just this past year i had to create a large high quality magazine to pass grade 12 english. part of the requirement was it included original articles, reviews and other stuff like poems and editorials. i liked this poem since i wrote it and thought i'd share it
To me hunting and fishing arenÂ’t about how many fish you caught or whether you bag a buck or not. No, to me itÂ’s being outdoors and that isÂ….
The smell of coffee and wood smoke, mingling with fresh caught fish fried over an early morning campfire.
The sight of the waving flag of a tip-up signaling a strike in the middle of a frozen northern lake.
The crack of a .22 and the satisfaction of watching a tin can tumble end over end through the air.
ItÂ’s the smell of gun oil and burnt powder, damp leaves in the autumn and of a tackle box that should have been cleaned long ago.
Of lying in your tent trailer and listening to a May thunderstorm on the tin roof and suddenly realizing that your car windows are open and a cast iron fry pan is sitting on the picnic table.
The sharp recoil of a .303 and the pain of a barbed fishhook embedded deep in your thumb.
ItÂ’s a leaking canoe, a sprained ankle, a busted firing pin. Having a bear ransack your campsite and a flat tire in the middle of nowhere.
Red plaid jackets, lever-action rifles, leather boots and wooden fishing lures, hunting the same fields and fishing the same rivers that my grandfather once did.
The eerie sound of high flying CanadaÂ’s on a crisp clear October morning and watching a majestic 8-point whitetail bound across a field, clearing a barb wire fence before disappearing.
Blued steel and dark stained walnut, blaze orange and woodlands camo, chartreuse and pumpkinseed.
RapalaÂ’s and jitterbugs, Red-and-whiteÂ’s, five-of-diamonds and silver wobblers.
The rod shattering strike of a trophy sized lake trout, the thumping of the wings of a flushed spruce grouse, the far off bugle of a bull elk.
Reliving the dayÂ’s experiences around a fire at night with a thick steak, old bourbon and a good friend.
