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Showing posts from October, 2019

Curse of the bull moose

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The Yukon River is usually full of silt, so much so, it brushes the shore and slips past the boat with a faint hiss. As winter approaches the water clears to thick, jade green.



The glaciers in the great mountains of British Columbia begin to re-freeze and no longer pour their flow of mud and ground rock into the valleys.

The river is now clearer, and shallower, than I’ve ever seen it. Incredibly, there is no ice at the shore and we can gaze right down onto the muddy pebbles a few feet below. But still we can’t catch one damn fish.

“There are no grayling, there can’t be!” Neil was convinced until a family of otters moved in this week. Unless they brought pizza from Dawson, they must be living off something.

I patrol at dawn and dusk with the .22, hoping to shoot a grouse whilst our ‘gun dog’ directs me to every squirrel with a diligence bordering on mania.

Chicken (as they are called here) feed at twilight, just as the owls come off the night shift and before the falcons start their brutal…