Huntin’ with Gunwriters
copyright 2004 - Stephen Redgwell

[Linked Image]

This story took place in the old days, before plastic and flush toilets. I don't expect that most of you would remember them days. Heck, talk to anyone under the age of 50 and they think you're lyin'! Anyway, it ain't important if you believe me. I know it's true, and I don't really give a damn if you believe it or not.

Second of all, and this goes for you fellas that are politically correct, it involves famous people, huntin', whiskey, and lewd talk. All of which ain't acceptable 'around the gun club' these days. The truth be told, them idiots at your club probably never went on a real hunt anyways. If you're one of them pansy boys, best to move on.

For years, I used to have gun writers and rich, foreign hunters up at my place. Way back when, I bought some Crown land for to build a house on and to raise a family. In the 1930s and '40s, you could make a good livin' by trappin', guidin' and chargin' Americans outrageous amounts of money for 'the wilderness experience' of northern Canada.

Every year they'd show up, hopin' to bag a trophy moose or a big black bear, take some pictures, and have a few laughs. It's the way things was. In fact, everybody around the village of Nerly Corners was like that. And no one livin' here was famous either. We all liked the bush, drinkin' and having some laughs... usually at the expense of city boys or the government. Over the years, city boys and government types ain't got no smarter. Like my old friend Rene used to say, "They are all dumber than stumps!" Can't say as I ever disagreed.

[Linked Image]

Last fall, I had a booking with some guys from the US who said that they was writers. Outdoor writers to be exact. "Oh! that's nice." I said. "Does that mean you guys can't write nothin' indoors, like, say, sittin' in an office or somethin'?"

The guy on the phone just laughed, probably thinkin' I was an idiot and said, "No, we write ABOUT the outdoors."

"Oh that would explain a lot I guess..." I was a little confused.

Anyways, they said that they was comin' on the 28th of September and asked if I could meet them at the train station in Geraldton. I told 'em 'no problem', but to be sure and have all their supplies AND the other half of the guide money with them, or no trip. The fellow just laughed again and said not to be late.

You gotta figure that I'd be on time. I was already here! Boy, it's them Americans what would be late if anything happened. Travelin' on the train was a good way to get around, but things happen you know. Besides, there weren't any roads in or out of here, so it was either fly in or hop a ride with CN rail.

Well, summer of '53 passed into history and the leaves started changin'. Most folks had everythin' ready for winter. The only thing left to do before the weather turned cold was to bring in some meat. The favourite around here was moose, but that wasn't the only thing. The Indians laid in lots of fish as well, and was busy dryin' and smokin' their take, before the snow got here.

On the 27th, me and a couple of friends got the horses ready for the trip south to Geraldton. It would take the better part of a day, so I arranged for a room at the hotel in town. I figured to go over to the train station the next day and pick up them Yanks. That meant that we could spend the night before at the Geraldton Legion drinkin', 'cause we'd be babysittin' our guests after that, and would have to behave.

The trip there was uneventful and we stowed our stuff at the Railway Hotel, right across from the Legion. My buddies, Rene and Joe, was thirsty. Heck, so was I, so we didn't waste no time bellyin' up to the bar. We drank, got drunk and generally had a great time. When it was all over, we sorta staggered back to the hotel and fell asleep wherever we fell.

I got up the next morning, feelin' awful. My tongue felt like I licked the road clean. The headache wasn't bad though and I knew that if I got some food into me, things would get better.

Now Rene, he looked like he got run over by a truck! Someone poured beer over him the night before and ripped his shirt. I told him to go clean up before breakfast. He kinda shuffled off towards the bathroom, cursin' at me in French...

Joe, on the other hand, didn't look so bad. He drank the most - as best as I remembered - but looked ready for church. When he came to, all he wanted was bacon and eggs.

We got cleaned up, went to Caroline's Diner for breakfast, and when we was finished, headed over to the station. I checked with the stationmaster and he told me the train was runnin' right on time.

At precisely 11:18AM, the train pulled into town. We just stood there, checkin' out all the folks gettin' off. None of 'em looked like they was outdoors writers, although, to be honest, we didn't really know what one was supposed to look like.

Huntin’ with Gunwriters - Part Two
copyright 2004 - Stephen Redgwell

[Linked Image]

Down at the last car, I seen these guys gettin' off and talkin' with the conductor. They wasn't from around here. You could tell by their clothes. One of them was even smokin' a tailor made cigarette! Those guys had 'tourist' written all over them. Who else could afford to smoke anything other than roll your owns?

"Hey Mister!" I yelled, "Are you one of them outdoor writers I'm supposed to meet?"

He responded with, "I don't know. Are there any other writers here?"

Okay. It must be them. Not thirty seconds off the train and one of 'em was already bein' a smart ass. I walked over and introduced myself.

[Linked Image]
Jack

"The name's Al. These fellows are my friends and will be goin' along with us on the hunt. This is Rene. Some people call him Frenchy. The other fellow what looks like a Simpson-Sears model would be Joe. Lookin' at him, it's hard to believe that he was drunker than a skunk last night. Some people is blessed I guess..."

The smarty-pants writer – a tall, lanky fellow with the wire-rimmed glasses – grabbed my hand and shook it. "I am pleased to finally meet you Al. My name is Jack. You come highly recommended. Everyone I know says that you can get us what we want..."

"Recommended? For what?" I asked. "Look, I'm only here to help you get a moose. I don't supply no women..." This fellow seemed like a high-class type, not someone that chased the ladies.

Jack looked puzzled for a second, then his face broke into a big grin, "Oh no, not that! I mean that your skills as a hunting guide are renowned in my circle of friends. They would not say so if they did not believe it to be true."

"Okay Jack. You wanna introduce these other guys then?" I asked, thinkin' that with them bein' so quiet, it likely meant they'd bin drinkin' too. Maybe they wasn't ready to talk yet.

Jack pointed at the man immediately to his left. "This is Elmer. You may have heard of him. He's written some books and is published in the outdoor magazines. The other chap is Ken. Although he's an editor, we invited him along anyway. As for me, well, I like to hunt deer. I did a lot of it growing up."

Everybody had met and it was time to go. "Okay, so there's the three of you. No surprises for me, right? Did you pack all the supplies that I told you to bring? Doesn't matter anyways. We're gonna check everything before we leave to go back. First though, we gotta go over to the restaurant and you can buy us lunch!"

[Linked Image]
Elmer

It was about then that this short guy they called Elmer, wearin' a big, black cowboy hat, started cursin' at my buddy Joe. "Listen," he spoke under his breath and pointin', "I just came a long way on an uncomfortable, dirty train car. Jeesuss! Pick up my stuff, son! I ain't humpin' them any farther!"

Joe looked at the little runt and laughed. "Shut up, Tex. Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look like Lash LaRue?”

Elmer said, “Yeah. All the time...”

Joe replied, “Well, you don’t.”

Elmer just shook his head.

“And listen, don’t get cocky either! About your bags, you brung 'em this far; another hundred feet ain't gonna kill you! I ain't a doorman from no high class hotel! If you're used to bein' outdoors, then pretend you're a pack mule! We got a long ways to go yet. You're payin' for guidin', not butlerin'! I'll show you the way..."

The three Americans just stared at each other and quietly picked up their things. I figured that after we finished with lunch, I'd look through everything. If they was missin' anything, we, or should I say they, would be buyin' it in town before we left for Nerly Corners. They threw their gear on Gertie, the pack mule, and off we walked. Things was startin' off good!

Smilin' to myself, I thought that a nice thick, expensive steak would be just perfect for lunch...

"Will you be able to walk after eating that steak dinner, Al?" Jack inquired. "Watching you go through that food reminded me of my younger days slopping hogs. And three slices of pie! Where did it go?"

I lit a cigarette and said, "In my gut. I gotta keep my strength up. Besides, we don't get the chance to eat in town much. Usually, I gotta eat Rene's cookin'... You'll know what I mean later on. I hope you brung stomach powder."

Rene stuck his tongue out at me. I laughed and told him not to pick his nose this trip when he was cookin'! Them Yanks gave each other 'the look' again. I chuckled to myself - just thinkin' about what they was thinkin' about!

"Hey Jack! If my wife seen you, she'd call you a pull through. Done any work as a model for telephone poles?"

Jack looked like a librarian. Tall, skinny, wire rimmed classes and nice clothes. The other two looked like they spent some time in the bush. Elmer had rugged features, skin tanned from the sun and a workin' man's hands. Same with that Ken fellow. He was taller than Elmer, but didn't look like no office boy.


Safe Shooting!
Steve Redgwell
www.303british.com

Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please. - Mark Twain
Member - Professional Outdoor Media Association of Canada
[Linked Image from i.imgur.com]