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A life
spent outdoors can yield a backpack full of memories. Most memories
are good, some bad, many touching or revealing, and some quite often
funny. Unfortunately, the funny moments don't usually come when
a camera is handy. That is because those bent over, eye-watering
outbursts are unrehearsed and spontaneous, where everything comes
together at just the wrong time.
Here are a few stories that still make me smile.
Slippery at Sleepy Hollow
Darryl M. and his Dad had invited me to fish their favorite spot
on the Oldman River at the Sleepy Hollow Ranch. Darryl and I were
just setting out to cross the pasture to the river, when the rancher
called us back. He explained that he had just put a bull in the
pasture and for us to be careful. The bull was known for putting
the run on some of the ranch hands. We looked at each other for
a signal of weakness or the common sense to take the long way around.
Neither of us wanted to be 'chicken,' and besides we were 16, in
good shape, and of course bulletproof. Besides, the bull was nowhere
in sight, it was only 300 yards to the river and we were going for
it.
Tentatively we set out. We were perhaps 100 yards out and feeling
pretty brave, when the bellowing bull burst out of the bush. There
was a lone cottonwood 50 yards further out in the field and a quick
assessment told me that was closer. Darryl elected to head back
towards the corral. That is also the direction the bull chose.
Darryl was a basketball player and those long legs were eating
up the ground at a good rate. The bull, however, was slightly faster
and the gap between them was closing. Darryl was also a high jumper
and made a magnificent jump over the top rung of the corral, missing
the rail by a good foot and the bull behind him by about 15 feet.
The corral had been very recently used and was well lubricated.
Darryl landed running. I don't think he had much choice what with
the slippery footing and all. His legs seemed to be moving faster
now and he started to lean forward at a precipitous angle. The inevitable
swan dive ended in a twenty-foot roostertail of fresh cow pie. When
he stood up the only thing white was his eyeballs. He cleaned up
quite well, although I had to make sure he was down wind for the
rest of the day.
Met his Waterloo
John, Jim, Lloyd and I were fishing the Douglas Channel and anchored
for the night in the little bay off Kitsaway Island. We were in
John's 22' Haida. After a nice meal of fresh Dungeness crab washed
down with a mite of scotch, we hit the hay. I was aware of a slight
water noise as I sought sleep and thought it was the gentle wash
against the prop. John and Jim were forward, Lloyd slept on the
floor at the back and I slept across the engine cover. I heard Lloyd
rolling around, then his hand fell into water. When that happens
on a boat it can take you from the twilight zone to full consciousness
in milliseconds. Lloyd yelled out "Wake up boys, we're going
down." Four slightly panicked sailors sprang to action.
(All previous issues are stored in the ARCHIVE
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Lights
on, radio to Channel 16, where are the life jackets?, any other
boats close, somebody start bailing. I lifted the engine cover to
see how much water we had taken on. No water. "Somebody check
the head." Lots of water in the head. Overflowing actually.
A little detective work revealed the last one to
use the head was the illustrious captain. At the start of the trip,
John the captain, had carefully explained that the marine head (toilet)
has a lever position for letting water in and another for pumping
the contents out. However, a little scotch had just about caused
Captain John, the little Frenchman, to meet his Waterloo or more
specifically the water in the loo to sink the Frenchman and his
boat.
The Old Man Got Skunked
"Hi Bud, how was the hunting?'
"The old man got skunked."
"Skunked? Nothing at all?
"Nope."
"Well, don't worry, tomorrow I'll take you to some of my old
covers. What time should we meet for breakfast?"
"How about 7?"
"OK see you in the morning."
I had driven all day to meet Bud W. to hunt pheasants and partridge
in southern Alberta. Bud had arrived the day before and hunted with
my brother for the day. Evidently few birds were around or my brother
an occasional hunter could not find them. Well tomorrow would be
a different story, I hoped.
When I came to the motel Bud was packed, all 4 of his German Shorthairs
were in the Suburban and he was ready to go.
"Aren't we going to have breakfast?'
"No, let's go."
Now, don't get me wrong, I like an enthusiastic partner but Bud
was overly motivated. I parked my van, and when I climbed in Bud's
old male shorthair Blitz nuzzled my neck.
"Blitz, you old man, how are you doing? You remembered me.
Nice to see you again."
I leaned back and rubbed his ears renewing the old bond we had shared
on previous hunts.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. Oh man. Skunk. Unmistakable skunk.
"Bud, why didn't you tell me you had a run in with a skunk?'
"I did."
Technically I guess he had. I just took it for a different meaning.
"What did you try to clean him up with?"
"I had him swim in the irrigation ditches for a half hour and
washed him with detergent eight times. Got him cleaned up enough
to be bearable to let him in the vehicle. Hunted the rest of the
day, then got back to the motel."
"What then?'
"Eight gallons of tomato juice, and a bottle of Nilodor brought
him to his present state."
"You had him in the motel?"
"Yeah, I don't think they will let me stay here again."
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