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 arent about how many fish you caught or whether you bag a buck or not. No, to me its being outdoors and that is
.
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.
Its 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.
Its 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 Canadas 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.
Rapalas and jitterbugs, Red-and-whites, 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 days experiences around a fire at night with a thick steak, old bourbon and a good friend.
