There's a thread on the Vancouver Island board about hunting Texada, which I have read with keen interest. I visited the island several years ago and was amazed at how many deer I saw, and how small they were.
One thing about the island is that the locals seem to be very weary of outsiders. Me and my cousin spent the night drinking in the hotel bar. We BS'ed with the locals, but it was obvious we weren't from the island. Then this old guy walked in with a dog that had a serious limp. The guy sat alone, in the corner of the pub and drank draft beer and ate a bowl of peanuts while his dog stared me down.
The locals said his name was Walt, and that he lived on the southern tip of the island in a log cabin. Maybe some of you who have been to Texada know who I'm talking about? A hermit by all means, but this guy was right out of some Louis L'amour novel. Plaid wool jacket, dungaree's, heavy Dayton boots and a face weathered like no other. He sat there, alone, staring at everyone.
The locals began to talk about how old Walt worked at one of the quarries as a blaster in the 60's and 70's. There are still lots of blasters on the Island one local told me, but old Walt was from a bygone age. They told legends about Walt and his dog. How Walt has deaf in one ear from all the explosions, how when a thunder storm rolls over the island he can sometimes be found on Mt Sheppard cheering on each loud boom, and how hard it is to get to his cabin.
I laughed a bit, thinking that this was probably just some old hippie who lived alone, grew dope, and wandered in to town every now and then for a beer. Surely the locals were putting on a bit of a story about him just to entertain my cousin and I, two tourists from the Big Smoke.
Now his dog, this is the more curious part of this old timer. He dog walked in, almost hobbling along. His left front leg was different from the rest of him, and the rest of him was certainly different. The dog stood about 3 feet at the shoulder. The tail was erect with only a slight curve back towards his head. It was a dusty grey and black colour. When it first walked in, I thought it was a big coyote. It was a VERY nervous dog. I'm sure you know what I mean. Didn't make a sound, but was weary of everyone in the bar, except the waitress who got to pet him on the head and gave him a little beef jerky treat. It didn't lay down like most dogs might. It sat, in an almost majestical postur and kept watch from under the owner's table in the corner. The dog had flinty eyes too, that for whatever reason seemed to scan the room and fixate on me. I love dogs, and I'm certainly not intimidated by them, but this dog scared the hell out of me and to this day i still get the chills thinkign of that stare.
The left leg, as I mentioned was different. The bottom portion was completely bald, and appeared deformed. Almost like the leg had been seriously broken and not been taken to a vet. You could see a large bulbous scar towards the bottom, just on the inside. The tendons in the leg were tighter than the other three, and the exposed bare skin portion showed them quivering just ever so slightly.
I paid no attention to Walt, or to his dog and continued to drink beer and BS with the locals. They talked about how more and more people from the City (Vancouver) were buying up property on the island and driving up land prices, how much money the ferry trip was and how old the ferry itself was and how the town softball team was over in Powell River for the day in a tournament. I pumped the locals for information about the numerous deer I saw on the Island, and how tame they appeared. We got so close to some, that we could have taken them with a hand gun. They were also quite small. Walt's dog was bigger than some of them! Aparently the locals say the deer know where they can and cannot be shot, so they congrugate in the no shooting areas. It can make for a frustrating hunting season, but they always get their bag limits.
So as you can imagine, when you're sitting in a bar drinking beer, eventually you have to visit the washroom. I was certainly no exception to this rule. The signal was loud and clear to my brain, it was time to go!
I asked the locals where the head was, and they pointed to the far wall. As I followed their extended arm I spied across the bar to the far wall. They were pointing to a door just to the left of Walt and his dog. The dog was still staring at me. Now the jig was up to me. I figured that the locals played this joke on every slicker from the Big Smoke. Tell him stories about Walt and his dog, wait for him to go to the bathroom, then laugh as he nervously walks past. I told the locals that their joke about Walt would not work on me.
I figured I would extend the olive branch to Walt and his dog. There must be a reason he sat alone and nobody said hello to him. I went to the bar and put a loonie on it while taking a peice of beef jerky from the jar there. I tore it in half and munched on that, planning on being the kind stranger who would give Walt's dog a chew on some jerky and a scratch on the head.
As I approached I sensed things were not about to go to plan. The dog began to tense up, that left leg with the bald spot began to quiver and tremble as if it was under tremendous strain. A few more steps forward and the dog's teeth exposed. They were yellow and long, the inscisors on the dog meshed tightly and the closer I got, the more exposed they became. A silence came over the bar, at least I thought it was silence until I realized everyone stopped talking to watch me approaching the dog with my hand out and some beef jerky. There was one noise, the dog growling. A vicious growl, low and steady... grrrrr. It was a mean dog, the teeth were now fully exposed as the lips snarled back and the dog began to crouch in preparation to pounce. Old Walt was there, head down with the brim of his cap just over his beer, ignoring it all (probably because he was deaf.)
The left leg of the dog was in a full shake now. The dog had lifted it off the ground and it was swining like a widdow maker branch, high in the branches of a douglas fir tree. The dog continued to growl deeper and louder as I approached. The tension was incredible. Like a show down in a Clint Eastwood movie, two gun fighters waiting to draw their pistols and fire.
I got closer with my hand fully extended now, saying in soft tones "Easy buddy, I'm a nice guy, here's a treat." I tossed the jerky to just in front of the dog, but it didn't flinch or redirect it's attention. I was in trouble for sure. Walt couldn't hear what was going on, the dog was about to pounce, and I still had another six feet to the bathroom! Realizing that this dog was NOT the friendly sort, I looked to keep my distance, but there was no way I could walk by the dog and go to the bathroom at the same time.
Inching closer and closer, the dogs left leg was now in a rapid clawing moition, not a cute begging jester, but a vicious mean shake. The tendons in the exposed bare portion of the lower leg were flexing, the strange bulbous scar had turned bright red as it filled with blood. I had to pee, but not in my pants!
Another step, and the dog which was already at a defcon 4 level of aggression seemed to get even more angry. What kind of town is this? They let a dog in the bar? They let such a vicious mean animal into a drinking establishment? What kind of yokels are on this island?
Suddenly Walt looked up from his beer and sized up the situation. He looked me up and down and muttered to the dog "He's not the one." The dog, light a light switch, turned off and sat back down. I seized the moment and slid into the bathroom.
I don't know what was a bigger relief, emptying my bladder or knowing that Walt's dog hadn't ripped my face off. A few minutes later I stepped back out. The dog was on his haunches chewing on the beef jerky. Walt looked at me again. I asked him why his dog was so mean until he told it I wasn't the one. Walt just said:
"He's still angry about the stranger who shot his 'Pa"
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Originally Posted by Gatehouse
