UNFORSEEN
DEVELOPMENTS
by Paul
Lucas
In
which the crew addresses the thorny issue of trophy hunters
Many
Northerners are hunting and fishing guides. For many it is not the
first choice, but it is an opportunity to put some money in the bank
for the long winter ahead; maybe ’get out’ (head south) and have
some fun in the sun for a few weeks.
But
there’s a price to pay. Its similar to the price a musician pays
when he signs on to a commercial, high paying gig that has scant
respect for the music. It can be mighty uncomfortable.
People
in the North hunt for food. If you can assemble a woodpile and fill a
freezer full of fish and moose meat for the winter, your life is
good. It is part of the fall ritual - and a joyful one.
One
time I saw my pal, Dave Stecker, jump into the air and actually click
his heels together - just like in the cartoons - after wrapping the
last piece of moose meat and sticking it in the freezer. He was
positively beaming. “And now,” as he would often say, “a tune,”
And so it would go. Like I say, a joyful affair.
Even
so, the fall hunt takes place with a fair amount of gravity. Killing
a large mammal is not something to be taken lightly. You are taking a
life, and anyone who harbours even minimal awareness, quickly comes
to the conclusion that there is a sacred act taking place here, and
you’d better pay attention to the rules and regulations.
Because
there are rules and regulations. They are in our DNA. Thousands of
generations of hunters have engaged in rituals that demand they act
as equal partners in the dance of life. No trivialization of an
animal’s life was ever to be tolerated.Until the trophy hunter
showed up that is. —
The
trophy hunter is of a particular breed. He’s a man who, more often
than not, shows up in camo gear, hauling several hugely expensive
rifles and shotguns along with enough cash have his ass flown out to
a hunting camp, where he is fed and pampered by guides whose shoes he
is, more often than not, unworthy to polish. (Well, that’s torn it.
That ship just sailed)
To
add to the discomfort of the locals, many international trophy
hunters tend towards being out of shape, arrogant and dismissive.
It’s not a good formula for social harmony. Particularly in this
part of the world.
Now
I don’t want to paint with too large a brush, because many of these
folks are intelligent, funny and hard working, as well as being good
hunters, but the lust for a trophy kinda gives the game away.
One
of the travesties of the guide/outfitting business is the ‘mixed
bag hunt.’ The bozo who pays for this perversion of natural law
wants to bag a trophy animal in each category: Moose, Grizzly, Sheep
... If he had the time, he would no doubt try for a trophy Ptarmigan
to stick on that Elvis wall of his ... just to make sure.
Most
of these guys are not interested in the meat. Meat is something you
order at a restaurant. It comes on a fancy plate with sauteed
vegetables and fava beans, accompanied by a nice cabernet.
No,
these folks want the boney bits attached to these animals’ heads,
paws and the insides of their mouths - preferably great big honkin’
boney bits - trophies they can show their pals and business partners
over a glass of single malt in their man cave.
(Well,
I think I’ve pretty well covered my position on this) —
It
was Fall in Atlin. Hilbo and I had just come back from a fishing and
hunting trip at Hall Lake - a location which becomes of importance in
the tale of the killer bushman Sheslay Mike.
In
any event, there we were - late one afternoon at Rancho No Gotto -
Hilary and Ilene’s place, drinking whiskey and butchering meat from
our recent gambit. The strange and often perverse nature of guiding
trophy hunters was a common complaint, and it was the current topic
of discussion.
The
most recent beef involved a gaggle of French clients who, the season
before, had arrived on the Taku river bringing with them an overblown
sense of entitlement, some peculiar culinary habits, and a pair of
scantily clad call girls. Yes ... hookers.
With
eyeballs like saucers, the crew had watched as those girls wiggled
off the aircraft and, airline carry-ons in tow, stepped onto the
gravel beach in high heel shoes and short skirts.
It
was the last anyone saw of them. From all accounts, they didn’t
leave the tent for two weeks - a fact that wasn’t surprising seeing
as they were in the heart of grizzly country.
The
conversation drifted to an earlier mixed bag hunt that involved a
similar bunch, sans entertainment, who didn’t seem anywhere near
ready for the physical demands of hunting sheep.“Guys like these
shouldn’t be on a sheep hunt at all,” Hilbo grunted. “They’re
not in good enough shape to climb that much in one day. And if they
are lucky enough to hit a trophy sheep, it’s always one of us who
ends up having to haul out the carcass.”
“Well
here’s what I think we should do,” Stecker piped up with that
gleam in his eye that always indicated mischief. “We should get a
good wildlife artist to knock up a life sized painting of a trophy
ram, back it up with 3/4 plywood, hinge it at the bottom, and stick
it up on the mountain.”
“Then
when Bungalow Bill shoots him and he flops over dead, we can offer to
retrieve the trophy, and off we’ll go - but not too far, just out
of sight over the hill maybe, where we can settle down for a beer, a
sandwich and a nice nap.”
“After
a while, we can return and say we located the animal, skinned it out
and secured the trophy. And we’ll tell him that as soon as we’ve
got the cape and horns cleaned up, we’ll send the whole kit and
kaboodle back to his villa in Spain - no fuss, no muss. We can use an
old hide and horns from last season. I’ve got plenty in the garage.
Its the perfect labour saving, efficient, and environmentally
friendly solution don’t you think?”
Then
Hart (Ilene) put in her two bits. “I think we can do better than
that. These guys put up half of their fee as a non- refundable
deposit right? Well, if we can scare them off before they set foot in
the bush, we can nip the problem in the bud.”
“Oh
Jesus, that’s perfect,” I said. “We could pick them up at the
airport in an old Volkswagon bus - lime green maybe, with flowers and
shit on the side, belching smoke and blaring Country Joe and the Fish
through taped up windows.”
“In
outfits,” Howard pitched in. “bell bottom jeans maybe, tie dye
shirts, beads. When we open the car door, half a dozen whiskey
bottles clank to the ground and start rolling across the parking lot,
followed by a cloud of Cheech and Chong.”
“Even
better,” Stecker jumped in. “We visit the Crack-a-Joke shop and
pick up a couple of those whoopie cushions, some plastic puke, and
those buzzers that give you an electric shock when you shake hands.
As soon as they get off the plane, we can shake hands and ... BZZZT
... they get a good old shock to start things off. Then we can sit
them down on the whoopie cushions in the love nest back of the
Volkswagen, right by the plastic puke, and tell ‘em to ‘Hang on
folks, ‘cause Billy’s a terrible driver.’ And we should get
lost just trying to find our way out of the airport parking lot.”
I
jumped in. “We’re just simple folk after all and the whole
business is so confusing! Golleeee Bobby Jim, how’d we get in here
anyway? Damn it to hell son, I’m havin’ nuthin’ but trouble
pullin’ up on this buggy. Did you ever get around to fixin’ them
brakes like Pappy said? ... It might work. It might just be enough.
They won’t be able to get back on that plane fast enough.”
There
was a dead silence - the vacuum that results from several pairs of
lungs desperately trying to gather breath after non-stop belly
laughs.
“ ‘Unforseen
Developments,’ “ Hilbo coughed finally, “we should rename the
company Unforseen Developments. That way, when they arrive home way
early, and have to explain to their wives why they are back so soon,
they can say, ‘Due to unforseen developments ...’ “
Which
triggered off another wave of hysteria and aching ribs. And finally
we could take no more.
“Oh
if only it were that simple.” Stecker wheezed. “If only it were
that simple.”
