He never saw it coming.

As threatened our captors took us fishing. They had planned this for days, even planned it prior to our arrival so we knew that this must be it. They were going to take us far from our home on wheels and motor us out into the middle of a lake then with one quick shove we would be gone. Not being a very strong surface swimmer I was scared.

We were warned the night before that we would depart at 6 a.m. for said fishing trip but a party that went a little longer than anticipated pushed back our time of execution to 7 a.m. Fearing that our captors would make good on their 6 a.m. threat Steve fell asleep around 11 p.m. While I, not wanting to waste my final hours on something as trivial as sleep, opted to stay awake until 1 a.m. Fear continued to wake me every hour as I watched the clock tick merrily towards the early dawn hours.

Promptly at 5:30 the bark alarm went off and sheer terror gripped us. Tick by tock 7 a.m. drew nearer and movement began in our captor’s house. There was a very heavy fog covering the distance between us and them and yet the hairs on the back of my neck told me they were preparing. As if they were running off a timer’s watch they appeared outside our trailer and spoke those all too familiar words. “Hey, hurry up in there, we’re all ready to go”.

With trepidation we stepped from our trailer into the dense early morning fog and blindly followed their voices to what would surely be the longest and final fishing trip we would ever be on.

Quietly we sat in the truck turning every now and then to see the object of our demise. Following silently behind us, stealth like actually, was the boat, the pontoon boat that would take us out onto the open water and far from shore.  We had lost sight of where we were geographically in the fog and a deep seated fear gripped me. Even on a sunny day I could get lost but in this fog…….hope was fading quickly.

We arrived at the boat launch and my neck muscles snapped with tension. Looking back toward the road we had travelled was a thread of hope, 15 pound test to be exact as one of the poles had snagged a passing tree leaving behind 60 or more feet of fishing line for me to follow. Ah the perfect bread crumb trail. But alas, one of the captors noticed me winding my way back towards the road with the aid of the fishing line and they began to reel me back in. Shortly there after we were ordered onto the boat and land slipped away behind us with nothing but fog and water ahead.

We slowed and eventually stopped as our male captor declared this to be the place. Pulling the straps of my life jacket tighter I dropped my line over the edge all the while praying silently. Suddenly there was excitement at the front of the boat as Steve had hooked a fish. Dangling from the end of the line a beautiful bass writhed, flipped and flopped as Steve brought the fish closer to me. Looking deep into it’s eye I came face to face with my own thoughts. “This is how and where it will all end”. The fish gasping to breathe air instead of water and me the opposite.

As I gently held the fish I quietly reassured it that I was not there to hurt it and I would set if free as soon as possible. Sensing my compassion the fish stopped struggling against my grip, silently it lay there in my hand and with it’s one good eye pleaded with me to return it to it’s home. The look of desperation and fear compelled me to move quicker as I flipped it over and removed the hook from it’s mouth, placing it back into the water so it could return to it’s family.

Fish after fish entered into the boat in the same fashion, dangling from a hook, fear and desperation were the only expressions they knew. Fish after fish were brought to me each with a hook in a slightly different place. Each fish fearing that the air they were breathing would be their own death. My heart broke. Each fish came to me struggling to be free and once in my hand simply relaxed and waited for freedom. Deftly I gently removed the barb from their mouths, tenderly I returned them to the water and as they swam away I hoped with all my heart that I would never see them again.

With a heavy heart the final fish was brought to me. As I gazed deep into it’s terrified eye I realized I had indeed seen this particular fish once before. Regret bit deep into me as I wish I had held it a second longer for it to gain more strength before I let it go. Slowly I turned the fish over looking for that familiar mark, that tell tale sign that this was indeed the same fish. As his dorsal fin slowly rotated over I knew.

This was the one that our captor had hooked through the eye. The poor little fella never saw the rehook coming.

The torture continues….day 2

So without animals to tend to our captors have had to become creative. They have removed the previous existing means of torture for us and in it’s place they have devised new methods, smarter plans that they cleverly disguised as “fun”.

Yesterday it was golf. They snuck our golf clubs into one of the vehicles, ran ’round to the back door of our trailer, banged on the side and yelled “the bus is leaving, get your butts in gear”. Fear drove us out of our comfy home on wheels and into the comfy seats of the idling minivan. The excitement in their voices was compelling and we so desperately wanted to keep them happy. Once inside the vehicle we were ordered to sit down, buckle up and shut up. Without warning the vehicle lurched forward and we were driven miles from our home. The vehicle slowed, made a sharp left and we were ordered out into a parking lot.

Thinking that this is where it was going to end for us we staggered onto the pavement, too afraid to run for it and too afraid to get back into the van. Golf bags filled with all means of clubs, ball retrievers, golf balls and tees were placed before us, we were told to stay and the captors disappeared. Moments later they returned. They brought with them little electric versions of the minivan and placed our bags of slaps and giggles onto the back. Again we were ordered into the vehicles and told to keep our arms and legs inside.

“Here’s the first tee” was announced and it began. What I thought was surely our end in the parking lot turned out to be only the beginning of hours of humiliation, frustration and sheer anguish as our captors dragged us over hill and dale in search of the perfect drive, the best chip and the ever illusive amazing long putt.

Hole after hole we placed the poor unsuspecting golf balls onto tiny little pegs called tees, lined our golf club up against it’s dimpled surface, took a mighty swing and tried to whack the poor ball far, far away. Several times we were quite successful at it but we were stuffed back into the golf cart and driven to the general direction that we thought the ball had landed.

Over and over and over again we teed up, drove the ball then drove to the ball, selected what we thought was the best club for the next shot and honed in on a wee little hole in the ground. Every now and then the ball headed for the trees and we would follow it always on the look out for a path leading elsewhere. It would head for the water and we would leave it there in it’s watery grave never to be seen again by our eyes.

We kept at it for over 2 hours fearful that stopping would surely be the wrong move as each time we sank the ball into the little hole our captor seemed pleased. When we arrived at the tee box with the designation of #9 our hearts sank. What would come next, what if we drove our balls back towards the start again, would we get a stay of execution. Could we go around again in hopes of pleasing our captors even more. What if we just drove our balls towards the highway and stood there begging to be picked up. Was this our last chance to escape? Could we escape without them noticing until it was too late?

Sadly we obediently returned to the mini van and got back in it. They had us with “OK let’s go home and get some lunch”

Our captors are now using food as a means to keep us secure and continue to frighten us with “a fishing trip”. I’ll update when I can.

A return to Camp Critter

It’s almost hard to believe that I have not set foot at Camp Critter since ’08. Nothing has really changed and yet nothing is actually the same except…..

Our last trip here together brought us into a camp flowing with methods of torture. Initially there were the sheep in need of medication. Then there was the feed that needed to be cut, raked, baled and stored for said sheep. Next came a new barn needed for the storage of the sheep’s feed and finally some “recreation” that included trips into the woods, moments spent yelling at a tiny ball to “get in the hole” and the odd event of boat rides that we actually returned from.

This year Camp Critter is different and I have yet to decide if it’s a good thing or not.

The sheep are gone. And gone with them is the work they were to keep them healthy with regular medicine, food to fatten and sustain them and fresh water to keep them hydrated. There are no plastic syringes filled with white sticky fluids. There’s no shepherd’s hook to grab them with and there’s no sub-humane harness to wrangle them into to determine their weight. They are gone.

Gone with them also is the need to harvest hay. No more sitting on a tractor in the blazing sun and the kink in the neck that comes from sitting half in half out, totally sideways in the seat to make sure you’re still running in a straight line. The mind numbing task of driving almost as slow as you can walk to rake the hay is a distant memory. The sheer joy of catching and stacking 60 lb. bales of hay in high 30 degree weather with only enough water to drink for about an hour is a part of my yesteryears.

It would seem that there was a moment of “Aha we broke them” from our captors as they went to market with the number one means of torturing us but not return with more split hooved critters. Instead they left all animals of wool at the auction house and simply came home, alone. They have had well over a year to devise, tweek and strategize an entirely new plan and I am nervous.

There is a rumour of a single hooved beast who goes by the name of Norman and carries milk on board. Perhaps he will become part of our captors plans of torture this year. One can only shudder in fear.