I love the people who take the time and spend the money to go to the fly-in lodges. The more people who do that, the better. But, sometimes after being around the tourists for a while , I shake my head.
The Tourist ©Dave Hadfield
He comes from Minneapolis, Chicago, or New York,
Feels a little crowded so he makes his way up north,
Steps down off the floatplane, unloads on the dock;
Sees the world around him, and it’s lake and trees and rock
Yeah he’s a tourist — sometimes obnoxious,
And there are days I prefer the trees,
But when infrequent, I am insolvent.
I hope the tourist likes what he sees.
He’s brought along a tackle box as big as my first car;
13 different fishing rods and spoons and jigs galore.
He’s even brought a video, and a walleye- fishing book.
It’d be unkind to tell him all you need here is a hook.
He’s known to get quite thirsty; he’s known to get quite dry.
He only touches water, when it’s mixed-in with his rye,
But we don’t need him sober — there’d be too much to lose,
We’d just hire a Cessna to haul the extra booze.
He’s come to catch a pickerel; he’s come to catch a pike.
He’s come to catch a laker, or anything he likes.
We hear all of his stories — how hard the fish have fought,
But the biggest fish around here is him and he’s been caught.
We’ve got antlers over doorways, got a muskie on the wall,
And mounted in the corner there’s a grizzly eight feet tall.
It’s taxidermic heaven — we can’t afford to stop;
We spread this fertilizer just to get a decent crop.
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