The Crossing
The ferry creaked and groaned as it maintained a slow but steady course westward towards Nova Scotia from Newfoundland. The sun was bright and most passengers of the Caribou sought out the upper deck to soak up the warmth, a relatively rare thing for early spring in the Atlantic provinces. Despite the sunshine it only stopped the worry all passengers had about the days crossing, what was supposed to be a routine run was impeded by the thick pack ice created from the shifting tide and a increased northerly wind.
The captain announced that arrival was delayed and further updates would come, in Classic Newfie style the passengers made the best of it and enjoyed the opportunity to be on the water, it didn’t hurt that the bar was opened and myself and my father had found a comfortable seat near the giant glass windows overlooking the ocean and the mess of ice crowding the hull.
It was beautiful, the water was a dark blue near the ship and got progressively brighter as you looked to the horizon. It looked freezing cold and that was without adding the ice to the equation. As the ship crawled it’s way through the ice it formed large ice pans, looking out across the ice and now open water trailing behind the ship we could see seals sliding out of the water to sunbathe.
The ice was bright and hurt the eyes the longer you looked at it. Watching the seals helped, and we needed as much distraction as we could get as the ships progression through the pack ice was stopped. The Captains voice came over the Intercom informing us of the delay but adding the good news that an ice breaker was making its way into port to open up the way for us. We grabbed another beer and resumed our spying of the seals.
An hour had passed and with it another beer before the ship continued it’s voyage, this time at a slightly faster speed than it’s previous drift like rate. Nova Scotia rose beyond the ice showing that our arrival was nearing, we switched from beer to water but maintained a watchful eye on the iced patched ocean.
From this distance from land we started spotting small fishing boats amongst the ice pans, “seal hunt” my father said. They seemed so fragile amongst the massive blocks of ice but it was a living and they needed to risk it if they were to make it to fishing season. Now we could see scattered blood stained patches of ice, you could see it for miles off. Shots rang out and echoed over the ice as another sealer shot at a seal, we could not tell the outcome but with the ice coming in again it was probably in favour of the seal.
The horn sounded and north Sydney ferry terminal awaited our docking. So long was our journey and so badly we wanted to get on the road, yet the ocean required one moment more of my time. This was a oneway crossing for me, I was moving away for work like so many Newfoundlanders have to. I looked for a long moment over the ice and the water, past the sealers and along the path of open ice and up to the horizon, there was no sign of the rock, no sign of my home, it had disappeared into the ocean not wanting to say goodbye. Walking to the car I knew one thing, no matter where I lived or where I worked there would be only one place I could call home, and it waited deep in the Atlantic for my return.
The Memory
The boy slumped onto the floor of the river boat and reached into a cooler to grab a juice box. His patience was running thin but he wanted to save face so pretended that he only put his fly rod down so he could take a rest. The line hung over the bow and the flowing river pulled it tight straight out in front of them.
Two hours had passed of constant fishing and they saw plenty but were unable to entice one to take their flies, the boy hadn’t complained once, he loved fishing with his grandfather and had been looking forward to this all week. He wanted badly to be the first to catch a salmon, he imagined how proud his grandfather would be when he pulled in a giant Atlantic salmon.
The time had taken its toll on the boy and the lack of action discouraged him to the point where he couldn’t help but take a break and lay down his rod. He watched as his Grandfather continued to fish off the starboard side while his own line floated two feet of the stern in the swirling river.
It was peaceful in this fishing spot they had chosen, the river flowed gently against the fiberglass hull causing the long river boat to swing back and forth against the pull from the anchor like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. White bubbles formed where the water broke over boulders and stretched out to either side like long whiskers on a giant catfish laying just below the water’s surface. Only a whisper of wind through the trees could be heard over the trickling water, no cars or people not even a plane overhead, they were truly seeing nature at it’s finest.
The hissing came abruptly and shattered natures quiet they’d enjoyed not a moment ago, for those familiar with fly fishing it was the clear sound of a salmon on. The reel allows the salmon to run with the line to avoid breaking point tension, most reels will hiss like a quickly zipped jacket. The boy jumped up and without looking asked his grandfather if he would be able to reel in the salmon.
Laughing at the idea his grandfather replied “I would let ya if I it was my salmon my boy”
The boy stared back confused but then noticed his grandfathers rod lacked the tell-tale sign of a salmon hooked, the bend in the rod and the tightness of the line. His grandfathers rod was straight and the line was coil in his hands as if preparing for another cast. The hiss came again and not from the direction of his grandfather but from behind him, from his rod sitting on the floor of the boat.
“quick grab the rob before he takes it” his Grandfather shouted still laughing.
The fish had taken the fly just feet from the boat and ran down river with it, as the boy picked up the rod the he could feel the strength of the fish as it’s struggle pulsated through the carbon fibre fly rod, drops of water danced then leapt off the line as the tension increased and the fish swam.
He held tight and listened to his Grandfather from behind him giving advice “let him take the line when he wants it,” and the boy maintained focus and did what his grandfather had said.
The fish kept running, the small amount of line the boy could reel in when the fish rested was quickly taken back twofold. It wasn’t long before the leader had been taken off the reel and the boy was looking at the white backing line that remained. He kept fighting even though his arms burned and he gritted his teeth from the force of the fish, the reel hissed again as the salmon made another run stealing more of the precious line and forcing the boy to stop reeling and back into playing defence.
The fight continued on another ten minutes but the salmon didn’t tire, it was all the boy could do to hold the tension on the rod and dip it when the salmon jumped as his grandfather had instructed. This time though when the salmon jumped it appeared small, it was much further down river than the boy had thought and he realised he was in trouble. He wanted to catch the fish so bad but he was outmatched and knew there was only one thing to do.
“Pop, I’m going to lose him” pausing to make sure he was ready to throw in the towel “you have to catch him I can’t hold him”
His grandfather refused at first and encouraged him to continue but the boy was struggling and insisted, handing over the rod to his grandfather to try to bring in this monster fish. Relief rushed over the boy and the burning left his small muscles, he sat with his grandmother and watched in awe as his grandfather went to work.
Gently his grandfather tested the salmon’s strength, the salmon held the advantage of distance but his grandfather was wise to the aggressive nature of the atlantic salmon and he countered with patience and skill. The boy saw his grandfather doing all the same moves that he had told the boy, the only difference being that instead of losing line his grandfather was gaining.
Suddenly the fish switched tactics and dashed into a small patch of rapids hoping to hide and rest, the move was a good one and the integrity of the line was immediately in danger of breaking as it rubbed over the rocks. Without hesitation or panic his grandfather held the rod in one hand and picked up the long wooden pole and used it to push the boat over toward a shallow and in one smooth move he pulled up his hip waders and stepped over the gunwale and into the water.
The line corrected with the change in position and was now in safe waters, bringing the salmon back out from the protection of the rocks. Within minutes the salmon was only a couple of boat lengths away and in desperation it started jumping. Over and over the salmon came clear out of the water bucking back and forth trying to lose the fly from its jaws, its silver belly glistened in the low-lying sun as drops of water reflected the light like sparks falling away into the river with the salmon. Each time his grandfather dipped the rod and prevented the fish from throwing the hook.
His grandfathers skill was too much for the salmon, soon the salmon was within reach but it would be very difficult to land without a dip net and there was nowhere he could pull the fish out of the water. Carefully his grandfather walked over to the boat, with each step the water creeped up towards the rim of his waders threatening to flood into his boots making this a very dangerous situation. His foot caught on a rock and his grandfather stumbled, catching himself just in time to prevent a swim and still he kept fighting the salmon.
Reaching the boat he asked his grandson to get the net and instructed him to get ready”watch for the fish and get the net underneath him, watch out for the line” and the boy got ready and kept his eyes fixed on the water just in front of where the line entered it. The salmon was tired but it was still not caught, mistakes made at this moment are too often the reason for a lost fish.
Finally the boys eyes could make out the dark back of the salmon and he carefully placed the net into the water and watched the fish. His grandfather positioned the fish within reach and slowly maneuvered it into the net and the boy lifted the net out of the water and into the boat.
They were both wet and both laughing, the fish flapped around the net and the fly popped out of its mouth causing them to exchange a look of relief. His Grandfather quickly grabbed a hard object to strike the fish and mercifully kill it, the only thing in reach an empty bottle which shattered from a missed strike hitting the boat instead of the fish. His grandmother laughed out loud and his grandfather cursed under his breath and they all laughed.
He killed the salmon and climbed aboard the boat and proceeded to empty one of his rubber boots that had given way to the river during the struggle. They were all smiles and the boy was so happy, “you caught it Pop”
“you mean we got it” his grandfather corrected and that made the boy proud. This fish put up an enormous battle and he had shared the experience with his grandfather. The memory would stay with the boy for the rest of his life and when he needed to he would sit and remember that time and that place and the amazing salmon that he caught with his grandfather.
September Rush
The following is a story my brother told me about his first moose hunting trip, wish I could’ve been there with him.
It was a sunny day in central Newfoundland but it was a cold and crisp morning and the steam from my breath floated for a moment before disipating into nothing. I had been long awaiting the day when I would get my very own Moose hunting license and it had finally arrived, my uncle lended me his services and his riverboat which we had almost finished loading with supplies.
I was nervous, I had been waiting for this moment for so long and the excitement was overwhelming. I had no idea what layed ahead or if I would even be lucky enough to bag my first large game prey the Newfoundland moose. The cool salty air filled my lungs and calmed me, I was finally home after months speant working my ass off in the oil sands of Fort Mcmurray, Alberta.
We were off, headed up the beautiful Gander river in search of the big bull moose that had been tormenting my dreams these past few months. Cold water sprayed up from the bow and danced onto my face, unapologetically cold and so refreshing it forced me to feel the small amount of warmth coming off the low laying sun. Moments like this are proof in the spiritual and it moved my soul in a way that I cannot yet explain.
The boat ride up the river was relaxing, there was nothing to do but watch the river bend ahead of us and enjoy the movement of water over rapids and around small islands. The riverbanks revealed very little of what lay within, the short thick spruce made it virtually impossible to see more than a couple feet into the forest. For all I knew my moose could’ve been hiding just a few feet from the river watching us pass by, but we had a plan and we were headed further up river to a lodge that would serve as our home away from home for the next few days. With me was my uncle Perry and his son, my cousin Perry Jr., who both make a living in the Newfoundland wild. I was no stranger to hunting, I’d spent my whole life in the woods with my father and brother hunting rabbit but I would learn so much from my uncle and cousin on this amazing moose hunting adventure.
In an instant two days had passed me by, what a wonderful two days they were. Early morning breakfast’s full of bacon, eggs and tea; unbelieveably beautiful river and forest scenes and cozy nights spent in the lodge next to the fireplace hearing old stories of many past hunts and fishing trips held in this very spot, stories of my family. It was almost enough to stop me from worrying about not seeing a moose but the exhausting work of treading the swampy areas had left it’s mark and my legs ached and I wondered how much more before I would see the big bull.
The signs were all over, moose were around but we didn’t see them and our efforts to call them to us were unsuccesful. It was frustrating but I didn’t care, the beauty I saw every morning was mirrored by the beauty I saw every night as the moonlight stretched across the water and the forest shadows stretched up to meet it, and I was happy.
More days went by of the same and my moose remained at large, it was the last day of our trip and we would be heading back tomorrow moose or no moose. I dressed warm and threw my camoflauge on overtop, my rifle checked out and I packed my gear into my rucksack. It was still dark as we boarded the boat and headed up river to our destination, a large clearing where the evening previous we had heard the low moan of a moose calling out. We were hopeful today we would see him. I took my rifle and pack out of the boat and me and my cousin walked through the dew soaked woods silently.
Reaching the bog we settled low into the brush and did our best to blend into the surroundings while we patiently waited and hoped for a moose. The quiet was heavy, making the slight breeze and rustle of leaves sound loud in comparison.
We started calling in hopes that a nearby moose would take interest and would come to investigate, it wasn’t long before we thought we heard something in response. It was faint and it was far off, was it just the wind? or was the quiet getting to us? We held our breath for a long moment but there was no sound. We called again and this time without question we heard another moose respond with the undeniable grunting sound of a moose in heat.
The excitement boilied over inside of me but I didn’t show it, we continued to call and the moose approached closer and closer and by now we could hear it scraping it’s antlers against the brush trying to entice it’s caller. I quietly positioned my rifle without hardly moving my body at all, I hoped that this would be my chance.
Time passed at a crawl while we were tucked away watching for the moose to come into the clearing, to the spot where I could get it within my crosshairs. It had been a while now since we heard the moose, it couldn’t have gone without even a sighting? what had we done wrong? my mind raced with self doubt and discouraging commentary.
The sound rattled me, amidst my thoughts a loud snap came crashing through it all and I nearly jumped. We exchanged a glanse and a wry smile, the moose was incredibly close now. We called once more and the moose responded aggressively by striking it’s antlers against the limbs of a tree. Crack…Crrrack….Crrrrack, again and again the moose struck at the trees and my heart raced and my arms trembled from excitement, the hair on my neck stretched out to see what was coming from the woods. Then I saw it looming just 23 yards away the hulking brown body of a bull moose with it’s antler crown high on it’s head stood proud and grunted loudly.
It was a mesmerizing sight and it took all I had to take my eyes away from it and to my rifle as I braced it against my shoulder and brought it up to my cheek to look through the sights. My eyes widened as I brought the scope onto the moose and saw it within my crosshairs. I slowed my breathing and calmed my nerves and I lined up my shot. Without looking I clicked off the safety and brought my finger down to the trigger, this was it, this was my dreams finally playing out in front of me. I quieted my surroundings and steadied my grip and I squeezed. Instantly the magnificent creature that I had been chasing crumpled to the ground in front of me as the bullet found it’s mark and killed it instantly. I was overwhelmed by the feeling, this was more than a moose hunt for me, it was a way for me to get in touch with my ancestors, a way for me to become one with nature and I truly believe I was at that moment.
Boy in the Woods
Fall had come early this year and it had been cold now for a month, many of the trees had shed their golden and red leaves but not all. The ground also had faded to a pale yellow but the spruce and pine maintained their cool green hardiness. Snow would still be a month out before settling across the landscape but the frost had already started to move in early in the morning only to be burned off by the rising sun much lower in the sky than the month prior. The winds were strong northwesterly and brought the temperature down further but not in the woods.
Rabbit season was in its prime now and the low temperature equaled movement for the rabbits that were his prey. The boy had set snares just two days ago and was eager to check his luck but also he had been gifted a bow and arrow set from his parents and he was overcome with excitement for the chance to use it.
He’d used a bow before in gym class at school but only twice and it was not a hunting bow. Ever since the day he learned of his native heritage he’d wanted to hunt as his ancestors had done. Somehow he felt more connected to them and imagined their spirits watching him with admiration.
So far the snares had come up empty, one he had found pushed to the side. He remembered thinking he should’ve put more debris down to funnel the rabbit into the centre, he reset the snare and made sure not to make the mistake he had done previously.
Satisfied with the resetting he continued onwards gripping his bow in his left hand while his right held the arrow at the ready. He walked along quietly, each step a well thought out plan to avoid the sticks that could snap and scare any rabbits around. He felt like his ancestors stalking their prey in the woods and he was happy.
He pretended that he had special abilities passed on by his native heritage, he pretended his eyes were keener and his hearing sharper as he strains call of his senses to catch a sign of his prey. There was only the sound of the wind as it rustled through the trees and trickling of a nearby creek leading from the bog to make its way down to another bog and eventually the small pond sitting in the middle. A squirrel chattered somewhere high in the trees and it worried the boy. He imagined that the squirrel could see him and knew his intentions, the chattering was it’s way of warning all the other animals that a hunter was among them.
The boy continued on his mission and crept along silently, eyes scanning his surroundings for the well camouflaged rabbits. Their brown fur blended them effortlessly into the fall forest. The boy knew though, the rabbits would soon be turning white in preparation for winter and it would make them easier to spot while the snow was away.
The trail became thicker now, spruce trees reached low with their long green limbs. The boy stopped dead in his tracks, something he sensed told him to but he wasn’t sure what. Then he saw it, standing seven feet tall and weighing in at well over five times his weight was a large moose. The boy was immediately in awe and concerned, he knew how dangerous a moose could be and where he currently stood there were few places to outmaneuver an angry moose.
For a long moment they stood in silence and looked at eachother wondering what to do. As the tension rose a twig snapped breaking the silence, instantly the choice was made the moose turned a fled down the trail crashing through the brush taking the tension with it.
Ahead of him from the direction the moose fled was a clearing, the perfect area for spotting rabbit and he’d seen them here on several different occasions. He crouched low with his bow at the ready, and as silently has he could the boy moved through the clearing peering through the cover of small brush in hopes of spotting a rabbit before it spotted him. He approached an area he had seen rabbits before, slowly standing he glanced over the brush and saw it, the large brown rabbit sat chewing on twigs.
Without a sound the boy drew his bow pulling back in a steady fluid motion as he took aim at a spot right below the rabbit to account for distance. Satisfied he loosed the arrow and watched it hiss towards the rabbit. On impact the rabbit leapt from the surprise and bolted through the undergrowth nearby, the arrow had found its mark and it wasn’t the rabbit.
The exact spot the boy had aimed blew up a chunk of dirt and leaves as the arrow hit, he had corrected too much for the shot and loss the rabbit because of it. He was disappointed but not upset, the thrill of the hunt made this his most enjoyable trip in the woods yet. He retrieved his bow and glanced around to see if by some miracle the rabbit had become curious and stuck around, he knew the rabbit was gone.
The woods welcomed him as he made his way home, still refusing to give up he marched along silently into the thick fall forest with bow in hand, crouched low peering into its thick cover searching for another rabbit. This time he would aim true and would prove to himself and his ancestors that he was one of them.
Far from Shore
Tis far outda sea
dat we fishermen go
ta catch da big fish
nd face da winds bold
Ders no sight ofda shore
nda suns sinkin low
nar bit closer Ta quota
wer soaked and wer cold
Ders a long trip ahead
far back toda docks
da stars arnt shining
wer hittin da rocks
Death takes us dis night
we greet em wit a smile
time to give up the fight
now we’ll rest for awhile
Love the Fog
Vancouver is a foggy place these past couple of days, personally I love when the fog blankets everything around especially when nightfall comes. Perfect conditions for a stroll.
It’s the mystery the fog creates, it makes the familiar anything but. It’s both eerie and peaceful all at the same time. The world around me cloaked in the grey mist made objects difficult to discern until within ten yards of me. Sound is muffled, the light from street lights spread out in a golden cone failing to cut through the thick fog. In the distance echoing from the depths of this grey wall the fog horns sound as the ships try to communicate their positions to each other.
It’s as if I were in a 80′s horror movie or a recently filmed episode of supernatural filmed in vanier park where fog machines tried to recreate the setting I was currently in. Mother Nature does it better.
Turning down a dark side street I made my way home, the fog was foreboding here without any street lights to light the way. I carried on with heightened senses peering through the fog trying to make sense of the shadows like I was a character on an adventure.
As if on cur, a shifting dark silhouette appeared from the mist. It was standing in one spot, fixed there aside from it’s shifting from one leg to the other. I couldn’t help but think this would be a great scene for the walking dead. I knew of course that this was a drifter I had seen many times before in the neighbourhood.
Finally home I pause and look around, it really is amazing how a little fog makes the world a little more exciting by how it limits your surroundings. Weird I know but I love the Fog.
Newfoundland In November
Travelling to Newfoundland is no easy endeavor, your biggest decision is deciding what time of year you want to make the pilgrimage, once you’ve done that then you’ll have the unfortunate task of finding an affordable flight (no easy task with the extreme fares our Canadian Airlines charge). In my opinion, avoid winter travel to Newfoundland at all costs, first thing the costs are extreme as Canada Airlines like to capitalize on the Christmas tradition of visiting family and secondly good ol Newfoundland weather will have to flying over St. John’s turning around and pitching down in Halifax or Montreal because the planes can’t land. If you’re going to travel there early spring and late fall are my favorite times, spring has the added benefit of watching the Icebergs as they pass off the cost travelling through Iceberg Alley.
I tend to travel in the fall of the year, the bugs are gone, the ocean is wild and fresh, the weather is comfortably cool and the trees are all matter of colors. My personal favorite reason though, my family usually have bagged a moose and I can even get out either fishing or hunting. Last November I finally made a trip home from the West Coast, a very long flight but I’m used to travelling. My first reaction always is to breath in a lung full of the Atlantic Ocean, anyone the has lived near the ocean knows what I’m talking about. From St. John’s my hometown is a good four to five hour drive, it’s a nice drive though.
Home is what defines me, a small harbour nestled in Fridays Bay near Twillingate and Iceberg Alley. It’s quiet, remote and almost surrounded by ocean, unlike BC the forests here are thick and tangly and the trees much shorter. I grabbed my out of province rabbit license from the local convenience store, it seems odd to do this because even after six years living on the mainland I still call this home.
My old rabbit trail is grown into a tangled mess of alders and spruce limbs making it somewhat challenging to not get lost. I admit I did have to retrace my steps more than once before I had completed the whole trail and made my way back home. With the snares tied it was simply a waiting game. The next day was a cold one, frost covered the land and ice formed over the water, the ground crunched under every step and each breath clouded in front of me. Several snares showed signs of passing rabbit, but they had been pushed to the side. I caught two large rabbits with their fur brown but showing the early signs of turning white in preparation for winter.
I kept the snares out that week, but didn’t catch anymore rabbits so I pulled all the snares up so that no rabbits would get hurt. I was happy to take up the snares, two rabbits would be enough for a great meal and I truly just wanted to have an excuse to go in the woods. The meal was amazing, rabbit and a roast of moose meat with potatoes, carrots and turnip, it was good to be home.
Survival Tales
I’ve been re-reading one of my all time favourite books and I got to thinking what other books really stuck with me?
I go through phases of reading a lot then not reading much, sometimes it’s difficult for me to push myself to a book that I don’t know anything about.
Most books I read are recommended by others who’ve done the vetting for me and know my taste in books better than I do, for that reason I needed to assess what are me personal taste in a good book?
There are only specific books that I hang onto, books that had everything I could ask for and that deserve to be read over and over again. I’m currently reading The Old Man and The Sea by Hemingway. I love the survival and how the man struggles with the need to kill this fish versus his respect for this giant if the deep whom he calls brother.
Another good book that I have read several times is The Lure of The Labrador Wild by Dillon Wallace. Survival is a main theme in this work of non-fiction, Wallace tells the story of a great adventure into the harsh unexplored interior of Labrador. Together the three friends make their stand to survive the wild.
I’ll mention one more book, Death on The Ice by Cassie Brown with Harold Horwood. Great book about the dangers of the Newfoundland Seal hunt, of course survival again strikes at the heart of this one but also like the old man from old man and the sea, the sealers are at odds with wanting to be sealing versus needing to be sealing.
I highly recommend reading these books if you’re anything like me and tales of survival get you excited. Hopefully I’ll be able to find more just like these three to add to my bookshelves.
Salmon Fishing the Vedder River
I took the Bike (motorcycle) for a long ride one October when the weather around the lower mainland BC dried up, sky looked friendly so I took a chance and grabbed my fly rod and kit donned my leather and helmet and motored my way to Coquitlam in search of the vedder river and one of its 5 species of salmon.
Didn’t take me long to find the perfect spot, I already had an idea where I would wet my fly and lucky me it was abandoned. I won’t tell you more than that about the location, need to keep fishing spots secret, you understand!
Wouldn’t you know it, salmon were running thicker than I’ve ever seen. The pinks were coming back after their two-three year hiatus in the Pacific Ocean. I had to have one.
Using a fly that I was told would be effective for pinks by the fellas at pacific angler on broadway I began scouring the river with my fly, an hour went by and I was getting a little perplexed by my failure to even get a rise when so many salmon were moving. So I switched flies, tying on a flashier and heavier fly in hopes it would sink a little as the river was clicking along at an alarming pace.
Hell it wasn’t three casts before I got a strike, but the hook didn’t set much due to my lack if practice. Another three casts and another strike this time I set the hook but wasn’t prepared for the sheer power, as it leapt from the water it appeared to be a coho and a big one.
I dipped the rod in hopes the fish wouldn’t toss my hook, it worked but the salmon was a monster and took my line to the backing as it first crossed the river then tore away down it before I could act. My heart was pumping hard from the adrenaline and I was very concerned about some fallen trees that the salmon seemed destined to snag up in, so I panicked and tried to muscle the salmon under control. Clearly the wrong thing to do, no sooner had I increased the tension did the line go slack, I had lost another salmon.
It was getting late now and I didn’t want to ride back in the dark on bike mostly because I didn’t dress as warmly as I should have. But this fishing was too good to give up on, i continued fishing but it was looking bad. Twenty minutes passed painstakingly slow and the sun got lower and lower, just as I was about to call it quits I hooked another salmon, this time a pink and it was a beauty. I played this one perfectly, giving it line when it asked for it and keeping it in when I could, soon I had it in position to land and realized my small trout dip net would not help. Gingerly I coaxed the salmon up onto shore and quickly confirmed its ID and dispatched it mercifully.
I had no time to take it all in, I bagged my catch and got to my bike. It was brutally cold coming home, a light rain had started and night came in fast. My fingers were numbing and needed to be continuously warmed from the engine, it helped only a little but the adrenaline kept me going. I arrived home frozen, tired and soaked but nonetheless a very happy man.
Great Big Canada 