April

Road Nomads

“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”

― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness

I agree with Ursula. On hunting and fishing trips, the journey is as fun as the destination. While travelling with the guys is one thing; travelling with your wife ads a little more pressure. Even if she knows that on a road trip, not everything goes as planned. On this trip I quoted to her one of my favorite hunting companions who likes to say, with a smile, “If everything went as planned; it wouldn’t be perfect.” “He’s an idiot” was her response. No pressure on this trip.

Luckily the journey down to Florida wasn’t perfect, it went exactly as planned, we even arrived early and got to fish camp in plenty of time to enjoy the first day. The second day went off without a hitch, even thought that day included a four hour round trip across the state. That was another sun splashed day where everything went off without a hitch.

On the third day, as per last week’s column, I ended up doing mortal combat with the atomic sunfish and received the mark of the Mayan “Chin-chili”. Even that was not a bad thing. Just like some guys and gals proudly display tattoos of their travels and memberships, I now proudly display the mark of the Chin-chili experience and Neosporin imbedded in my hand.

The next day, perhaps I could have done a little better barbequing ribs. But as the saying goes; even slightly tough barbeque is good barbeque. We started our road trip home exactly on schedule. My wife and I have driven miles and miles together successfully, however, little did we know things were about to change. We were about to face road challenges, perhaps more than we had on our great “fisher-cism” adventure to Montana circa 2004.

Somewhere below Jacksonville I first noticed a slight leak from under the truck. We checked again in my old hometown of Savannah hoping the fluid was from the oil that I spilled after our routine point check before departure. However, the fluid had not dissipated and it actually appeared worse. When we stopped in South Carolina I pulled the old repair trick of not looking and hoping for the best. We made the next leg to about forty miles south of Charlotte, West Virginia where it now was the wee hours of Sunday morning. We decided to pull into a rest stop and take a quick nap. At that point, we were on track to make it home in good time even though I resisted the temptation of trying to break my Uncle’s land speed record.

It dropped to twenty-four degrees there which was a bit different than the eighty-five degrees we left approximately twelve hours earlier. We were prepared though and had blankets and coats to stay warm enough to catch a few winks. We agreed that the last leg went well, however, it was mentioned that the fuel gauge dropped a little faster than normal as we dozed off.

Less than two hours later, in the still dark, wee hours of a Southern Sunday morning we were ready to go. We fired up the truck and pulled into a convenience store to fill up on coffee and fuel to start the day. We were distracted from our coffee run by the splashing from under the truck (perhaps a chin-chilli power). Upon looking under the truck; fuel was spilling out in copious amounts…the road trip had officially just gone to, “not as planned”.

Needless to say, it is not easy to find help at five in the morning on a Sunday. We ran through a list of 24-hour seven day a week road side services. We found one guy who advertised twenty-four/seven service, who patiently tried to explain to me how that meant that he was available six days a week…that included NOT on Sundays from midnight until noon-ish…depending. We called another guy who was available, literally seven days a week twenty-four hour a day but what his ad didn’t say was, “Not for YOUR truck.” We finally got a hold of a guy who agreed to come out. However, he raised a flag when he said, “I might as well not get out there until nine-ish because the parts stores don’t open until then.” (I was thinking, find the problem then be waiting at parts store when it opens…maybe that’s why I haven’t been a terribly successful businessman).

At nine thirty, when Mr. “twenty-four seven but only when the parts store is open” refused to answer his phone; I called another guy, who said he’d be there at eleven. At eleven thirty, I called a guy who I had to talked to earlier who offered to come out but he was forty miles away. In case you were wondering, we did call our insurance company who could find us a tow…after a hazmat team cleared our one-quart fuel spill in a parking lot of a gas station… The dude forty miles away now seemed close after all and he agreed to get us. The kicker of the whole thing was that I knew what the problem was; a twenty-five dollar and one-hour fix (plus a mere three bruised knuckles and forty bucks in the swear jar). I also knew that running the truck could catch it on fire and I’d have to buy tools.

When were towed into my now best phone buddy’s shop, I was impressed. It was down by the river in a scrap yard. The garage was a bunch of conex boxes welded together. The office was an old RV with a tarp for roof. This was a working man’s lot. There, we were greeted by a skinny kid with a strong southern drawl named Chris. Chris wore his baseball hat askew, oily t-shirt and old blue jeans that had the wallet chain and big black boots. His eyes appeared to be crossed and his gait was worse than mine. He asked if I was Bill and said he’d been waiting for me. His boss (my phone buddy) said I’d be in. I assumed he was our concierge not a mechanic as he provided a fuel tank in the sun for my bride to sit upon as it soaked up the heat from the West Virginia winter sky.

It soon became apparent that Chris was our mechanic too. After I came back from telling my wife she didn’t have to thank me for the great times and beaches I showed her; he was already up in the engine. I was a bit hesitant for a second until realized I had no choice but to roll with the only mechanic in southern “west by God” that would have me. He had pulled an old tool truck up next to mine to work from. As I explained the problem, my whole perception of him changed. This kid was a mechanical maestro and was clearly in his element on a machine. He agreed with my diagnosis, I think… my southern drawl is a little rusty. He also found a few other things that could be fixed, “lickety split”. Chris assured us that if he couldn’t get the parts we needed that day; he’d make them up right there in a few hours and we’d be back on the road “before supper”. As I wondered if supper was lunch or dinner in that part of the south or if that was like twenty-four seven; for six days for eight hours a week, I replied, “OK, but you’ll have to tell my wife she can’t spend the night in the scrap yard.” He just nodded and grabbed a wrench. In the next few hours he deftly took apart my fuel bowl and cut off a transmission line and made new lines and O-rings and put the whole thing back together. All that while never engulfing his fuel soaked self or my fuel-soaked truck in flames with the cigarettes that he chain-smoked throughout the entire job, don’t try that at home…he is a professional.

By the time we were done, despite what OSHA may say about him, the kid is now pretty high on my admiration and hero list; he was absolutely amazing. (He also fixed a tractor-trailer concurrently with my truck). When finished, Chris apologized for billing us $200.00 dollars but it was a Sunday after all and he was on his day off…although it was a pleasure. I shook my head and agreed the bill was fair then told him to look me up if he ever came North, he’s got a friend in Pennsylvania; even if no one else wants one. The trip was only thirteen hours longer than anticipated and, officially, “perfect”.

See you along the stream

The Missourian Fisherman

Recently we got a visit from a new member of the family, my niece’s fiance’ fresh off a year long deployment in the Middle East, courtesy of the US Army. He honored us with a visit; to fish. I’ll call him Luke because he said his name was Luke. Luke is an angler and is a native of Missouri so I figured this quasi fish guide gig I was selected for would be a cinch. My first clue that this would be a little harder than I thought was when we had to explain to the young lad why he needed to buy a fishing license. It was also at the same time that I also realized I could be as much of a bad choice of a guide as a good choice.

“But I catch lots of fish back home on my farm and don’t need a license there.” He lightly protested. “That’s why Missouri stinks” I diplomatically explained (Bad Guide Bill came out). When we told him he’d be fishing streams for fish stocked by the state and raised on license dollars, he nodded and accepted his fate to become a license buyer. After going through the process of getting him in the system and a new CID number, my brother said he felt a little bad, like he branded a new calf or something. I picked Luke up by saying, “You won’t regret it at all, Luke, we are going to have a blast.” And I meant it. (Good Guide Bill came out).

When we got back to the base camp, we started readying our gear. Red lights on, we checked equipment and loaded up busily. Luke kind of stood in the middle of us wondering what to do. We kept running by him with gear firing questions and advice at him, “Luke do you have waders? Check! Luke get someone to give you a rainbow lure…make it two. Check! Luke you’d better fasten that down or you’ll lose it tomorrow. Check!” On an on it went until we noticed that Luke had caught on to the swing of things when he started loading long guns. “Whoa, Luke what’re those for?” He stopped and said, “Well with the way we are loading, the urgency, the planning….it just seemed natural…” Son, you’re in Pennsylvania for the opening day of trout season. Tomorrow we will be combat fishing, not going to combat, you’re going to need bigger guns.” He paused, I gave him a smile and a wink. “Maybe a pistol if you want.”

Once we got the truck stuffed and squeezed the doors and tailgate closed, we adjourned to the operations center of camp and went through the warning order for the next day’s attack on the stream. At 0400 hours we’d wake up and grab chow, at 0401 hours we would squeeze into the truck and be on the road. Luke raised his hand and asked, “Why are we getting up so early?” My brother John and I looked at each other and blinked, then John said, “It’s the fishing opener.” I deftly added, “Yeah, it’s the fishing opener.” Luke asked, “We start at 04:00?” It was then patiently explained that we aren’t allowed to start until 08:00 hours but you had to be on your spot and ready by 04:10 hours. Then we went back to our planning. We’d secure the good stop and set up a perimeter on the stream bank. I had intel that there were fish in the area so we’d rig up and wait quietly for sun rise…then eight o’clock. At exactly eight o’clock we’d start the stream assault on the fish.

As we were synchronizing our watches, Luke had another question, “Why don’t we just go out fishing when we wake up? We’ve got all day…right?” This kid was starting to worry me, that much common sense wasn’t going to get him anywhere in life.

So, at the crack of 07:59 we were rolling out of the driveway, with three quarters of us screaming, “OH MY, WE’RE SO LATE!”. On the way to our stream, the great philosophical debate ensued on whether to fish where there was a crowd or where there was no one around. Like the chicken and the egg or mayo on the top or bottom of a sandwich, this has been batted around for centuries. Luke suggested that since we were in the “Wilds” we could fish where no one else was. We all stopped and stared wondering, “Is there a spot where no one fishes?” Ultimately, we opted for a spot where we were relatively distant from anglers. We whipped in, bailed from the vehicle and leaped over the bank, except Luke and me. I can’t leap and Luke had some weird idea about pleasant conversation. “What’s the hurry?” he asked. I couldn’t be sure what the hurry was but I knew darn well there was a hurry. None the less, I spoke to him on several pleasant topics and finally, when we got around to people’s visceral reactions to having their illusions smashed, I suggested to him that his day would go to waste if he didn’t start fishing. As he began to cast, I kept a close eye on him. You can see into a man’s soul by the way he casts…a nice back cast, a solid flip into an eddy pool with the current angle. I relaxed; the kid is a bit unconventional in his approach to opening day fishing but at least he could cast.

The day was slow, the water was cold and the sun was bright and high. We eventually found the fish and figured out how to entice them off the bottom but it took a while. Interestingly enough, as we had it figured out, near dusk, Luke stopped fishing, came up and sat on a rock near me. He hadn’t caught a fish all day. I thought “oh boy, he’s miserable”. Instead, he turned to me and said, “It’s beautiful here, thanks for a great day.” Then he leaned back, sighed a little and stared off somewhere into the woods. I turned to check to see what he saw. I think we were looking at the same woods but I suspected his mind’s eye had gone where I could not follow. I nodded and stopped worrying about him, at least as far as fishing.

See you along the stream

Chin-Chili Spirit

Recently, I took a short trip to Florida to conduct some business and to get a little relief from the late Pennsylvania winter. I didn’t get the hunting in that I wanted but I did get to do some fishing or at least I participated as a fishing spectator and first mate. I’m sure you’re aware of the old Indian/frontiersman’s (or at least the writers of movies starring Brad Pitt) belief that if a man fought with and swapped blood with an animal they would trade spirits and walk around for the rest of their lives carrying a strong characteristic of their foe. Despite the possible benefits of the admirable side effect, I have successfully avoided being gored by a grizzly, black bear or coyote. During my time working in the woods I have “wrestled” a deer, dogs, snakes, bobcat, an owl, a nasty crawfish and a few other things some in dark wet places where I don’t nor do I want to know what I almost traded spirits with. But each time one of us, usually the critter, got away unscathed thus no noticeable transference of spirts has occurred other than occasionally my leg kicks if you scratch my belly.

On the way to Florida, I did not expect my spirit position in relation to animals to change. On the morning of this one fateful fishing day all seemed normal, other than I would not fish but we managed to forget half of what we needed and got out late.

Let me explain that strange decision not to fish. As a partial business trip, I had explained to my wife that we had to keep our expenses low to keep our excess profits high. So, after giving her the evil eye for enjoying vacation by asking for a supersized happy meal and an appetizer with dinner other than scarfing the soup crackers on the diner’s table; I felt I should not buy a three-day license to fish for seventeen dollars. After all, I can enjoy fishing by not fishing better than most, especially if it is from a boat and there is no walleye in the water under the boat. So, I figured I’d spend the time boating and taking the fish off the hooks. Handling fish is one of my favorite, free, parts of fishing (as a father, you learn to enjoy that part pretty quickly and early). That fateful decision may have changed the course of my spirit life…

Being in the alien, to me, waters of the Everglades which contains scores of species of invasive fish alien to Florida, I did not expect to be able to identify every fish that we caught but certainly most. As it turned out I didn’t have to I.D. many as it was a very slow day. Early on a snook was caught and I unhooked that fish. It was easily identified and easily unhooked and I admired the beauty of the first snook I ever held up close. Maybe these could be a good substitute for walleye, if I become a snowbird, I mused.

Then when I least expected it (while someone was fishing) a new fish struck. It fought like a beast. It never jumped but it dove, it ran, it charged and ran again. The experienced angler on the other end of the line of the fish got excited and gasped something about its gonna be weird or something big. Expecting a large toothy fish; I grabbed the net and watched in awe as a stiff medium weight rod armed with thirty-pound braided line strained against what was in the water. Yet I still didn’t expect my destiny to become intertwined with the animal spirit world at this point.

Eventually the leviathan broke the surface aaaaand…it looked like a weird bluegill. It was about twelve and a half inches long and one and a half pounds heavy. It had spot near its caudal fin that made me ask, “Peacock Bass?” I was told no, not that fish but no one else on the boat knew what it was other than a non-peacock bass. Of course, I had to unhook it (since I ended up getting the fish, line and trebles tangled in the net web as it flopped around). We still admired the pound for pound veracity of the little fish as we untangled it. Finally, I got it out and held it up for a picture for all times sake and future identification purposes (out of necessity over creativity I’ve started a collection of myself posing with tiny fish.) As I wrestled the fish out of the net and the hook out of his very tough mouth, I noticed that when he bit down as I held him by the jaw like a bass, not only did he have a good tooth patch on the bottom jaw but teeth on the top. That’s when the blood started to flow. To be fair; he lost some too though in the unhooking ordeal. Braving the bite, I proudly held up the fish for the photo. Then as I went to throw him back he fought one more time and broke my (or his) grip on his jaw/my hand. The fish came free but was falling towards the floor of the boat. I reached out my hand to catch him and pitch him safely in the water but this fish wasn’t done fighting. Everything down there is extra spiny, and this fish was no different. Later, I would unhook a sea catfish that put a hole through leather with a pectoral fin spine, but I didn’t expect to get perfectly stuck in the palm with seven of the fish’s dorsal fins. The spines went in so deep I had to shake the fish to get it loose from my flesh! I pitched it in the water and the guys gasped at my now completely bloody hand, wrecked by an over grown bluegill with a spot. Of course, physically, I was fine and we got the bleeding stopped in a few hours and helicopter ride (exaggeration there) and I’m sure the marks will eventually go away. I was just glad my lips didn’t start to go numb nor did any convulsions start...other than the usual kicking with a belly rub.

When we got back, I had to know because now I had definitely swapped blood with a creature of the animal world in mortal combat. We found the fish and just my luck I am now a brother of the Mayan Cichild (chichlasma urophthalmus) the “atomic sunfish” natives in that part of Florida call it the “Chin-chili”. I got to admit, while the Chin-chili may be cute; anything with “thalmus” in its name is scary. Eat your heart out Brad Pitt. There was some delay in identification with the locals who refer to the invasive fish with no bag or size limits because we said it was a foot and half long. The size we described and the damage it did threw off the experts. Apparently, Chin-chili are generally smaller than sunfish. Upon going to the Florida Fish and Game website it turns out the state record is twelve and a half inches and one and a half pounds…and we let it go…be careful it’s still out there. The smallest fish hooked on the everglades, land of panthers and waters of huge invasive anaconda and thirty plus inch fish was a state record. Looks like I got lucky. Gotta go, I have an urge to attack a shrimp on a hook….

See you along the stream