Fishing? Neigh. More like animal-ing, sometimes unintentionally.

Thank God for Lloyd’s all new mud tires with tread you can lose your keys in. We have bypassed the largely disappointing Gibb River Road for a lovely cove north of Mitchell Falls on the Kambu Road called Welsh pool. Multiple signs attempted to discourage us from making the rocky, dusty, bumpy 4WD only trek, but Lloyd is a man who does not make a journey like this unprepared. Our overnight has subsequently turned into a three night stay, so we popped up our shade, chopped up a ton of firewood and nested. I have become a big fan of fishing, and Lloyd is avid, so we spent our first day with rods in our hands and sun on our backs and contended smiles on our faces. The first line I threw out caught me an estuary cod. On our way back to camp we liberated an abandoned crab pot. A crab pot is a net contraption with an in-door for crabs but no out-door, falcons with eerie screeches kept us on our toes, and sure enough the first thing we caught with the oh-so-tempting fish head suspended in our crab pot was a falcon, scary screech, sharp beak, razor talons at all. Lloyd donned a makeshift bird of prey handler get-up and whispered soft, gentle words of comfort sprinkled in with soft, gentle expletives as he practically crawled to the pot. He had thick welding gloves on and a towel wrapped around his head, plus steel toed work boots and reflective work pants- MacGyver the bomb defuser vs. a pissed off flying weapon. The bird was released without much bravado (nor a thank you, the prick) and the jerk still eyes the delectable fish head when the crab pot surfaces at low tide. On a more successful note, we have eaten two amazing mud crabs with claws that I have been told can crack beer bottles, a few dozen oysters we knocked off the rocks, and we’ve got three crabs, claws zip tied, knocking around in the bucket for dinner tonight . Not too shabby.