Big Fish

So it’s the middle of the Summer and I get an e-mail from an old friend (he’s not old old, he’s my age, I’ve just known him for 100 years).  Anyway, in this e-mail is a link to a Fly-Fishing spot in the middle of nowhere California.  I’m not an attorney, but to the best of my recollection there was an implied guarantee of LARGE Trout to be had.  The only issue is the date for the reservation to this Trout Mecca is at the end of my upcoming fiscal quarter…not good.  Being in sales, there are usually only 4 days out of the quarter when I really have to work.  The days that are open in Mecca are right at that point where I usually have to plant myself next to the fax machine and wait for the orders to just roll in.  It’s a tough job, but I always find myself up to the task four times a year.

I anguish over this opportunity for quite some time, because I really like the sound of the fax machine when it fires up and kicks off the orders…that and I’d like to keep my job.  But I finally make the decision to go, (lose about 10 years off my life in 4 days), and I still have my job today.  Turns out you don’t need a higher level of education to pull faxes off a machine.  (I may need to update my Linked-In profile to ensure I’m still seen as relevant in today’s work market)

Okay quickly: flight from Newark to San Fran goes without a hitch, I repeat without a hitch.  I keep on pinching myself as I get off the plane thinking I must be in a dream, as I’m usually a magnet for Air Traffic Delays.  My friend picks me up…on time, and bright and early the next morning we’re heading north.  The town we’re going to is somewhere just south of the Oregon border, you can see the Volcano’s in the distance.  Whiskey Town National Park is close by. Oddly they do not sell adult beverages there.  We stop in the most famous Fly Store in all of California.  When we ask, “What are they hitting?”  we get the kind of response you’d expect when you ask a politician a Yes or No question.  But who’s the expert here?  Certainly not me, so I buy enough flies to feed an army of trout.   I found out later, I’m not the best at picking flies…or understanding what trout like to eat.

As we continue to drive up, my friend tells me, “Steve, you’re not going to believe this, but the last time I was up, I was fishing in a pool area in the river and I looked up and a 90 pound Mountain Lion was drinking at the other end of the pool.”  I think quietly to myself…hmmm I don’t remember that piece of information in the brochure.  Then he tells me that it’s very arid so you also want to be careful where you walk…there are a decent number of rattlesnakes along the trails.  (I know for a fact that was not in the brochure)

We get to the cabin where we hook up with two other friends.  We drop our stuff and head for the river.  In preparation for the trip I’d done everything I could to travel light.   I’ve mailed stuff ahead and made sure that I did NOT have to check any luggage at the airport on the way out.  Early on in the planning stages my friend’s been telling me that I do not need my wading pants. He says just bring the boots…it’s going to be hot, you won’t need the pants.  Great, one less thing to carry and lose.

We get to the river and split up.  This is a good thing so people can’t hear me screaming my face off.   One thing I had forgotten about was how challenging attaching a “fly” to the end of the thinnest clear fly line can be.  You really need a pair of jeweler’s glasses.  Add to that, it’s starting to get dark, and my vision is not as good as it was, say… yesterday.  It takes me about 20 minutes to put the end of the line through the needle eye of the fly.  I tie a knot (or so I think) and the fly falls off.  (picture Steve Martin in the movie: “Planes ,Trains, and Automobiles” when he’s at his wits end and gets dropped off at a remote rent-a-car parking lot, the bus takes off, and he finds out there’s no rent-a-car in the spot he’s been assigned.)  This becomes a common theme as the weekend progresses.  Remember I’ve come out here for cerebral rest and relaxation. 

So I’m finally all hooked up.  I’m standing on the edge of the river looking for a place to step down into the water.  There are lots of bugs all around me.  A bug that looked like a dark black bee lands on my hand and stings me.  (I’m not allergic to bees, but when I was about 9, I did step into a bees nest and will describe that experience another time)  Anyway, I swipe the thing away and all of a sudden the top of my hand swells up a bit and I get a cold chill run through my body (I haven’t stepped into the water yet).  Now I’m thinking to myself, if I look hard enough I’m going to find that mountain lion.  But it’s time for mind over matter - so I jump into the water, and start casting.  The water is cold, very cold.  Trout like it at about 40 degrees,… that’s Fahrenheit.   It becomes extremely challenging when the water rises to about 6 inches below your waste.  After struggling for a couple of hours, the sun goes down.   I decide that since I can’t control the chattering of my teeth or the shaking and convulsing that the rest of my body is doing, I better call it a night.  At this point I’m an easy mountain lion meal, as I can’t feel my legs.

We get back to “the cabin”.  Nice rustic cabin…but, no electricity, and no regular gas.  Although there was an outdoor propane gas generator.  You’d push a button in the cabin and you’d hear the engine kick off.  That would work for about 20 minutes, then it auto-shuts off.  You’d push the button another time and it would run for 10 minutes, then shut off….then 5 minutes,…then…you get where this is going.  The other interesting feature of the cabin was the refrigerator…remember no electricity.  It ran on PROPANE.  Seems kind of counter-intuitive doesn’t it.  Also the propane powered refrig is sitting on a small circular piece of carpet…the pilot light is about an inch above the carpet.  Look, I’m not a rocket scientist (although my college alumni book says I am) but this has Steve kind of danger written all over it.  And I really don’t need this kind of help.  We monkeyed with this thing for about two hours and finally got the pilot light of the “refrigerator” working.    Amazing, it’s actually started to get cold inside,   but after about an hour the smell of propane gas was everywhere in the cabin.  So as much as I like a disaster as much as anyone, we agreed it might make sense to shut it off.  That and I started seeing images of my 3^rd grade teacher and Abraham Lincoln walking around the cabin.

Day Two - We head off to fish some more.  Everyone else is putting on their wading pants…mine are sitting in my closet back in NJ.  I step back into the icy water and enjoy a wonder new experience.  What few muscles I do have in my legs …all begin to cramp up.  Pain goes away in a short while and for whatever reason, no chattering and uncontrollable body spasms.  But still no Trout.

The really frustrating part was you could see these huge lunkers sitting in the river, you’d place your fly perfectly, but they refused to hit it.  Towards the end of the trip I came very close to committing a fly fisherman cardinal sin.  While at the cabin I was perusing the lunch meat and spotted the ever-popular fisherman’s friend, Bologna.  But I figured I’d already committed my quota of embarrassment earlier in the month and fought off the urge.  The only think that can top this is when at desperations end, we’re creating complex multi-fly line configurations.  I spent half my life getting my project put together.  I’m now confident that I have a fool-proof mechanism to catch fish.  I pull some line out and begin to cast back and forth… as real fly fishermen do.  I promptly snag my line in the tree branches high above me.  Naturally I lose my multi-fly contraption that I was sure would win a significant prize at Trout-World 2012.  And for the next 5 minutes I regurgitate every four letter word I have in my repertoire… sending fish flying away from me in every direction. 

When all was said and done, I did catch one fish.  A Trout…he was pretty small, but I’ve attached a video of what it took to land him.  Hopefully all you people with wrestling backgrounds will appreciate my technique.  Also, don’t pay attention to the name on the bottom of the video, that’s just my “Fishing Alias.”      

http://vimeo.com/31796807

Seriously, I’m very Thankful that I have Friends and Family that put up with me.  The time I spend with them IS what matters… fish or no fish.  (Of course Fish is preferable).

Happy Thanksgiving to All!

The NYC Marathon and a Battle for Clean Dwear

A few years back…okay, maybe more than a few years I ran the New York City Marathon.  It was my First and Last.  I trained for 7 weeks prior to the race.  With ten days to go, I flew out to San Francisco for a trade show that tested the processing capacity of my liver and I promptly came down with the flu.  Three days before the race I tried running 5 miles and it was ugly. 

The morning of the race, the guy I was living with in Sayerville, NJ (who was also running the Marathon) asks me, “Well, are you coming?”  I swallowed four Tylenol, put on my stuff and we headed out to the Verrazano Bridge.  We get to the Bridge and my friend heads to the front group of runners.  He’s going to finish in less than 3 and ½ hours.  My focus was a little different.  

Right around this era there were a number of well-known Marathon runners who would…towards the very end of their races, lose total control of their sphincter muscles.  The results made for difficult interviews but the late night talk show hosts would have a field day.  This was my major concern.  Everyone has their Achilles Heel, and if I drink water that’s out of my zip code challenging problems can occur.  So this was weighing heavily on my mind.  At all costs, I needed to avoid earning a nickname like, “Hash.” 

As the race is about to begin, I’m standing next to a group of people and one of guys seemed to be coaching the rest of them on how to run the race.  What became buried in my brain was a comment this guy made about “not” stopping during the race.  He said, “Whatever you do, don’t stop running.  If you do, you’ll never start again.”  This piece of advice became my mantra.  No matter how bad I felt, no matter how bad I might soil my clothing or otherwise embarrass myself (more than usual), I would not stop running.  This was sound advice until about the 13^th mile.  By this stage of the race all of my adrenalin was gone.  Now I just wanted to stop in the worst way and take a break, maybe catch a cab.  But I kept on running… cursing the memory of this guy.  Coming down off the 59^th Street Bridge, (which I thought would be a relief) was painful on the knees.   The steel does not give at all.  Running up 2^nd Ave was worse.  People are cheering you on, but for the most part you’re in too much pain to appreciate their enthusiastic cheers.  (You’re thinking to yourself, could you please just shut up and let me finish this misery in silence.)  Throughout the race they’re constantly handing you cups of water that have some sort of electrolyte concoction in it.  After a while it just upsets your stomach.  And we can’t have that, as a weakened sphincter will lead to an ugly finish line and an uglier laundry situation. 

I finally get into the Park and its nightmarish as the rolling hills (yes there are rolling hills), are killing my legs.  I turn the corner onto 59^th street and whatever pocket of adrenalin is left kicks in and I finish strong-ish.  And a major bonus, my dwear survived unblemished…no really.

Now for the fun part:  My roommate and his family and our friends are waiting for me at the finish line.  High Fives are sent all around.  I’m on an absolutely amazing high.  I finished in a very reasonable time and my sphincter is completely intact.  It doesn’t get much better than this.   The girl I’m dating at the time (let’s call her Delilah) is supposed to bring my street clothes and stuff, so we can all go celebrate in the city that night.   Delilah is not at the finish line.  I ask my roommate’s girlfriend if she’s heard from her.  That’s a negative. (Keep in mind cell phones do not exist yet) So I tell everyone, ”Just go off to the bars and I’ll catch up.”  I go to the Marathon family waiting area - no girl and no clothes.  It’s starting to get very cold and all I have on is a small, very wet (perspiration only) pair of shorts, a thin sleeveless running shirt and a large piece of aluminum foil they hand you at the finish line to keep your body heat in.  Well that ain’t happening any more, and my kahoonies are starting to freeze.  I wait over 30 minutes and finally give up and head off to try to catch up with my friends.  I run up and down Broadway, 7^th and 8^th avenues looking for my friends in about a dozen bars…can’t find them. 

Finally with no money…or real clothes for that matter, in about 40 degrees with a stiff breeze, I hop on the subway to Port Authority (Mass Transit was free that day if you ran in the NYC Marathon).  I catch a bus to Sayerville, NJ and walk (more like hobble) the last three or four miles from the bus stop to my friend’s condo.  Luckily a key was under the front door mat. 

Turns out Delilah came back into NYC that morning on a red-eye and overslept that afternoon. For a while I'm speechless.  (Thinking back though, I have to give her some credit, because if I had done something like that, I'd never admit to it.  I think I'd pay to have someone beat me up and just say I was mugged.)  

Of course I was very understanding…that is after regaining the ability to speak...and upgrading my vocabulary past 4 letter words…I was very understanding.