Quirky characters, bizarre dreams, and tall tales abound in this final instalment of interconnected narratives depicting life in a small west-coast fishing village. David Giblin’s stint as a seasonal salmon fishing guide in the 1980s has provided fodder for dozens of stories that combine the quaintness of small-town maritime life with the comedic possibilities of a local tourist industry that caters to the over-privileged and under-educated. In the conclusion to this acclaimed trilogy, Giblin delves deep into the history and geography of Stuart Island and the Salish Sea, drawing surreal connections between past and present. With beloved returning characters including Nelson, Gillie, Vop, and Troutbreath—as well as the addition of a new guide named Lawrence who lends an air of “authenticity” for the benefit of the guides’ inept clientele—The Trophy Hunter is a hilarious, nostalgic journey that will stick with readers longer than barnacles on the hull of a boat. David Giblin is a visual artist and writer who worked for fifteen years as a salmon fishing guide on Stuart Island, roughly forty miles east of central Vancouver Island. This experience provided a fertile environment for the incubation of great fishing stories, and eventually led to the publication of The Codfish Dream and Gilly the Ghillie , the first two books in Giblin’s West Coast Fishing Guide trilogy. Kerriann Cardinal is a film producer, actor, and storyteller of Métis descent. She has worked on numerous movies and TV series, including the feature film and limited series productions of Bones of Crows . The Trophy The old cat looked down from his special perch above the cliffs. He was very hungry, not an unusual condition for his kind of predator. The hunger was always there, a driving force throughout his life. In his youth, the encroachment of human settlement on his hunting grounds had forced him to make the perilous, island-hopping journey from Vancouver Island over to the mainland. Driven by his hunger and his instincts, he searched for new territory. The steep, rugged, isolated coastline above Cordero Channel became his home. Initially, he was disappointed to find a human habitation here, at the south end of the channel where it met the entrance to Bute Inlet. However, the humans seemed happy to stay in that one spot, never venturing up the cliffs and into his territory. Lately, though, he was realizing the benefits that came with such a place. The cougar was aging and it was getting harder to kill and eat his food. The deer knew he was coming before he could sneak up on them. If he did manage to catch some small rodent by surprise, his teeth couldn’t tear into it like they once had. Jumping was more difficult, and sometimes he grunted from the exertion. Perhaps worst of all, his eyes didn’t seem to work properly. There was a haze around everything. He had to squint to see what was going on down below. Down below a human was burning meat. The cougar didn’t need his eyes to tell him that. At least his nose was still working properly. The smell had attracted him from quite some distance away. He had been here before and was never disappointed. The cougar had to admit, these days it was far easier to scavenge here than to hunt. [. . .] The smoke from the meat wafted past him. The smell of it made him purr. His tail twitched in delightful anticipation. He caught himself drooling. He knew from experience that no one cleaned up at night. The leftovers would sit out until morning, when the humans finally woke. If he waited patiently, the noise would stop and the people would disappear. Then he could sneak down and eat his fill. The old cat put his head down and took a nap.  *** Meanwhile, oblivious to the eyes that watched from above, Nelson bustled about, getting ready for the party, which he held at Dent Island Lodge every year. Big pieces of meat had been marinating overnight and were now on the grill, cooking slowly. Moose ribs, venison, and salmon all waited for space on the big resort barbecue—probably far more food than people to eat it. However, Nelson had to empty the freezers to make room for the more gentrified tastes of the returning guests.  The new season was about to start. This would be the last gathering of its type for the locals until the summer was over. *** When the big cat awoke, the sky was dark. Noises and enticing scents still rose up the cliff from below. He listened patiently as the noise subsided, the hoots and hollers waning until there were no more.  Still the old cat waited. As hungry as he was, he didn’t want any surprises. Finally, he was satisfied; now was the time to move from his perch. The moon had risen, and he was thankful for it. Even his night vision, once so acute, was beginning to fail him. As he climbed down to the buildings, his mouth watered. He picked his way carefully and quietly along the humans’ path to where the burnt meat smells originated.  [. . .]  As he passed close to the hou