The Real Uncensored Story of Ogopogo

Legend has it — and fake news has been trying to bury this story ever since I made a meal of one of those particular, Kelowna inhabitants — that I lurk just off the coast of Knox Mountain, in this sort of bay, a wee bit from a place called: Paul’s Tomb. It may be, for this reason, that Kelownafornians erected a sculpture of me and then promptly sank the darn thing into the water, at a depth of 25 feet. But, anyhow, it is often here, upon the side of the gorge, where the unfortunate would-be trekker might just go about and lose his or her footing, and, quite unceremoniously, fall from the jagged ledge — and plummet into the cool, dark waters below. Occasionally, it is here, too, that I happen to snatch one of these Kelownafornians by the ankle and then swiftly drag them with me far, far, down into the depths below, whilst he or she is still squirming like spawning salmon during the month of September.

Kelownafornians hold ‘celebrations’ for salmon in these ‘here’ parts: “Salute to the Sockeye,” they say; but I... well, I don’t bother at all with saluting any of these unfortunate meals; not in the least as I coil around them and gently squeeze until they turn bright red — much like the colour of spawning salmon!

The next day, of course, the news of my deed will have spread, like an epidemic, and they’ll go right ahead and mix fact with fiction in the papers. They’ll say the poor chap that fell into these murky waters must've drowned, after having consumed a few too many ‘beverages,’ on the trail. But, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I dislike these folks and their false stories in these here parts; on the contrary, Kelownafornians are amongst my favourite variety! For, you see, there’s a certain quality about them that is quite distinct in flavour, and it is this quality that thus separates them from the less numerous variety of Summerlandian, Pentictonian, and Peachlandian, which, I might venture to add, are often found (frolicking no doubt), upon equally precipitous gorges.

And, you can bet I’ll be found lurking in and around those parts too — just waiting for a big splash near some rocky coast. Some Tarzan with his Jane, out on a picnic, perhaps, will have had too much Chardonnay at some point; be it dusk, or dawn — you ought to know — I’ll be waiting, with that great big Ogopogo smile. The sculptures of me, from Kelowna all the way down to Florida, thus do justice, making me appear all so jolly, all of the time! But, because the folks around here used to orchestrate all these ‘Witch Hunts’ to capture me (up until they all but forgot that I still reside in these parts), I may be just a bit sore about that from time to time…

They went and got busy skewing all the facts in the process of discovering me, and now they can't tell fact from fiction anymore. It’s a sad state of affairs, it really is. But, it’s the way I had always wanted it, silly humans; they even sought the help of a few daring parasailers, once or twice, to scope out the water's surface; hoping, perhaps, to catch a glimpse of my tail breaking the water's surface, or maybe even one of my majestic fins. But, the reality of them trying to catch a glimpse of me — two hundred feet below... pfff, well, it still makes me chuckle, just a little; sometimes, I even get a little water up one of my big nostrils from laughing; though it smarts — and happens to give me a wild Ogopogo headache.

But here’s the thing; here’s what makes them Kelownafornians — shall we say — especially tasty?… I think I’ve finally nailed it down. I think it has got to be the hint of crisp, dry Pinot, which I occasionally savour upon my thirsty palate. It only takes one Kelownafornian with a belly full of Pinot to get me half-seas over, I tell ya. So, you'd best believe that I love those summer days when they’re all getting hammered in the vineyards that surround my lake — for, what's about to happen (in my mind's eye), is that someone's about to misplace their footing, and skip on over the ledge; and in such a way they're helping me prepare for good ol' winter hibernation. So, I can count on those ripe grapes, on the vine, like I can count on a good ol' Pinot in my mind!

If it weren’t for them Kelownafornians and those, ‘wobbly pops,’ which they so habitually consume, as well as the occasional out-of-control scooter winding down the coastal road — God bless ‘em — Search & Rescue would have to double their effort; for the ‘powers that be’ would otherwise just assume the worst, and I’ll be in the clear; right at the bottom of my lake; right at home in my cave. Of course, I’ve got my favourite coves and inlets in these waters, but right at the bottom of the lake is where I enjoy my catch, like a fine wine, like a crisp dry Pinot!