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Also an awful movie from 1997. It was pulled from most theaters within the first four weeks, to live on only as a gag on late night television.

Joe Pesci and Danny Glover star as two guys that just want to go fishing. So when they win a fishing vacation in Florida, they pack up their stuff and head out. Unfortunately, when they stop to get gas a killer steals their car. Wackiness ensues as they scramble to get it back.

Featuring a cameo of Willie Nelson as a wise old fisherman.


Sources: Of course, the almighty IMDB.
August 1993 - Deep in the woods of Canada

My favorite adventure in the wilds of Northern Ontario started without much planning. Picture it if you will. The last few weeks of the summer stretched out for miles. My brother and I are at the end of our ability to entertain ourselves. But my Dad, who works in a nickel mine, has a plan. See, when you work for a mine, once a year they shutdown for a few weeks to do the big yearly maintenance jobs, like cleaning out the smelter. So, you have to give all your employees a few weeks off. Why not in the middle of summer when precious metal prices traditional slip. Genius!

So my dad, my brother and I prepare for the best 2 weeks of getting back to nature that a kid could hope for. A little background is in order. In Northern Ontario, it is possible to leave completely leave civilization by accident. My family made a habit of doing it on purpose. My dad grew up in the bush, hunting, fishing and chopping wood. So when he goes fishing, he does it in style. Family gatherings usually end up with everybody listening to the wild exploits that my dad and my grandfather got up to in the bush over the years. I distinctly remember my father coming home from work on the last shift before the shutdown, setting down his lunch pail in the doorway. He asked my brother, who was 8 at the time, what he did all day. Not sugarcoating it at all, he complained that he had nothing to do. "Well," said my father, "sounds like a reason to go fishing". A call was placed to my grandfather and plans where made. 5:00 am tomorrow morning would be the departure time. Dead North would be the direction. The objective: fishing.

A trip to Canadian Tire was in order, so all three of us piled in my Dad's old beater. He called it his "work car" and it smelled of old Tim Hortons coffee and the stink of the mine. Soon we found ourselves in the cramped aisles of Sporting Goods, also known as Guns and Tackle. Reels were re-spooled, Red Devils, Pop-eyes and Rappala Wobblers were bought and excitement was sown. We stopped by my Grandpa's house and he was out in his huge garage, hooking up his old boat to the top of his huge truck. We had the traditional Pepsi from the beer fridge in the garage and we played on the car ramps and wood piles in back of the yard. Back home and off to bed, I didn't sleep much. Packing and planning were the order of the day.


When my Dad said 5:00 am, he meant 4:25 am. Ugh. I vaguely remember helping carry coolers, loading fishing rods and tackle boxes, and spilling a box of worms in the driveway. It was black night as far as I was concerned, and seeing stars in the morning was new to me. After a sleepy eyed kiss from my mother, we set off. I quickly woke up after we hit the end of the road about half an hour later. The transition from road to gravel is loud in a big 4x4 truck. After asking how much further, my dad laughed and said that we should be there by lunch, barring any washouts. 6 hours on a logging road can make you learn to love pavement. About 3 hours north on the way to my grandpa's hunting camp, we hit the first obstacle.

The bridge, and the lack thereof.

The Vermillion river is not much of a river. At the Wolf Mountain bridge, it was about 15 feet across and maybe 4 to 6 feet deep. As it turns out, that spring it was about 60 feet across, full of ice and at least 20 feet deep. Therefore, the bridge at Wolf Mountain was gone. 2 lonely concrete head ends sat at the ends of the bank. We stopped and surveyed the damage. I asked if we would have to go home, a bit disappointed. My Grandfather laughed and said the first 20 years that he came up this road where was no bridge. Confused, my brother and I got in the truck. Grandpa dropped it into 4 low and slowly inched towards the bridge head. He turned to my dad and said "Figure we can jump it?". My Dad replied "The boys probably make us too heavy, but what the hell, go for it." To further freak us out, he then stomped on the gas. We kids freaked out. The old people laughed, as the truck stopped at the edge of the bank and then slowly crawled toward the water. A sandbar beside the bridge showed the old fashioned way of getting across. As the water lapped up just under the door, I was impressed. Not even there yet and we were already having fun!


After fording the river, we settled in for the rest of the ride. As the logging trucks hadn't been past the river since the spring, the road was in much better shape. More like a washboard than a piece of corrugated cardboard. Following along the river, the road twisted and bent in long turns. Rounding one corner, we happened upon a large black shape on the side of the road. A very large black shape. We slowed down, looking at a full grown Black Bear sitting on its bottom eating something very dead on the side of the road. We were 30 feet away. Not a good place to be. Luckily for us, the bear was surprised by seeing a truck come around the corner. Leaning on the horn and flashing the lights made the bear run for it. Slowly driving past the bear's picnic area, we tried to identify the meal. No consensus was met, but the number of flies buzzing around was impressive.

Bear Pt 2.

The rest of the trip, as well as climbing the truck up the hill to the camp were uneventful. After loading the food into the camp, I was informed that it was not a good idea to do that, as a bear, like the one we just saw on the road, would not have much trouble breaking down the door to get to it. I also took note of the old Pre-World War II rifle strapped to the wall beside the bunks. "If the bear gets in." I was told. I hurried to move the coolers full of meat out to screened-in entrance. To further my bear paranoia, my dad called my grandfather over to the back of the camp to look at some damage to the corner. Huge claw marks scored the wood around the corner, and long teeth tracks peeled up the paint about 7 feet off the ground. "Sometimes they like to eat the glue in the chipboard." commented my grandfather. I didn't sleep well on the other side of the wall that night.


The next morning, we where sent down to the lake to get the boat in the water and to have a morning swim. My brother and I tracked down the trail to the lake, glad the bugs were almost gone for the year. As we crossed the beaver dam at the top of the trail and got within sight of the lake, we saw a moose. A cow, with no antlers stood in the swamp about 60 feet away. We froze. The moose saw us and did the same. Normally they run, but she stopped dead and looked at us, mouth hanging with weeds. My brother then decides to make a moose call. Imagine the deep rumbling call of a moose, like a really loud and forceful moo from a dairy cow. Now, imagine the sound an eight year old can make with his hands cupped comically around his mouth.

A strangled gurgling yell from my brother, easily the funniest noise I have ever heard him make, sounds out across the lake. I figure the moose will definitely make a run for it. Nope. The massive wet ears of the cow swivel towards us. She takes a step to the side, looking ready to turn, but then steps forward towards us. Encouraged, the next more urgent and highpitched yell sounds beside me. The cow snorts, chews her weeds, still staring at us, and comes 2 long steps closer. Our eyes bug out. A moose is a huge creature, and we are two boys in our bathing suits. Laughing my brother goes again. MOOOOOOORAAHHHAH! The moose bows it head, snorts and moves up out of the water to about 10 feet of us in all of about 10 seconds. At this point, both parties freak out. We scream, the moose see that we are not, in fact, another moose, and proceeds to turn tail and disappear into the woods beside the swamp. It is amazing that something that weighs 600 pounds can slip into the bush with almost zero noise. To this day I am convinced that it thought a calf was calling for help. We ran back to the camp and reported our close encounter. It has since been brought up at a few family gatherings as the "Crazy Moose story". The real classic fishing story happened the next day.

McGregor Lake and the Competition

At 7:30 in the morning we drove down the logging road a bit to another lake. We slid the 14 foot aluminum boat off the top rack of the truck and hauled it down to the shore. A small 9 hp Evinrude motor was strapped on the back and we putted out to catch some fish. Now, most people have gone fishing. What most people don't know is this: most human accessible lakes are very over fished and underpopulated. Fish learn what lures are. If you ever have the opportunity to get into an area where no one has dropped a line before, go. You will have the experience of a lifetime. Fish that have a chance to mature can get to be huge!

As we settled in, I put a Red Devil spoon lure on my line. My brother saw this and put a Blue Devil spoon lure on his line. These are essentially the exact same lure, just different colors. This will be important later. He made a point of telling me that blue was much luckier than red. I wagered that I would catch the biggest fish with mine. Thus, a heated competition between brothers was born. We trolled for about an hour in the sun before the first big hit. My brother, using an actual Fisher Price brand fishing rod, had a bite that almost yanked him over the side. He fought and struggled and reeled and let out line for a good 6 or 7 minutes, finally pulling a monster Northern Pike up to the side of the boat. Seeing as we had been, up to that point, urban fishermen, my brother and I where shocked to find a huge fish staring up at us, its alligator-like head in plain sight. Just as my dad reached over with the net... SNAP! The line broke. Seeing as he had 5 pound test line on his reel, it was amazing it had gotten in this far. An argument over if it counted began, as he claimed victory, robbed of his trophy only by faulty equipment. My Grandfather, the impartial judge, decreed that it "had to be in the boat to count". Sticking to his guns, my brother returned to rod and said smugly that even if I did get a fish first, it wouldn't be as big as his. As he was probably right, I didn't argue.

A half hour passed. For a snack, a few peanut butter and jam sandwiches are passed around. I turned them down and stuck to my rod. As fate would have it, I got a bite. THE bite. Jerked forward, I struggled to keep hold of the reel. My line squealed of the spool, the tension buzzing like a bee. I yanked back, set the hook and started reeling in. It seemed for every crank I took, the pull reeled out more line. This fish had fight! Being yanked around like a rag doll and laughing like a fool, I fought and pulled, reeled and twisted. Looking at my rod bent over like a arch, I was sure it would break. Luckily, I had 30 pound test line spooled. Finally after about a 10 minute fight, the fish seemed to stop fighting. I exhaustedly reeled in the last of the line and finally saw the fish. My dad, not wanting to lose another monster, scooped as much as he could into the net. There, hanging over both sides of the net, was the biggest fish I had ever caught.

13 3/4 Pound Northern Pike, 3 feet 2 inches long, 10 inch circumference body and a head like a gator. Ugly as all sin.

My dad started laughing before I saw it. My brother sat and gapped wide-eyed. My lure was jammed fully into the fish's mouth, bent a bit and scratched by hundreds of little razor teeth. Prominently displayed on the monster's top lip, for all four of us to see....

was a pristine Blue Devil lure and 3 inches of line.

Needless to say, we still argue about who won the competition.

My true story entry in iceowl's Adventure Quest

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