Luckless Mike and the Tale of Two K.O.'s

Picture perfect would best describe the beautiful summer day that Dave Johnson, luckless Mike and I decided to try our luck at some sturgeon fishing on the Fraser River, just east of Mission. The weather was warm and clear, with brilliant blue skies and a soft, gentle breeze that rippled the water, catching and reflecting the light like a million shimmering diamonds. The magnificent scenery and the unforgettable vistas of the ruggedly beautiful and still snow capped Cascade Mountains were enough to warm the heart, and boggle the mind -- understandably leaving some people, slightly lightheaded and starry-eyed--in more ways than one.

Upon arrival at the Dewdney boat launch we held a huddle to discuss our strategies, launched our boat and we were off into what we thought, was simply fun filled fishing adventure.

Time usually has a habit of passing far too rapidly on these splendid afternoon sturgeon excursions. There’s time to unwind and really relax and time for great discussions and always time for the telling of the tallest tales ever told. However, after about four hours without a nibble, it was beginning to look like a furious feeding frenzy wasn’t high on the sturgeon’s priority list, at least for this day.

As the evening and the end of our fishing trip approached, we fixed our gaze on our rod tips and as if on queue, Dave’s sturgeon rod began the slow rhythmic dipping that signalled a sturgeon tugging at his bait. Now I should mention that occasionally, Dave has the playful habit of should we say, setting the hook a little too hard in times of great excitement-- or if he senses that it might be the only bite of the day. Yes sir, Dave will agree that once in a while he gets a bit overly excited in the hook setting department and has been known to rip the odd lip, cross a fishes eyes, and once when a poor fish swallowed the bait very deeply he turned it completely inside out.

The next set of events that unfolded happened in a matter of seconds, but remains etched in my memory as if in slow motion. Dave picked up his heavy fibreglass Kunnan sturgeon rod, taking up the slack between him and the unsuspecting fish, he was hair-trigger-quick for the mighty rearward hook-set. In the meantime, Luckless Mike made his way into, what he thought, was a better position where he wouldn’t miss any of the action -- peering over Dave’s shoulder with his neck stretched out like a goose, he was about to get much more than he bargained for. One more tug at the bait and Dave let her fly -- a perfectly executed, six foot hook set -- stopped in mid swing by Luckless Mike’s head. Mike’s inquisitive over-the-shoulder gaze turned to a blank, lifeless expression. The colour suddenly disappeared from his skin, his eyes rolled around like a slot machine, and over he went -- falling like logger felled timber. We brought Mike around with a good blast of cold Fraser river water from a bailing bucket and in a short time he was back to normal, rambling on about owing Dave one later.

Mike’s second miserable misadventure happened one fine fall day when we were out enjoying some late season duck shooting on Nicomen Island, east of Mission. Over the years we’ve had permission to hunt a corn field from an old farmer friend. Later on in the fall the big northern mallards can be very large indeed. At times, after feeding heavily on the corn that always remains in the field, the ducks put on a good layer of winter fat and some weigh up to four or five pounds. Being the best eating, these are the feathered missiles that we target.

Mike and I were about 100 yards apart and both shooting over decoys that we had placed in some big puddles on the low lying areas of the field. Although the hunting was slow, it was just nice to be outdoors enjoying nature.

Suddenly, a flock of what appeared to be mallards were heading straight for Luckless Mike. Mike hankered down and tried to hide behind some tufts of grass as the fast flying ducks approached. From where I stood it looked as if the ducks were bound for other parts of the country, not interested in what they saw below. I was quite surprised when luckless Mike stood up and fired his old double barrelled shotgun at those high flying mallards. I saw the puffs of smoke from his gun, heard the shots and watched as one of those ducks fell from high in the sky. It was heading right for Mike, who had his head twisted watching the flock retreat. I heard a deep sickening thud, then a splash, as Mike went head first into a puddle.

Now I know you’re gonna find this hard to believe, but as I approached Mike he was out cold, face down in a mud puddle with bubbling and gurgling sounds coming from his mouth. I rolled him over, pulling him from the water and probably saved him from certain drowning. When I got a good look at his mud-splattered face, I was shocked and somewhat amazed at the large bloodshot bruise in the middle of his forehead. It didn’t take long to piece this puzzle.

 

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