5 May

Call Me Ishmael

“Call me Ishmael.” “For there is no folly of the beast of the earth which isn’t infinitely outdone by the madness of Man.” Herman Medville, Moby Dick 1851

Recently, I celebrated one of my favorite six-day weekends of the year, “Euchre Camp”. Euchre is an old card game, traditionally played in the North Woods by hunters and anglers at camps to pass time.

Annually, I happen to host a dozen esteemed colleagues who are cordially invited to hunt, fish, and play cards. In our case, we have evolved or devolved into euchre players who hunt and fish to pass time. Friday night, was our first official night in camp and the kick off of our spring formal and Fe’te. After rush and then happy hours, our survivors adjourned to the bourbon room (porch) for cigars and bull crap. We hold the main euchre tournament complete with a trophy for the winning team on the second night of the event. It is a big deal for us. The rest of the time we barbecue, hunt turkey, fish, destroy each other’s confidence, dig leeks, hunt morels, apply first aid to each other and whatever else is deemed necessary.

This year, one member was concerned about a text from the planning committee using auto-(in)correct. He thought it was suggested that we have “morals” this year at camp. I assured him that we were not going to have morals; we were hunting morels. As per our gentlemen’s code, all ethics matters are submitted by field staff, reviewed by the boss of you, completely changed by several sub-committees and passed to the minister of big hats who, after a three-fifths majority thumbs up by senior staff, is endorsed by the Rush Chairman; who then blames field staff for any complaints. We refrain from such distasteful acts as fishing with snelled hooks and without live bait, using plastic turkey calls and we only use real maple syrup on our pancakes. He was relieved to learn that we could continue to look down our noses at other camps that were using Aunt Jemima syrup and dry flies.

As per tradition, the guys straggled into camp in a disorderly fashion. The guests that said they’d be late were early and the two guys who were supposed to be early, were late. Some got caught up in a tour of bars along Scenic Route Six. Those wayfaring flotsams were nice enough to send pictures from beer caves with amused strangers along the Grand Army of the Republic Highway. I think they are even going to get a concert style T-shirt made up. (The navigation committee supported the notion, I mean motion).

Come daylight Saturday, we passed the time between Euchre games by attempting fishing. Frankly, fishing terrifies me. I am a fishing lure aficionado and as such, a cast is only a chance to risk offering up a beautiful lure to the whims of fish and fates of snags. I had a new favorite this year and lost it. What happened next has passed into lore and become the stuff of laughing, I mean legend…

After some effort and one threat to democracy, we finally went fishing. Arguably, I had cast a perfect throw along a drop off of a sand bar in some slack water. Apparently, the fish wanted to argue that it was not a perfect spot and let my lure pass un-molested. Countering their opinions, I tried to repeat the cast. However, that wasn’t a perfect cast and got too close to the sand bar for comfort. As I tried to carefully retrieve the trebled and troubled piece of art; the line went taut and stopped dead. Whether or not I got snagged there is a point of debate. We are waiting on a determination to be made by the committee on tall tales. In principle, we agree that the line could not be reeled in anymore. I assumed it was snagged because of the poor cast, pulled and felt the tightened line to see if a fish was on the end. After feeling the line, it seemed as if it was anchored on an inanimate object.

I wasn’t going to break off a beloved lure on any old snag. I had to get it. So, I turned my rod over to field staff and worked my way into the river, following the line. At the sand bar, I couldn’t see the brightly colored lure, a beloved Kinchu Minnow (Hawaiian rainbow). While grabbing the line while pulling a stick off; the line tugged back! The tug turned into a splash fight as a huge fish was on it. When I saw the lure, it was firmly affixed in a huge musky’s mouth! The big fish got near the surface and for a second, we made eye contact then he shook his huge head and rolled. My line snapped and he slid back down in the murk, taking my beloved $9.00 lure with him. I splashed after him but his head and tail slipped between my palms…gone. Obviously, it was the field staff’s fault.

Back at camp, as we got wide open, it was theorized that the line got caught leaving the minnow drifting in the current behind the snag. When I pulled the line, the musky clamped down on the minnow. Of course, I claimed that the “snag” was an advanced technique that was executed on purpose. However, shortly into our after-action review, I went beyond scientific analysis of the situation and became embroiled in a more spiritual version of the event. I recounted the story, to many eye rolls, of how when an angler hand lines a musky there is an endowment of supernatural leviathan powers which occur over a Narnian like amount of time. I got my $9.00 worth of stories, ending by being wrapped to the fish in eight-pound test line while stabbing at the beast with a broken mast spar, just to get my hand carved minnow back. While it may not have been as dramatic as I recounted…the last one hundred times, something did happen in those few close seconds being so close to such a king of the stream. Speaking of, if you run into a musky offering to sell you a lure cheap; it’s hot.

Afterward: This event occurred during Euchre Camp of 2016. Our committees are still pondering a ruling. It has been referred to a sub-subcommittee.

Eucher Camp 2020: Wheat from Chaff

With the lessoning of government restrictions, it was finally time to engage in Operation Euchre Camp 2020 which is one of my favorite events of the year. It was an interesting dynamic this round. Rather than losing guests we had new guests attending the annual event who were itching to get out. Careful of crowding, it was a selective list as guests had to pass a “qualifier” first, then, from that pool were specially selected. Qualified and selected, in as much as, they shan’t be delicate and shall be defiant, it was a great turnout. What we didn’t know was that this year’s attendance may have risked more than a .03% chance of getting hurt, after all.

Of course, we took all the newest and scientifically censored precautions. For example, tobacco smoke was encouraged and alcohol was used liberally to sterilize all surfaces. Finding out that wheat-ed bourbons and tobacco were now defenses against illness really seemed to cheer up the crowd. However, the real danger at camp came from not the mixing of drinks nor the mix of guests but the mix of guests maybe, with drinks. When you blend wrestlers, gun slingers, ringers, a maybe-Mormon and virgin together; even when just sharing a little fellowship, that is when someone could really get hurt. Put that away for a rainy day.

It all started innocently enough with a little fishing. Foolishly emboldened from successfully making it through fall and winter sports and even jogging lately, all on level ground, it was time to try a hill. I spied a nice-looking mushroom spot on a steep hill so checked it out. Yeah… then I ran down a log and hopped off of the end amongst other antics. (You gotta’ show off for the mushrooms to find them). It was a risky (dumb) venture for an old dude with bad feet. Of course, with the morels being unimpressed, I found none. Of all the things though, I did encounter the angry nerve in my foot that gets inflamed on steep inclines. Even sporting a fresh limp, we failed to catch a fish; a sign that camp may get a little weird this year. It’s normal for me not to catch fish but I’m talking about Muddy who always catches a fish. Obviously, the fish were doing something wrong.

That evening our spring formal and fête went well with plenty of cordials (for safety) and top hats being passed around. Gentlemen caught up on the harrows of being grounded for nearly three months. In short, we all agreed that we had been grounded for less time, for much worse, by better people.

So far, so good. Day two of camp led to a sunny day and of course, shooting. Some people just can’t help shooting when they get to open spaces but I guess that’s why they call it a “range”. We managed to safely make it through that activity. Trigger finger discipline and muzzle awareness are the only golden rules that, if broken, result in banning from camp. Thankfully, bullets are the only thing that never lie so there was little controversy after that event.

Despite the positive vibes created from no gunshot wounds. There was yet another ominous sign later in the day. Muddy failed to catch a fish; again. As we recovered from the shock and stumbled home it was finally time for dinner. A heaping plate of ribs will make anyone feel better.

Dinner is really the start of the pinnacle of spring camp. As in “The” Ohio State University; we have “The” euchre tournament. Maybe it was the word “tournament” that brought it out. But during the meal there was mention of the large number of dark colored belts being owned in the room along with pleasantries as responses. Did I mention wrestlers of some sort or another? So…

The big card event began as usual with the drawing of teams then faux ESPN interviews while a few spirits and a lot of declarations started flying. To make matters worse, there was youth involved. Younger adults combined with, otherwise, responsible older adults at camp may be the root of all silliness. What could happen we’re just playing cards, right?

So, when the mixed martial arts tournament broke out in the living room, it seemed like a good idea. You may roll your eyes and ask, “Wasn’t someone there who could encourage you all to act maturely?” I should mention that, yes, there was a doctor in the house. I would have asked him to make a plea for maturity; if he wasn’t too busy setting up the fight brackets and warming up. We had taken an intermission from the card tournament and the Euchre camp rule committee may have gotten too distracted to calculate the consequences. So, in a heartbeat, furniture was moved, words were exchanged (with a smile) and within seconds; feet were over their heads in the air.

I’m happy to report that there were no losers among those that participated but there were a lot of sore muscles and some lack of oxygen but everyone walked out with the immune system they came in with. Youth did what youth does and age did what age does. Furthermore, this was a high-class event, no furniture was damaged, no windows nor bones were broken either, thanks to age and experience and luck, not in that order… I think. When the dust settled the most serious injury at camp was still from mushroom hunting (not ingesting). We are considering banning mushroom hunting in the future though for our own and public safety.

It should be noted fans of blood sports that the eventual card tournament champions (yes, the card tournament did resume peacefully proving we are manned by professionals) were the two guys on one team that refrained from wrestling at all.

With that Euchre camp 2020 was in the books. Five teams walked in and five teams left but one team with a trophy, one dude with a limp, and the rest hung over. The virus may have taken a hit but no turkeys or fish were harmed on this round. The next event is the semiannual but always cranial, Dueling Smokers, chicken and game barbeque. Where, if successful, no one will get hurt and there will be no hunting, fishing or wrestling, just bluegrass and tall tales.

See you along the stream

Gypsy Boater

I have a friendly acquaintance who is a bit of gypsy. Not in the sense that he can tell a fortune, just the bad parts of the lifestyle. He is restless; always happy but never content. He wants to live in the mountains…along the ocean. He likes streams when he isn’t on the river. He enjoys long walks on the beach or stony outcrops, pina-coladas, beer, flowers and firefights. He likes to stay and farm yet he wants to travel. He loves a cool mountain breeze even though during one he misses the feel of a salty tidal breeze and vice versa. He thinks his grapefruit diet is better with chicken wings and fries. Basically, he’s the guy you see riding a hawg while wearing a Hawaiian shirt.

Professionally, at least, he maintains a purpose. He has stuck it out…at several careers. Trying to do a lot while time is little. Simply stated, the guy has issues. So, he also suffers from the great sportsmen’s dilemma (he likes to hunt and fish (sea, lake or stream), shoot, camp, turtle hunt, frog hunt, mushroom hunt, flower hunt, medicinal hunt, among other things when he isn’t content staying at home…or traveling. With so much to choose from, he comes to the inevitable quagmire of pit falls and traps, the worst and most risky of all decisions: He is considering buying a boat. Tis the season; (thanks Memorial Day weekend).

His problem is severe even if you think it would be easy. See, he knows boats. He has worked on boats, played on boats, even built a boat and not the two barrels strapped to plywood “boat” that I would have built…if I could figure out how to strap two barrels together... Yet the great question hangs there, “What kind of boat to get?”. That is, if he decides to get a boat and not an airplane pilot’s license. I think he needs a shrink. But it is a good question to ponder and at first it seemed easy but upon reviewing the facts, the variables, statistics, runes, an abacus and consulting an oracle, a sage, three witch doctors (different fields) and a six-year old bribed with a cookie; two questions remained. Who else can I ask and still, what kind of boat?

I know what you’re thinking, “Just ask him what he likes to do in a boat.” We all know that not all boats are created to sink in the same place and are pretty specific to an owner’s needs. There really isn’t a catchall, one size fits all, 30.06 caliber type boat to put it in general terms. So, I did ask him, “What do you want to do in your boat?”

There was still a problem though. It was his answer. He wants to live in it or at least do some camping from it. Fish from it, dive from it, power play in it and do some sailing. I asked where would you like to do these things, on a river, lake, or ocean? His answer to that was, “Yes.” Assuming that is when he isn’t walking hills, growing wheat, etc., etc.

The answer to that really is, “Dude, you gotta buy at least three boats.” When it comes to boats, even Tony, of Tony Stark Industries would have a hard time building and affording a collection. You’re talking three trailers, nine registrations and a zillion pain in the butts. My gyspy friend actually agreed. He wanted it all in one boat. That really can’t be done and that is the hang up about boat shopping, in this case you’re really just unicorn hunting. At least we were able to knock 12’ john boats off the list.

Now you’re thinking, “Easy, the MacGregor sailboat, which is now made by Tatto Yachts is the option if you like big open water.” You’re not wrong except that a guy could get keelhauled (luckily, it has a swing keel) for running the convertible power boat around traditional wind power types. It has a closed bow so it will be difficult to send your significant other forward and watch pull crab pots. Fishing from the aft is tough too for many reasons. So, unless you prioritize the sailing, as a sailing outcast, that is a tough choice.

Jet boats are good but often people mistake the characteristics of the word “jet” when applying it to boats. Some of them can go fast, but none of them have torque. Fast versions of jet motors are various jet skis. To boot, I have seen a jet ski operator fish for walleye in a river but I can say he didn’t make it look easy. If you prioritize the river, a jet powered motor on a flat bottom are the way to go. However, you’re giving up the cruisers and overnight options.

Mako, Aquasport, Grady, Whaler type center consoles can offer the open bow, great fishing options and the cabin area for cruisers. There is absolutely no sailing off those platforms and it is a lot of draft for a river unless it is a big river. However, they can be trailered, like the others, which is a necessity as a gypsy really won’t ever be around long enough to moor his boat. I gave my buddy the list of options before his attention span moved onto something else, noting that there are few choices between the three big ones.

My buddy scratched his head and said, “I don’t know. Maybe I should go with the flying lessons. Should I fly one prop, go with a recreational license or try a balloon?” I sighed in relief, now, off the hook. Off he went to consult a monk. He was out of my territory, the only thing I can do flying is to navigate a plane to the crash site. It is safer hunting unicorns.

See you along the stream