MAY 2018

Euchre Camp 18: Enlightened Rogues

Last week was one of the highlights of the year for me. It ranks right up there with Deer Camp, the Super Bowl, Christmas, certain birthdays, Cinco de not Mayo and whatever date my anniversary falls on (just kidding, honey). Annually, at the cusp of morel season, the end of leek season and when the first wave of turkey hunting subsides to a slow ebb; select enlightened rogues gather at a camp surrounded by thousands of acres of forest. Not all are wardens and foresters but there are number of them there with over a hundred years of service spanning across five different decades on the “thin green line” from three different state and federal agencies. There are also several engineers, military, a teacher, farm/ag guys, two gunsmiths a pharma guy and a carpenter; locals and guys from four states. We all enjoy the outdoors and the card game called Euchre; so, we gathered again for the most obscurely famous annual Euchre tournament in Pennsylvania.

The event has grown steadily and probably has hit our capacity. With any growth of an event, the agenda changes over the years. Now we hunt morels, dig leeks, play cards, shoot, fish, hunt, compare bee and maple syrup productions and tools, observe woodcock peenting and talk about what chores we should do…something had to go. Originally it was just Euchre, hunting and camp chores. There are very few rules in camp by design. There is still only one rule even though each year we threaten a new regulation or two just to keep everyone on their toes. This year’s new and more modern threat was no phones.

This year’s festivities opened with a new Olympic sport called ‘catch and release the sparrow’ which was inside the camp. I opted to use an esocid landing net and my buddy Archie opted for a dish rag. The dish rag worked smoothly but I’m not sure at camp where you have limited dish rags to clean dishes that getting bird stuff on it was wise but so far no one has gotten sick. Then we were out to the range to test out some new AR platforms that Archie built. We easily put a thousand rounds down range and I got to try some newer calibers I’d never seen before. I’m looking out for adding a three-gun tournament to the future agenda.

Day two we were up early hunting for minnows and licenses. By early afternoon we had most of the guys in the camp and another barbeque. Then the pre-tournament festivities started. Evening came and went with a large crew sized bottle of Makers Mark as well as some ancillary drinks. We had not yet even begun to defile our livers when we took a short break from the game to wake up our two hopeful turkey hunters at five a.m. sharp. Then after we stood out back and heckled them as they began their dark journey up the mountain, we decided to turn in for a few hours.

We were up early though and ready for the big fishing trip once the turkey hunters got back. We hit the secret spot that last year produced a lot of fish. This year after a couple of hours of no action a new rule was proposed, seconded and passed that we don’t catch fish while fishing, anymore. Instantly after passing of this new law, true to form, we had a violator as my buddy Eric’s son, Matt, caught a fish. We have yet to decide his penalty. It’s been tabled on whether he should pick and eat the leeks or be banned from morels.

Back at camp that late afternoon some more rounds went down range as several of us finished up preparations for pulled pork. After the meal; the highpoint of the season began the famously obscure annual Camp Redtail Euchre Tournament where hopeful contestants fight for the most prestigious award in the Allegany, Susquehanna watersheds: The championship Nerf Samuri swords with the year and camp carefully inscribed on them with a black Sharpie. This year they lit up as well, which added to the tension of the competition. The tournament was fierce, no quarter was given, there were reviews and instant replays as well as debates but when the smoke cleared we had a clear winner at the top of the bracket. Matt, who earlier illegally broke the new camp rule by catching a fish and my alleged brother Greg had won the tournament and the light up swords. They were toasted and crowned as mock ESPN announcers replayed highlights of the event. Former champions from years past petitioned to have their old championships recognized with a sword but the Euchre committee quickly turned them down; citing precedence of the Cleveland Browns and their previous pre-super bowl championships that don’t count.

The next day was another early start as the rogues began to return to their pretend lives as responsible adults who adhere to schedules. However, before they left, there was a light conversation about how liberation theology is used to hurt the economy and individual freedoms. That was followed by whether or not to add predator hunting to our activities and new blue bird habitat. The oft mentioned Muddy built a beautiful beehive and we got that finished and up where bears can’t tread, I hope. Then it was on to more fishing, digging, cutting and English sparrow hunting for the rest of us hangers on. Until finally, I looked around and was the last guy in camp again. As much as I enjoy going to camp, those waning quiet moments have to be endured. Like anything else, everything has balance, birth has death, love has hate, joy has sorrow, day has night, summer has winter and camp has end, so we can all come back again.

See you along the stream

GOING NATIVE

This time of year, the fishing focus begins to shift. Not all, but a number of angler’s attentions begin to shift from stocked streams to wild trout streams. I have a certain affinity for wild trout myself probably more so for the location than the fish but the fish have drawn my attention as well. Enough so that I did a study on different physical characteristics of fish in different watersheds. It is fascinating that fish from one water have, if one pays attention to detail, unique identifying characteristics different than from another watershed. Not just trout but minnows, bass, and other species as well. I once proved in court that not only were the certain “commercial” shiners in question illegal but specifically what stream the defendant poached them from. Many years of studying fish and a little luck paid off. Another fascinating side of the study is how a fish’s diet influences the colors they produce.

Maybe my fascination with natives is that I myself have never felt like a true native. Often as I work up a mountain stream and work the riffles, with my aging hands and eyes taking more time to rig up; my mind has more time to drift. While I was born where many of my relatives live up in a hollow near a town named after our ancestors; I was always reminded by cousins etc. once we moved away that I was no longer from there. Since that move, I’ve lived in nearly a dozen different states and more different locations. One of my most feared questions became the simple inquiry of: “Where are you from?” To which, I usually answer with, “Nowhere”, or, “1^st of the 75^th”. Despite my honesty, I get puzzled looks but really those are my truest answers. One benefit has been that, as a nomadic type of person, I have by necessity become fairly adaptable and have perceptions I’m glad to have.

The connection to home and mountain streams started during middle school in yet another new town. I found a new fishing partner who invited me out for the opening day of trout season. I jumped at the opportunity to fish and find new friends. We hit a spot that he described as teeming with fish. On the opening morning, we went to the spot and looked off the bridge but to our dismay the pod of stocked trout was surrounded shoulder to shoulder with grumpy old guys. Those guys soon made it clear that there was no room for a couple of kids so on we moved down the stream. When my buddy admitted we weren’t going to get action at that spot and it became clear that the coveted pod was the only fish around for miles, he suggested that we hit a native stream. My heart leaped because besides dodging fires, some bass and pre-killed by pollution Erie catfishing; natives was the type of fishing I knew best thanks to a few relatives back in the hollow that was no longer “mine”. Native fishing is where I felt the most at home, no matter where I fished.

Up we went into the mountain where we proceeded to have a ball. It became clear that the beauty of fresh caught wild trout, wherever they are from, is without reproach. The immediate brightness and depth of color can’t be caught by a camera even if they held their luminescence long enough to get a shot. He showed me spot after spot while we worked up through the rocks and over feeder springs into the hazy, misty, wild trout May morning and I fell in love with all wild trout streams. Even though I was a stranger, for the first time in a long time, in that stream, I felt at home.

As time passed on that little brook, it produced other distractions. It turned out that the stream was also the haunt of who I came to call the mermaids. One day as I worked my way up the “crick”, within the melodic laughter of the water’s rumble I heard a different glittery giggle. A few girls from my school, who were older and much wiser than I had also found the little stream soothing except they used it to sunbathe rather than to fish. Over the next few years, I tended to decide that the fish were biting best when the sun was also the best for sunbathing and fish my up through the rocks to the mermaids. There we would have simple conversations then a goodbye as I moved on, in pursuit of more untamed beauty and the feeling of home. I came to call them the mermaids and they’d call me the fisherman but no matter how much I fished, I was always younger and less worldly than they; until finally they became too old and busy at all to spend hazy summer Saturdays bathing on the rocks.

Years later, I found myself off the mountain and once again in a new place, a college a long way from a home that I wasn’t from. Being unworldly yet but still wild, I was blending in well as a football player but having a hard time matching the stripes as a student. During a popular event in one of those long lines that tends to form on campuses, I looked ahead and saw a familiar curve and locks of hair. Approaching her as she turned, I saw Sonia, queen of the mermaids. I smiled and said, “The Mermaid” she said, “Well if it isn’t the fisherman…all grown up.” We went to dinner but while we were still friends, I was still too young and she was still too worldly. She wanted to travel away from home and I wanted to find my home, similar but also profoundly different goals. Soon after that, the world called me away again to more new places with those friends becoming part of a jumbled and lost past.

Several decades later, when travelling through after my Dad fell ill, I stopped at our old church which wasn’t far from that home away from home little brook. While I’d been a member of that congregation many years before, once again I was new. At the end of Mass, I stopped by the door when again my eye caught a familiar curve and locks of an old familiar native from that area, “Mermaid” I said with a near disbelieving whisper and she turned and said, “Well, it’s the fisherman... Do you still fish?” I smiled, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Then she introduced me to her husband, an old acquaintance that had become an international power broker in the legal world and who was as worldly as they come.

We caught up and shared family pictures and laughed at old stories then said goodbye once again. As I left it crossed my mind that maybe in some way we are natives of everywhere or the world really is a small place with a current running through it from which it is hard to escape.

See you along the stream.