HOW TO CATCH, CLEAN AND COOK A WILD SNIPE 1964

Once again my mind wanders back to a time in my youth and a memory of my Dad. I was now in my mid teens, into everything, doing everything, and for sure fancied myself, the real deal. One of my major activities at this time, was the Boy Scout movement, and I was a full on member. Dad took part in all of our activities and was a very involved father. No matter the adventure, task or experience, he could be counted on to be front and centre of the parent volunteers.

It was a tight group of scouts that we formed, and consisted of about 20 of us. For the most part, in roughly the same age group, from the same neighbourhood, and mostly friends, inside and out of the scout troop. We were full of life and adventure. More than a few of us were well on our way to attaining, Canada’s highest honour in scouting, that being the Queen Scout designation. And like I said before, we thought of ourselves, somewhat, as super heroes. What little there was left for us to learn in this life, in our opinion, was not worth learning. So, on the May long weekend of 1964, we all gathered for our traditional and annual “camp out”.

We invariably chose a spot in the mountains, west of our home town of Red Deer, for this camp. This time was no exception. We were headed south to Innisfail, and west about 1-1/2 hours, over Corkscrew Mountain. From there, down onto the flats of the Clearwater River. The scout troop, leaders, and volunteers piled into 6 or 7 cars, trucks, and jeeps. After school on the Friday night, of the May long weekend, we embarked.

You have never heard or seen such a performance, as 20 hyper teenagers, jumping around and squealing in high-pitched voices. Much like a group of Girl Guides, getting ready for their first school dance; all of us clambering for the best seat in the cavalcade. It must have drove our fathers insane. However, they somehow, just put on stoic looks, and proceeded to transport us out into the mountains.

Because it was almost summer, it stayed light until about 9:30pm. This meant the trip was made, directly into the blazing sunset. Up and over Corkscrew Mountain, and onto our campsite while still light out. Once there, 20 vibrating teenagers ripped apart the cargo. And set about, seeing if they could get all of the equipment irrevocably mixed up, in the now fading twilight. Again, the leaders and volunteer fathers, patiently sorted thru everything and slowly our camp was erected.

Once more, chaos reigned, each scout had his best friend, buddies, or preferred tent partner to sleep with. So, there was much hollering, squealing and banter until sleeping arrangements were decided. It was by now, full on dark, and there is no dark like the mountains, once you have left the lights from the city behind. We were now ready to turn in, and rest for the adventures which would start at daybreak. You are joking, right? None of us were, in any manner, ready for bed. We were still jumping around, with each trying to out do the other with banter, teasing or jokes. Our not yet “broken” voices, rang shrilly thru the mountains.

By this time the adults had probably had quite enough of us and our combined egos. However, eventually, long after they had wanted to lay down also, they managed to get us into our tents. Silence ensued, broken by the occasional, giggle, passing of gas (from both ends), and other loud comments. Each time something happened, all 20 of us felt obliged to respond. It was now about 2:00am on the Saturday morning. Our leader “Skipper” had promised us, that he would get us out for breakfast at dawn. Was he nuts we thought? Sunrise was only 3-4 hours away, even in the mountains, where the sun comes late.

Sure enough, dawn breaks and the leaders are up, bouncing from tent to tent crying out “Daylight in the Swamp!” And “come on you party animals time to rock and roll”. As you might suspect, there was a good amount of bitching, whining and growling, from 20 young Scouts. All of them needing, their full 10 hours of sleep, but had, had about 5 of them. Grumbling, we all pile out of our tents, most of us wearing all of the clothes we had brought. Geezus was it cold! Remember it was still only late May, in the mountains of Alberta, and not much above freezing, if it was at all.

We all gathered to see what delights were on order for breakfast. Well, as it turns out Dad, and a couple of the other volunteers, were whipping up our meal. Pancakes! Now I could go for that! It seems, though that whoever was in charge of provisions, had forgot the Syrup, sugar or anything else, that young people might want to eat on their pancakes.

Also, it became obvious that cooking pancakes over an open fire, for 20 plus adults, was not an exact science. Some were cremated, others half raw and dripping, and not many that even resembled the shape of Gordon Ramsay type, light and fluffy delights. So there we sat, eating this offering covered in skim milk, with sugar cubes dotting the tops. It was freezing cold, our spirits were lagging and we were confronted with this offering. “Mama” could be heard coming from the mouths of these, now deflated, Scouts. So fully fortified, we were now presented, with today’s program.

Ol’ Skipper steps up and pointing across the Clearwater river at the biggest mountain in sight, says “that’s it, we’ll go and climb that badboy!” Like hell, I think, there is no way I’m about to climb Mount Everest, even on my best day. Climbing a ladder gave me vertigo, the thoughts of climbing that mountain, just made my pancakes, turn to liquid inside my churning stomach!

But climb we did, after fording the river, soaking wet in May, trudging thru the brush and basically bushwhacking our way to the base, we started climbing. Hold it, where are the volunteers. Looking back, they could be seen sitting by the campfire, drinking hot coffee and appearing quite happy to see the end of our asses, going thru the bush.

The climb is a story for another day, but suffice it to say, that I, along with a couple of others spent most of that day, crawling on all fours up this Himalayan type peak. When I did venture to stand up, I got a feeling of dizziness, and was overwhelmed with a sense of panic. Not the most fun I had ever had. It took until noon to reach the summit, which I understood was beautiful, however, I would never know, because I was too afraid to look down. By late afternoon, we had dragged our tired asses back down this mountain, and made our way back to camp.

I suffered a lot of verbal abuse, for crawling up that mountain. My ego suffered more. Were we beat? But finally we were back, and now it was time to relax! Supper was some form of chilli, again cooked over an open fire, which rendered it close to inedible. Now where is my bed. Not so fast you might say. Where are the snipes?

During the course of the dinner, my dad was talking about an elusive bird, called a Snipe. According to him, they only lived in this part of the country, were extremely fast runners, and arguably, were the best tasting game bird, that you could find, anywhere in this world. He was pumping it up pretty well, and all of the other adults, were backing his tale.

Some had heard of Snipes, some had caught them, and they all agreed, that the Snipe was the best tasting game bird anywhere. Somewhere between the taste of turkey and pheasant. A few of us were starting to get interested, others were too tired to care, and a few of the stronger ones, were ready to take on a hunt. Little by little the interest develops and even though everyone was exhausted, we started begging Dad to take us on a hunt. He feigned reluctance, and said that he didn’t think, we were yet old enough, to be able to manage, this highly technical hunt.

Now we’re really starting to get into it! He finally relents and agrees, that if we still had enough energy in us at dark, then he would lead a hunt. Faced with this challenge, there is no possible way, that any of us were going to bed. Come dark, we are all still pumped, and full of renewed energy. Now for the hunt.

Dad has given us a list of hunting equipment, we would need, and divided us into groups of three hunters each. Each hunting party was armed with, one rucksack or backpack, a large tin pan or plate along with the biggest spoon we could find, and a strong flashlight.

He then took us out along the river bank, and spaced each group about 200 meters from the next. So, in both directions from the camp, for about 1/2 mile each way, he had spread out the three man teams of Snipe hunters. He then explained the process to each group. One was to hold the backpack open, close to the ground, another was to position their tin plate or pot over the open backpack and the third was to shine the flashlight into the bag.

Then the hunt would start, with one of us beating on the pot, with the spoon in a steady rhythm, one holding the backpack open, and another shining the light into the bag. Again, dad says, “that because this Snipe was so fast and elusive, the hunters would need 100% concentration, just to catch one”. Apparently, the Snipe, attracted to the tapping or banging on the pot, would run in like lightning, to see what was going on, and when it did, it would run into the backpack.

Immediately, the pack must be closed, and a Snipe would be caught. It was also explained, that absolute silence, except for the tapping, must be maintained. He further instructed us, that Snipe did not have a particular rhythm, they were attracted to, so we could each be innovative, and come up with the key sound. Oh, how my dad wanted Snipe for breakfast! He was positively drooling.

Then the hunt starts, the sound of 20 Boy Scouts, banging on pots, in the dark, must have been heard as far away as Red Deer, and by every animal, anywhere, in between our camp and home. There we were, religiously banging away, in many different cadences. Some in groups of four taps, a pause and four more, some continuously banging, some with dots and dashes. Like Morse Code.

We banged, we peered into the dark, we listened for the sound, of Snipe running thru the bush. At one point my dad popped out of the bush, scaring the hell out of us, and exclaimed, “Did you get that one? I just seen him come past!” At another time we heard a whooshing, rustling sound like something running at speed thru the brush.

This cacophony goes on for one hour, then stretches to 90 minutes. Every once in a while an adult would appear to pump up our spirits, with stories of one just missed by the group next to us, one that was in a bag, but escaped before the bag was snapped shut, and other sorts of encouraging chatter. Then they would leave us, motivated to bang away some more.

Finally, little by little the tapping and banging ceased one group at a time. Along came one of our guys, looking for me, with malice in his voice. it seems like one of the Scouts, tired and thirsty, had made his way back to the camp. He came in silently, only to discover the adults, all sitting around the campfire, in good spirits, laughing and joking. He heard things like “that oughta’ keep the little buggers busy for a while”, “HAHAHA”, “I bet they won’t be staying up all night, keeping everyone awake tonight,” “HAHAHA”. It finally dawned on him, and realization hit.

THERE WAS NO SUCH THING AS A SNIPE, SNIPE HUNT, OR SNIPE RECIPE. We had been had! They had tricked us poor little innocent children, and thought it was hilarious. The guy that came to see us, and tell us to quit was looking for me, in order to kick my ass for bringing, my father along, to perform such a dirty trick on us! Geezus, what’d I do? I was just as pissed as everyone.

This story became a legend in our family, and with our friends at school, for a long, long time. One thing the adults were right about, though, was that when we finally drug our sorry butts into the tent that night, there was no fooling around, laughing and giggling. Twenty smart-ass teenagers were asleep almost immediately. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell mom on him. She looked properly sympathetic and said, “Slim why do you do such things to those sweet little guys?” I’m not quite sure she meant it though.