Me ‘n’ Charlie traveled to Canada to hunt moose. We searched around and found a bush pilot with a good reputation. We hired him and had him fly us to a cabin located by a small remote lake in the Northwest Territories. The pilot carefully landed the plane on the lake, and let us off at the pier. Over the roar of his engine, the pilot told us, "Now this lake is mighty short, and I won't have much room to take off, so I can only take out one moose. OK, fellas?"
We readily agreed. The pilot said he would return in one week, turned his plane around, and flew off.
One week later, the pilot returned. He carefully landed his plane on the lake, pull up to the pier, and looked out in dismay. There sat me ‘n’ Charlie on the pier, all smiles, with two dead moose. The pilot shut off his engine, climbed out, and told us, "Listen fellas. I told you, only one moose."
We immediately began to try and talk the pilot into taking both moose. We pointed out how big the moose were, what great trophies they'd make, and how we'd gladly pay extra for the trouble. The pilot refused. Then Charlie said, "Hey, we had Joe Meyerson as our pilot last year, and he flew out of here with two moose, with a plane no bigger than yours."
The pilot's pride was stung, for Joe Meyerson was one of his biggest competitors for the tourist dollars. The pilot thought about it for a couple of seconds, then said "OK, you're on!"
We quickly helped the pilot secure the moose between the pontoons and the cabin of the plane, and we all got in. The pilot checked the wind, and slowly headed for the farthest point of the lake. When the pilot reached the end of the lake, he turned the plane around and gave it full throttle. The plane quickly accelerated, speeding across the short lake. Only yards from the rapidly approaching shore, the pilot pulled back hard on the stick. The plane rose slowly into the air. It cleared the shore, cleared some trees, then crashed into some tall pines.
An hour later, I was lying on the ground surrounded by broken plane and messy moose, I sat up. Disoriented and having difficulty staying upright, I moaned, "Where are we?"
Charlie, also just sitting up, pauses to consider the question, looks behind himself, turns back around, rubs his throbbing head, and says, "About a hundred yards further than last year."
Colonel Jimbo From the Land of the Wurts in Northeast Kentucky