As I arrived at the top, I saw the object of the birds’ and coyote’s interest. It was the separated hind leg of a deer hooked up in a barbed wire fence. Much of the meat on the leg had been eaten. There were many fresh tracks around the leg and a drag trail behind it.

When I was a boy living in a suburb of Los Angeles, my friends and I would often take a trip on our bicycles to a local flood-control reservoir. The reservoir rarely had any significant water in it, just a small, meandering, tree-lined creek that ran intermittently. However, there usually were small ponds and pools where we could catch crawdads (crayfish), frogs and salamanders. Sometimes I would bring these animals home, and I had the good fortune to have parents who allowed me to keep them for a while, as long as I looked after them.

I regret having to write this column. You see, I live near Wabamun Lake—not close enough to be directly affected by the recent environmental disaster that occurred there, but close enough to feel the pain of the lake.

I've fished my share of "honey holes" in my life. You know, places where the fishing is so red-hot that the retelling of their stories makes them legends in our lives. The earliest such legend I can remember was when I was about six-years-old.