Trout fishing at Cape Race

I have driven over every bit of dirt
road left on the Avalon. There are four
bits: up near Grates Cove, the road
through Markland, the road north to
Cape St. Francis, and the road
out to Cape Race. This last road I've
never been on before. I'm listening
to George Jones and Tammy Wynette
as I beat the shit out of the rentacar.
The land is barren, rusted with autumn
bushes, the road is wet and the fog
is thick and smudges out the coastline.
I stop near Mistaken Point, by a little
brook, and catch two small pink trout.
There is nothing here to burn so I fire
up the Coleman stove and cook the fish
with bacon and some bread from Georgestown
bakery -- the best bread you can get
in St. John's. I can see the lighthouse
now. Its lonely flash from the strobe
that revolves counter-clockwise. I have
not spoken to anyone in three days.
It's just been me and George and Tammy
and Lee Enfield. Yes, I'm travelling
with Mr Enfield. We went into a gravel
pit together, near St. Shotts, and
put a piece of cardboard in a tree.
I paced off fifty yards and then loaded
Lee Enfield with three rounds in the
clip. The blue pock mark of dust in
the gravel hill behind the target.
Three small bullet holes, three
inches apart. That night I camp
near Biscay Bay, in a small lot by
the sea where I'd once camped
fifteen years ago. By an abandoned
bridge. It's still there. The same
piece of ground. There's a man
salmon fishing in the river.
His English Setter stands with him,
up to his chest in water, watching
the man's line in the current.