Posted on 05/05/2002 8:50:24 PM PDT by WaterDragon
OMED: A wilderness odyssey in which the protagonists are men of stout demeanor paired with boyish enthusiasm for piscatorial pursuits; and subsequent to an incautious decision to set forth on an ill-conceived essay for genus salmo giganticus get the bird (twice!) and go straight to the dogs. The only flaw in the lugubrious narrative concerning the peripathetic photographers to which you are about to be exposed is that Fred did not write the tale under the pseudonym, Prince Rupert; for no man alive is more like unto a pirate, nor better displays in pantaloons. It was an opportunity to join a wilderness cruise on the west coast of British Columbia's Vancouver Island jaunt organized by a Portland yachtsman seeking photo coverage of his diving expedition to locate the bones of a British frigate sunk by Indians almost three centuries ago. Myself and a partner in our modest movie and still photo studio signed up for the trip, which whetted our salmon fishing interests beyond any fascination for artifacts-diving.
We flew to the 65-foot treasure-seeking yachts anchorage in Barkley Sound and then our craft proceeded northward into a labryinth of coastal inlets unsullied by civilization. Diving, and pictures thereof, were the order of the day. Though we were amidst waters which should host some of the north Pacific's prize salmonids, our host insisted upon photo coverage in lieu of any angling attempts. After several days of shooting the divers excitement in finding the British wreck and recovering relics, the end of the expedition loomed. My partner and I schemed that we would not be deterred from at least one attempt to snare the mighty Chinook before returning to civilization and less promising fishing opportunities.
A providence of fog
Our chance came when heavy fog rolled in off the ocean the night before our scheduled departure and continued to inhibit our mother ship's sailing as dawn approached. My partner and I had spotted a likely looking waterway two miles from our anchorage, the outlet of a river which should be home to salmon due to return for spawning. We rolled from our bunks at 4 a.m., intent upon borrowing one of the two 14-foot outboard runabouts on our yacht's deck. It was dark, it was damp, the fog was cloying, but we had figured a compass heading to our destination and we quietly launched forth.
"Der Fallschirmjager" (or "Die Bonkinzenoggin")
Our navigation proved accurate. As a dawning sun began to thin the fog somewhat, we found the river mouth and motored our way slowly toward what we foresaw as salmon Valhalla. The riverbanks began to narrow and we stayed midstream, passing through a silver thicket of dead cedar snags reaching into the mist. Then our reverie was shattered by an impossibly loud shriek from above. An eagle's nest crowned one of the passing snags, and the maternal occupant sprung into the air. In disbelief we hit the floorboards as what resembled nothing so much as World War II footage of German Stuka dive bombing attacks terrorized us. After several screaming passes with talons outstretched within inches of our cowering selves, mama eagle decided to return home.
Onward to our reward
We pushed onward, around a slight bend in the waterway and entered what appeared to be the short estuary's head, a broad shallow, fog-laced bay. This was it!....(snip) [Please click on link for complete article]
LOL! Great writing, lots of cool adjectives.
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