rays presented themselves in the eastern sky over British Columbia, a Province of Canada on the Pacific coast. The most mountainous province of Canada crossed by the Rocky Mountains on the southeast, forming the boundary with Alberta. British Columbia, also known as B.C., is the western most province of Canada. In 1871, it became the sixth province of Canada. British Columbia is also a component of the Pacific Northwest along the United States border of Oregon and Queen Victoria, the other virgin queen, selected Washington State, the name of the province in 1858. It reflected its origins as the British reminder of what was left of the District of the Hudson Bay Company. The powerful, for profit entity, which helped, originate the colonies in America, principally as the founder of the New York colony. Its Latin Motto was Splendor Sine Occasu ( Splendor Without). Without what taxes, slaves?
B.C. has a geographic area around 365,000 square miles and it capitol is Victoria, naturally.
Its chief river is the Frazier; the favorite watering holes for wildlife in the central and southern part, in the southeast are the Columbia and headstreams. In the northeast, the Liard and Peace rivers and tributaries, each a part of the McKenzie River System runs from its Pacific shores. There are many islands, notable Vancouver and the Queen Charlotte Group. Briefly, the history of the country is ... it was inhabited by indigenous peoples, among them Coast Salish, Nootka, Kwakiutl and the Haida when first visited by Europeans, most likely the Spanish in 1574; followed by the English mariner, Sir Francis Drake in 1578 and then Captain James Cook.
Several explorers thereafter including Meriwether Lewis explored what was once known as New Caledonia and formed part of the Hudson Bay Company’s concession; partially claimed by the United States. Gold was discovered in the Frazier River Basin in 1857, nine years after the discovery of gold in California and it was established as a British Colony in 1858. It was then united with Vancouver in 1866 with the northern boundary extended to become a province of Canada in 1871.
I had come here to rest my wounded soul, do a little duck hunting, and drink a little booze while enjoying a good book and the roaring fire in the evening at the hunting lodge. We enjoyed a meal consisting of the “catch of the day,” most likely salmon, at this time of year. It mattered not what they fixed to eat so long as we had plenty of Scotch whiskey with icy cold water.
That morning, the other boats bows, which had gone across to the canal, had plowed and broken the ice. My guide stood in the stern of the boat with his long oar reaching out, handle side into the river and pushing it forward in a heavy action to move the boat along in the winter going. I sat on a shooting stool fastened to the top of a box, which contained my lunch, shotgun shells and two other guns.
There was a sack with two live Mallard hens, and a beautiful German Pointer by the name of Heinz who shivered at the thought of the icy water (so I imagined) or perhaps it could have been the flapping of the wings of the birds, making him nervous as they passed overhead in the darkness. He was bred to hunt and to kill, and he caught the scent whether they walked, flew or crawled on their bellies… something we had in common. Imagine the character, the discipline ... it takes for a dog trained to retrieve these birds, having them flapping their big wings and chattering away in bird pig Latin. The big bodies peering down through the mist, speaking of the dummies sitting in cold boats, just out of range of natural projectiles shot from big bottoms.
The elegant birds filled me with thoughts of the sound of her as well, as the sight of the milk white cast of her long neck. The sweet fragrance of the Lu Aire de Temp in her hair. I could still taste the salt from her tears the night I left her on the tarmac. The dark blue dress, which hugged her body, had a large white collar and a wrap splitting the front of the dress blowing open in the wind from the propellers of the King Aire waiting for me to make up my mind to go or stay.
The moment, etched into my mind at fifty years of age…and she, my Lolita, soon to be twenty-one, was going back to college, and I to fish and hunt…for a life.
Six boats had already made their way to the canal, turning south into a shallow lagoon and now, there was no broken water. It was ice, newly frozen during the sudden, windless cold of the night. The water was black and not-so-tolerant against the prodding of the guide. Then, the ice would break as sharply as a pane of glass…but the boat was very nearly motionless. The fissure of the ice as it broke from the hull of the boat made a crackling sound. The dog was set into the breach of a well honed position ever ready to respond to the masters’ call.
“Give me an oar” I said, standing to brace myself. I could hear the ducks passing in the darkness like the wide-bodied bombers approaching the target over London, Paris and into the heart of Europe.
“Be careful you don’t tip the god-damn boat over.” The guide barked at me as though I was his dog.
“Mind your manners, boy…I’ve owned and operated boats for more years than you have lived.” I took the oar the guide handed me and used it to punch a hole with the handle side down into the ice as though it was the face of my arrogant guide and I could feel the bottom of the lagoon.
I pushed with all my weight on the top of the oar and then poled it back toward me as the boat passed over its center. The guide kept his eyes riveted to the dark water and drove the boat forward toward the broken passage.
“Where is the shooting barrel?” I asked.
“Off there to the left, in the middle of the next bay, should I turn for it now?”
I thought his tone sounded better coming from this surely bastard; if he is not careful, the Canadian authorities will find his ass floating up in the frozen river, a casualty of friendly fire, or collateral damage.
“Sure, I responded. Is there sufficient water to carry us there?”
“The tide is low, who knows?” The guide said.
“Well it will be daylight if we don’t shag ass,” I said in a voice, which was icy, and the guide did not respond. The surely bastard must have had a bad night, I thought, but I knew we were going to make it with only a third of the way to go.
“Get your back into it!” I yelled.
“What?” He answered in French.
“I said, let’s get the hell out of here, it will be light soon.”
Of course I was correct, before we reached the oaken staved hogshead sunk in the bottom of the lagoon, the light began to show. The guide swung the boat carefully up to the sloping rim of earth planted with sedge and grass. He lifted the shooting stool and shell box out of the boat and handed it to me. I took it and planted it in the bottom of the barrel, which stood in the lagoon ready for a hunter to step inside.
I was wearing hip boots and my old combat jacket made by the prison industry, which had a patch sewn to the shoulder, which no one except my platoon understood. The guide carefully handed me the two shotguns, which I sat against the wall of the barrel, pointed to the clearing sky. I hung the shell bag on the hook built into the wall of the sunken barrel, and then I leaned the two guns against the shell bags in one deft movement ... demonstrating I had been there before.
“Is there water?” I asked the guide.
“No water,” he replied.
“Can you drink the water in the lagoon?” I asked, knowing full well the answer was no.
“If you get thirsty enough, you can drink your piss!” He said with a sneer.
I felt the anger rising on my neck ... the stupid bastard had not followed the time worn detail of the professional guide by not providing the water
