It's 10 a.m., all quiet on the battlefront. Conditions breezy and cool, water calm. The thin, dead stumps of the Black and Amber forests poke baldly from the surface. An occasional logging truck laden with tapered trunks grinds across the Highway 147 bridge, temporarily breaking the silence. A handful of anglers sit catlike in their boats at the edges of the lake, absently observing the landscape while waiting to spring at the telltale tug of a... More >>>