“May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.”
It was with these words of affectionate harassment texted from my uncle to my brother that our British Columbia fishing adventure began. My brother, dad and I were waiting patiently for our flight at the Calgary International Airport. My uncle being the more intrepid traveler, or perhaps a general sucker for punishment, had decided to drive with a friend the 1357 kilometers to Prince Rupert. His poetic little rant was no doubt in response to… well… I can’t recall! It certainly wouldn’t have been because of any disrespectful, unwarranted comments on my brother’s part.
We all finally made it to Prince Rupert and settled into our rooms at the Moby Dick Hotel. No, I’m not kidding- that’s what it was called. It was a nice place. Yup, nice. They had beds, televisions, and other things you might expect to find in hotels in Canada. Things such as a Tim Horton’s just a block away. I’m telling you, it’s all about location!
Our fishing guide, who was born in P.R. and had lived there all his life, said that in all his years he had never seen July weather as bad as this last weekend. The fish we baited must have agreed with him and decided to stay home instead of eating out. You might think this was discouraging for us, but it was actually to our benefit. We only had one cooler of fish to pay extra baggage fees for when we returned home to our [very supportive] wives. Some hotshot group of guys who dubbed themselves the wolf pack (ooo, aahhh, very manly!) must’ve paid a fortune for the eight coolers they had to haul around! Dang overachievers… gripe grumble grouse.
We didn’t reel in much fish, it’s true. What we did catch, however, will stay with us a little longer than a few fillets. We caught a glimpse of the histories that make us brothers, sons, and fathers.
The victories won and the losses endured.
The snoring that begs to be smothered, and the alarms set to the wrong time zones.
The honesty that exposes our vulnerabilities and the grace that guards our backsides.
I have to admit that I was a bit jealous of the wolf pack (you may not have caught on to that earlier). It is a cool name- wolf pack. I wish we could’ve had a groovy name, but when I think of the guys I spent this last long weekend with only one word comes to mind:
Men.
