Iceberg lagoon, full of seals, icebergs, kayaks, tour boats, tourists, and photoshoots. It was quite a sight. Across the road was Diamond beach, in fact, Iceberg Lagoon drains onto Diamond Beach. It gets its name from bits of ice washing up on the black sand and sparkling like diamonds. One thing I insisted on seeing was a crashed airplane on the beach. The story has it that the plane ran out of fuel and the USAF didn’t bother to come to pick it up. It was about a 45-minute hike each way to see it. It was very crowded and, despite the posted signs, people were climbing all over it. I found it a touch disappointing but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, its an interesting attraction that’s relatively easy to access. We then checked into a rather run-down campsite in Hella and booked a bus ticket to take us to Landmannalauger. The following day we would start our Icelandic backcountry hike, but I’ll save that for my next post.
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The Gift of a Mule Deer
This story takes place in 2018 and was originally published in the July 2019 issue of “Alberta Outdoorsmen Magazine” the published version is much shorter.
6 weekends, each bracketed by a fifty-hour work week, in a machine shop, a job I was new to, in a new career field. Thousands of kilometers driven to my parents’ farm and back, all on the tail end of a very mentally stressing hike on the West Coast Trail. Every muscle in my legs hurt, I had, what felt like, a permanent dehydration headache compounded by exhaustion.
My usual routine was that I would drive straight from work on Friday to my parents’ farm and hunt until Sunday afternoon. I always wanted to stay for the Sunday evening hunt but I knew it would make me too tired to drive home safely. I was especially motivated this season because I was awarded a draw tag for an Antlered Mule Deer. I intended to fill that tag or die
On the first weekend of rifle season, I took a walk to a far corner of the property to see if there were mule deer where I had seen so many the previous hunting season. I had avoided the area during archery season, as it’s very open making a stalk or an ambush nearly impossible. If there were deer, they would likely be sunning themselves high on the hill and watching the field, I elected to take a long way around. This allowed me to stay hidden in the trees. As I broke out of the bush along a narrow game trail I spotted a small group of mule does, up on the side of a hill, where I hoped they would be. They spotted me immediately, to my camouflages disappointment, from nearly 400 yards out. They didn’t run, and I did not move. It was a silent stalemate, both parties quite interested in the other. Eventually, my mannequin training paid off and they lost interest. I took a few steps closer, my goal being to get behind cover and get comfortable. My theory was: if there are does here, there will eventually be bucks. The sound of my footsteps in the snow perked their ears, so I slowed. When I crouched, the water bottle in my pocket betrayed me. They got up and ran down the hill, somewhat parallel to my spot into a separate patch of bush. Seemed to me, their goal was to get around me and see what they could smell. As soon as they fell out of sight I laid flat on my back and watched for them. Sure enough, they stuck their heads out of the tree 20 yards away from me and searched around. Eventually they must have caught a sniff because they made that sound every hunter hates, they blew their noses and ran off.
I stood up and dusted the snow off. I congratulated myself on the small victory, now I knew where they spent their time. Mule deer tend to be pretty predictable. I decided my best bet was to make my way up the hill and hide in a small patch of shrubs up where there’s a better view. I slowly worked my way up and had a seat. After a few hours of sitting and watching an empty field, it was starting to get into the afternoon. I decided it would be best to head back to the house to have some lunch and prepare for an evening hunt. I had a good sitting spot in mind for whitetail, another tag I was hoping to fill. As soon as I stood up and turned around there
I got home and told my parents all about the excitement. I then headed out for a cold and unsuccessful sit for whitetail elsewhere. The next morning, Sunday, I was back on mule deer hill. By the time afternoon had arrived I had nothing to show for it and was starting to nod off. I decided I best get a move on and get home, it was still over a mile walk to the house and a 3 hour drive home. On, about, Tuesday I got a most upsetting text from my step-dad. It seems the neighbour had given someone permission to hunt on his property next to ours, this hunter had taken that deer. My step-dad had spotted it in the box of the truck pulling out of the neighbour’s field. It really threw my entire week off.
Big buck or not, I was back out hunting again the next Saturday. I
After sitting and watching long enough for my backside to go numb in the snow. It started to become obvious the big old boy just wasn’t going to come out. I guess it takes a dose of caution for a deer to get that big. Suddenly, like lightning, a deer ran out on my left, over a hill and into the middle of the field below. He stopped and turned broadside to me. His antlers were nice, but he wasn’t in the same league as the deer I was watching. He stood there, broadside, for a moment and it gave me time to think. I realized, I had my entire life to chase a monster mule, but this, this was my chance to get my first mule deer, on my first antlered draw. If ever there was a gift from above, or from the earth… this was it. A respectable mule deer standing perfectly broadside. I figured he was 200 yards out, based on my previous ranging. I made the decision to shoot. As soon as that mental switch in my head flipped, the circuits in my brain went wild. Immediately my heart rate increased. It’s hard for anyone to describe this sense of excitement, finality and yet uncertainty rolled into one. All of which desperately being stifled in an attempt to keep your hands from shaking. For every hunter, I am sure this is different, for me, it feels like my chest is imploding and building up for an explosion like a train is about to fly off the rails and its boiler is glowing red and starting to rattle. Yet in my mind, I have perfect clarity, like a runner’s high. I took aim, I lined up the
I checked my watch and made a mental note of the the minute hand. I like to wait 10 or so minutes before approaching an animal to ensure it is bled out. If I run up and scare it into the woods, its now a game of hide and seek and I risk losing the animal all together. After I checked the time, I noticed I was shaking really hard. I had officially been hit with buck fever. I pulled my phone out and took a video of it. I thought maybe it would be funny to share with my friends, but watching it I
After about 5 minutes, I pulled out my range finder and checked the actual distance, it read 160 yards. Immediately I questioned the integrity of my shot. I pulled off my binocular harness and
We got the deer home, skinned it and hung it up. To my everlasting shame, my initial shot had hit far back and high. I have no excuse for the poor shooting, on a normal day I can hit a “kill zone” sized target at 500 yards no question. All I can say
The following day I fried the tenderloin in a cast iron pan with onions, garlic and morel mushrooms. It was delicious, but the thought of that pulled shot made it feel half earned… Like the greed and desperation that wrecked the shot had gotten into the meat, and only I could taste it. The following weekend I went back to my parents to butcher and pack the meat. I also turned the head in for CWD testing, after removing the antlers. The results, luckily, came back negative.
I am glad to have gotten my first mule deer and I am glad it is such a great example of one. But I am quite saddened that things didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked. Everyone who has hunted for any length of time talks about how eventually you wound one, or lose one outright. I guess it was just my time, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
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The Shape of Waterfowl
I am only at the start of my second season as a waterfowler. This affords me leeway in folly, and wonder in discovery. It is truly a great time to exist, as I know enough to be able to go but still feel the need to learn. Though, like most hunting, I have no doubt it will be easy to learn and impossible to master. I still find myself fascinated by the art behind a good decoy spread, and an art it is. There are rules, yes, but they can all be broken. No two landscapes are ever going to be similar enough for a person to be able to share more than an outline. All I know is birds like to land into the wind, they don’t like to land over top of decoys, and do your best to place decoys four to six feet apart. The rest is experience and imagination that just can’t find its way into words, or so I get the impression.
My primary focus has been geese, they provide more meat, they prefer the open farm fields of Alberta, as opposed to ducks who prefer swamps. The biggest and most important factor is that geese are what my friends chase, and they have all the gear to do it. I just have to show up. Amazing the guided hunting trip a case of beer will get you in some parts.
My most recent trip brought a strange memory back to me. I have hunted a wide range of animals and as a result, have shot a lot of animals. Only geese have reminded me of a story I read in elementary school. I was in the blind with Tyler and his girlfriend, Kendra, when a lone goose flew close enough for a shot. In my hour of amateurism, I stood up and took a shot, spooking another, larger, bunch on the way in. It was a selfish maneuver and inexperience was my accomplice, it was a lesson in communication. My 10 gauge split the cool morning air and hit its mark. The goose instantly, mid-air, curled its wings in, locked its neck down, and fell to the ground like a feathered cannonball. At that moment all I could remember was sitting in my 5th-grade classroom hearing the teacher read ” He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered.” I searched around recently and found it is from “Shooting an Elephant” By George Orwell an anti-imperialism essay that’s worth a read. At the time of reading that story, I thought it a touch silly and perhaps a case of the author dramatizing. Animals almost always react to being hit, but I have never seen such a fast, dramatic, and all-encompassing change. Maybe only some animals do it, or maybe only some people see it. So I have to ask myself, is it me or the goose?
Of my total of 2 trips this season (there are many more on the way, don’t worry). We were in no danger of limiting out, by which I mean we did not come close to getting the maximum daily amount allowed by law. Limiting is always the goal and certainly a feather in the hat of any hunter. We did, however, get enough for me to test goose meat in my burger recipe. They work great if you just substitute ground goose for venison or if you are extra sensitive to that gamey taste or are cooking for someone who is… picky. Just up the bacon to cut down that wild flavour. I made a YouTube video chronicling my first goose burger attempt. If you want to see some footage from last year’s hunting, look here.
Posted in How-To, Hunting, Recipe, Videowith no comments yet.