Dave's Lobster Boat
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This web site contains a variety of subjects, from writing and songs to bats and railroads with a few other critters mixed in for good measure.
My dog was a wolf. His name was Maska. Well..., he was only a part wolf. His mother was a Siberian Husky from California and his father, from Alaska, was one-half Husky and one-half Wolf.
As we cruised up the East coast of Lake Huron, at 12,000 ft. altitude, I felt relaxed, and at peace with the world around and below me. Suddenly we went into a roll and in a split second our little Chipmunk aircraft was inverted. The farmland of Ontario was gone, and so was Lake Huron.
This was not the magnicificant gray timber wolf that I had expected to see. This one looked old, feeble, and hardly able to move. "Caught in a trap!" I gasped. "You poor old wolf."
Ramblin' 'round in my Wrangler Jeans,
I'm riding pony all day.
I like tortillas and refried beans,
He likes his alfalfa hay.
Pony likes alfalfa hay.
My boat is sailing on a broad reach in an easy breeze just off Soquel Point. The whirrrr of my fishing reel brings me to attention. I grab for my fishing rod, while unknowingly releasing the tiller. I reel in my first salmon. The boat heads up into the wind and my second reel begins to whirrrr. The sails are flapping. I reach for the tiller and step on the fish in the cockpit. I fall back, breaking my number one fishing rod in two. I reel in my second salmon. As I am getting it into the boat, the wind begins to blow. I haul on the main sheet to steady the sail. While trying to straighten up the mess, I slip on the fish and fall, breaking my number two fishing rod. The west wind has come up and its blowing us toward the rocky shore.
The protage is about one-half mile, up the dry river bed, above the Big Mushaboom Lake. We ease our canoe to the ground and stop for a rest. "Look, Dad," I whisper, "over there on that rock by the trees. There's a big dog." "That's not a dog!" Dad tells me in a low voice. "That's a fine, handsome timber wolf."
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