The Bond Between a Father & Son

So my Father and I had a great relationship growing up…he taught me a thing or two, never really nagged me about my grades, or pushed me in one direction or another.  Of course I was an exemplary child so he didn’t really have a lot to be concerned with.  Remember, what goes on your juvi record, stays on your juvi record.

My Dad was a trapper as a kid during WWII.  Growing up we still had his traps tucked away in the garage.  My brother and I were told never to touch the traps…“danger”.  Naturally the couple of times I snapped the mothers on my fingers, I’d have to run around the garage screaming in silence.

My father taught my brother and I how to fish.  One of the things you learn at a young age with fishing is that any kind of squeamishness will not be tolerated.  It was usually a great time unless we were heading to the jersey shore for Flounder.  The bait used was the dreaded “Sand Worm.”  If you’re not familiar, they’re a good size worm with a billion small legs, kind of like a centipede.  The vile creatures have one terrible attribute.  They have four very strong spike-like teeth in their mouths.  If you’re 10 years old, and they grab onto the tip of your finger - not good.  Usually, I’d belt out a manly, “AAAGGGHHH”.   Then my father would turn around in the rowboat, look in complete disappointment and call me “Mary.”

The only other time we came to major disagreement was when my father thought it was time that I got a haircut.  My Dad’s feeling was if it was over the top of your ears…or if you listened to rock’n’roll music you were a Hoople-Head.  It was the 70s so I was a member in good standing of the Jersey Chapter of Hoople-Heads.

I remember after one such disagreement, I looked my father in the face and told him that when I was a father, I wouldn’t be such a royal pain.  He looked back at me and said, “Well when you get to be a Dad, we’ll see if you do any better.”  I remember thinking to myself, “Well that wouldn’t take too much.”  Luckily I had the good sense to keep that thought to myself; otherwise I’d have been picking my head up off from the floor.

Fast-forward some years…I have my first child…a son.

I’m thrilled and imagine our relationship to be something like a Norman Rockwell painting where the young son is staring up at the father in complete harmony.

A couple of notions to dispel, 1) you do not necessarily have more patience for your kids by having them later in life…unless of course you’re 90 and can’t remember what they did 5 minutes ago.  There used to be a phrase about being a “90s kind of Dad”.  It had a connotation of being progressive, patient, and generally “with it.”  When trouble comes calling, I always start out being a 90s kind of Dad.  Unfortunately the usual case is that I quickly degenerate and sail back through the decades to a 50s Dad where my knuckles are dragging on the ground and then my head explodes.  With my son’s help I’ve become an expert at time travel.

Number two, your kids will not necessarily be good at or like the things you did growing up.  Early on my wife enlightened me with a key phrase, “Its not about you, its about him.”  Blah Blah Blah!  Okay I get it…I may not like it, but I get it.

But what I really appreciate now is the incredulous look on his face when I suggest we do something together.  It’s as if he’s saying, “What in your wildest dreams would possess you to think that was even an option.”  It’s so touching…I see a lot of yard work in his future.

But there is some payback I get to enjoy now, some without even trying…too hard.  I’m an embarrassment to my kids.  For instance, we’re out to a late breakfast with friends at rural diner in PA.  I decide to wear my Chicago “Cubby-Bear” tank top.  Now granted this shirt is about 20 years old and has seen better days, but it’s a classic, so I wear it…a lot.  As we’re waiting for a table, my wife and I notice that my son is looking at me with a pained face of disapproval.  My wife looks at me, then at him, and in a tone that suggests she agrees with him (Thank You Very Much!) asks, “What, too much skin?  My charming son’s response, “No, Too Much PELT.”  In retaliation I explain to him it’s a hereditary condition and he can expect his coat to arrive in less than a year.

My son just got his driver’s license.  Considering how much he’s told me he already knows about life in general and that he doesn’t need my advice, I have a new level of stress and insomnia that I never dreamed possible.   You’d think considering everything I’ve learned from the volumes of mistakes I’ve made in my life…he’d want my advice. …”Never use a weed-whacker when wearing flip-flops; Remember, Swiss Army knives do NOT have a lock on the blade; Motorcycles = Danger; Never ingest gasoline”…need I say more.

How "I" Won LOTTO

Get the Kleenex ready, this is a painful one.  So I’m up on Cape Cod with my girlfriend visiting her parents.  They’ve retired and we’re staying at their condo in Harwich Port.  Her folks are two of the most laid back people you’ll ever meet.  After retiring, her Dad took up painting and became very good at it.  He sells his work once a week in the summers during “Art in the Park” day.  When he’s not painting, he’s farming a plot of land set aside by the town.  Her Mom’s part of the “Newcomer’s” association, and in a job that was meant for her, she works part-time for the Census.  They live a very modest life…that’s about to change…shortly.

We go out early in the morning and bring back the Boston Globe and then head back out again.  We’re gone for an hour or so and come back to the condo.  My girlfriend’s Mom is waiting in the doorway.  She’s got a smile on her face that resembles a cat that might have just eaten a mouse, or that she’s just won Lotto.  You see one of the “perks” associated with the Newcomer’s group is that each week you get “something” free.  This past week it was a free Mass-Millions lottery ticket.  We ask her what’s up and she tells us, “It seems all six of my lottery ticket numbers match the Mass Millions numbers listed in the Boston Globe.  First things first – not that I’m an untrusting soul, but I needed to verify this myself.  I put on my accounting visor and check it out.  Sure enough they match exactly.

“WE’RE RICH!!!”  It’s amazing how quickly things become “We” when $10 Million dollars are involved.

 

Almost immediately I had a Seinfeld moment.  Think George Costanza and the white discoloration on his lip.  I’m thinking that God would not let this good fortune happen to me without some sort of repercussion.  I do a quick check of major body parts and everything seems to be okay (nothing terribly strange or way out of the ordinary… I have a broad spectrum of what’s acceptable).    It’s time to PAR-TEE!

There’s a lot of dancing and hi-fiving going on in the tiny living room of the condo.  Ya know how sometimes you can get a song stuck in your head.  Mine was, “I’m going to be a Millionaire.”  And that was the only verse the song had.  My girlfriend…or should I say, “Bride to Be” is on the phone calling the Lottery Commission looking to find out where we can pick up “our” millions.  She starts screaming at us to be quiet; she can’t hear the person on the phone.  Since this is an important next step to our riches we put a momentary can on our celebrating.  Girlfriend gets off the phone and looks at us as if we’d lost the lottery… which was the case, the Boston Globe had a misprint.  The last number we had was 25, and the real number was 45.  We scream, “We’ll sue, we’ve been mentally traumatized!”  We call the Globe.  They’re sympathetic.  They say, “Oh yeah we had a misprint, click.”

It’s never pretty when a grown man cries, but this episode was particularly ugly.  When I was able to control my sobbing, I called the jewelry store back, told them we just had a family crisis of epic proportions, and I wouldn’t be needing the layaway plan any longer.  That night we had planned to go to a nice restaurant called Captain Linell’s.  As we moped through dinner, more than one time the comment, “We could have owned this place” could be heard.

Postmortem: I did…eventually propose to the girlfriend.  Unfortunately for her, she said yes.  Now we live a very rich fulfilling life together with our two kids, two cats and a dog.  Gee isn’t that swell.  

Dream of Olympic Gold becomes Nightmare

For a couple of years my wife and I lived outside of Chicago.  My wife introduced me to an interesting guy at her job named Pat Botts.  Growing up Pat lived next door to Bill Murray of SNL fame…quick side story:

Bill Murray’s sister used to babysit for the five Botts kids.  One night Bill came over to “help.”  Just before Mr.  & Mrs. Botts came home; Bill had the kids put ketchup all over their faces, and necks.  Then he had them lay out all over their front porch steps as if they had been massacred.  (Brilliant, even at a young age)

Pat and I had one thing in common from our pasts, we both wrestled in high school.  Pat told me about an over 30 league that he and some of his friends were messing around with.  They actually had sanctioned tournaments.  This is about the time a guy named Dave Schultz, (In his late 30s) was one of our USA Olympic hopefuls.  We’ll forget about the fact that a multi-millionaire was funding Dave and his team so they didn’t really need day jobs.  Nevertheless, at this point if you were standing next to me you could probably see smoke coming out of my ears as I’m thinking, “I’m in my late 30s.  All I need to do is get some serious practice time in, win a couple of tournaments, and I’m on my way.”  We’ll forget about the fact that I hadn’t stepped on a mat in over 15 years.  Probably the most amazing thing about this thought process is that I wasn’t even drinking.

So now it’s time for the first practice after work at a high school gymnasium.  I show up, look in the gym and see a bunch of amazingly well put together YOUNG men.  They were mostly kids that had just graduated college and were PE teachers.  Even the few guys that were my age were buff and by looking at them practice; I could see they had stayed current.  Reality has now come rushing back to me.  I’m not sure what I was expecting to see; maybe I was hoping to see a bunch of old men with long gray beards and canes.  Now I’m thinking to myself, “Were you out of your @#$%& mind!?!, you are about to get Annihilated.”  I can’t even run away at this point because Pat has seen me and I can’t have him report back to my new bride that I’m a Fraidy Cat.   Of course that’s a judgment call.  It was either that, or have him report back I had been totally humiliated for 90 minutes.

It’s Go Time:  For an hour I hang on a lot better than I had thought I might.  We’re doing take downs now from a standing position.  At one point a 22 year old shoots in on my legs and I’m able to fight him off by putting one of my legs between his two.  That’s not important, but what was, is that he picked me up off the ground and the two of us came crashing to the matt; me first on my side and him on top of me with his knees on my rib cage.  We both heard a crunch and he immediately got off me.  I spring to me feet figuring the worst, check myself out and to my amazement, no damage… We continue wrestling for another 20 minutes and then everyone calls it a night.  As I sat on a locker room bench, I swore I’d rather be lit on fire than do that again.  This won’t be an issue.

I get home; sit on the bed and reach down to untie my shoes.  Mind-bending pain shoots through my upper torso.  For three weeks my wife had to put on and take off my shoes and socks.  

About 3 or 4 years later, I’m in a New Jersey YMCA.  I walk past an exercise room and there are two large individuals who are literally beating the cr@p out of each other.  I don’t know what possessed me, but I asked them what they were doing.  They said it was Brazilian Wrestling, and asked me if I wanted to try.   There was no problem fighting off the urge.  In a microsecond I was transported back to my poor man's Foxcatcher experience.  Then Fraidy Cat quickly came to the rescue.

Why I Like to Hurt Myself…I Mean, Work Out.

So I know I need to get more exercise…actually a more accurate statement would be, “I know I need to get exercise.”  But now I’m beyond any point of reasonable condition.  I came to this conclusion when I was sitting on the couch watching an exhausting episode of “Man Vs. Wild” and sprained my groin muscle when I crossed my legs. 

That’s it!  Something has to be done!  I either need to find a potion that can lob 30 years off my body… or the dreaded…go back to a gym and begin working out …on a regular basis.  It sounds simple enough, but I know I’ll go once or twice and then…dripping in guilt, I’ll find good reasons that I can’t make it any longer.  One of my popular reasons for not going…”If I got just a little bit more sleep today, I’ll be better rested to go work out tomorrow.”  Naturally tomorrow never comes.   About 10 years ago I had a YMCA membership and religiously I’d workout for 40 minutes, 3 days a week before work.  I’d shower like a mad man, race to the train and then continue sweating through my clothes during the hour plus commute into the city.  People really appreciated me.

This lasted for about 3 years.  It ended one day when I was at the Y and I noticed a guy working out near me.  He didn’t look any bigger than me but he was lifting so much more weight than me I was almost embarrassed to be in the same room.  So that day, I made the declaration, “It’s Time to Step it Up!”  With a new sense of purpose and determination I arm the curling machine with a man-size amount of weight and proceeded to throw my back out.  That was about 7 years ago, which brings us to my current situation.

I’m at my son’s high school sports charity event.  They have a silent auction going on.  There is a membership to Sado Fitness Consultants…personal trainers.  They’re not cheap…at all, and believe me, I know cheap.  But I also know this is the only way I can force myself to do it.  I need to make a serious investment and put an embarrassing amount of money on the line.  (The kind of money that my Dad or Grandfather would say, Are you out of your @#$%^ mind?)  Anyway it’s a good cause and I really need the help.  I show up to meet my trainer.  He’s a young guy, I’d say, late twenties or early thirties.  He’s a good salesman.  He puts me through a bunch of tests, feeds the results into a computer and comes to the conclusion that he can help me.  I’m thrilled.  As it turns out, I have good genes, it’s just that I’m a lazy sh*t and need to find a couch that isn’t so comfortable.   Modern technology is a wonderful thing.

They start by asking if you have any injuries, which I thought was very considerate.  I tell them I have some lower back problems (I decided to only tell them about one area of concern figuring if I put all my cards one the table they’d laugh me out the door.)  I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure they forgot all about my back issues after the first session… and of course I’d rather injure myself then remind them. 

These workouts are only 45 minutes long; but the theory behind it is, you’re literally doing some sort of exercise for almost the whole 45 minutes…or until something gives…again, think groin muscle.  My second session is with Gary the young assistant trainer.   Gary is a very nice kid, but after he told me he’s 22 years old, I decided that I hate him.  The workouts that Gary is putting me through while challenging are actually a bit easier than the manager’s.  The workouts are starting to get harder though; I’m not liking it at all.  I have a real problem when I open my mouth and have no ability to take in oxygen.    I’m also finding it real irritating when I’m struggling to finish a final rep and I’m told my posture isn’t exactly perfect.   Even stretching hurts.  I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I thought that after a while I’d “get into it.”  That’s not happening at all.

Good Cop Bad Cop – My friend Gary decides to go through a personality swap with his boss.  He decides that it’s his turn to be the sadistic taskmaster.  But now I’ve got a Bad Cop – Bad Cop situation.  So it’s been a week and a half since I’ve gone and I show up for my beating.  (And I’m paying for this.)  I’m being brutalized mercilessly and have given up any concern about hiding how bad I feel.  In between exercises I’m clinging to any piece of machinery that will support my weight and allow me to gasp for air.  I’m hurried along to the next exercise when in desperation, I tell Gary, “Hey buddy, I’ve got T-Shirts older than you.  Why don’t you go pick on someone your own age.”

When I finish, I walk over to the Manager and ask him how many sessions I have left on my contract.  (I signed up for 27, but I’m thinking maybe, at the most, I have 8 left)  He tells me, “Oh you’re in good shape, you have 15 left.”  I’m not sure, what kind of look I had on my face, but I know inside I was saying, “Oh Crap!”  I swallow my well-deserved Advil and prepare for the minimum two days of sore muscles. 

It’s now been two weeks since I’ve gone.  I’m actually afraid to go back now because it was only a week and half between sessions the last time and I almost didn’t make it out alive.  I have a real concern that I could become a statistic.  So I got that going for me…

The Ghost of Christmas Parties Past

So it’s about 7PM and my friend Tom is calling me from a very high-end work related holiday party.  It’s at the top of the 666s in NYC, and since his wife couldn’t make the party he wants me to come as his guest.  I’ve been telling Tom for a couple of days that I just can’t make it.  I’m at my year-end and I’m buried to my eyeballs in work.  Tom makes one last attempt.  He tells me that they have “Shrimp the size of the palm of my hand”, and Champagne is flowing like Niagara Falls…I shouldn’t miss this event.

With considerable angst, I finally agree with Tom that I should go to the party, and I do.  (I’m so weak)

I qualify this move one last time.  I say are you sure this is going to be all right?  Tom says sure…just when you get to the base of the building, tell security that you’re me…then call me right away and I’ll meet you at the top of the elevators.  I ask why do I have to be you?  Why can’t I be me…is there something wrong with me…outside of the obvious.  I’m told that I’m worrying too much about small details...and to just give him a call when I get to the base of the building and that when I get to the top, Tom would usher me in.  (I rationalize that even if I’m caught, how much hard time could I do for crashing a Christmas party…but then again my hair…what’s left of my hair, is blonde; I wouldn’t last long in jail.)

After switching multiple elevator banks, I finally get to the top.  Tom is waiting.  I’m moved quickly past the welcome desk, a nametag is slapped on my chest, and I enter an extremely cool party that I have no business being at…on a couple of levels.  The prehistoric size shrimp are still roaming the floor, and much to my delight really good champagne (as least it tasted really good) is flowing like a soda fountain.  (If there is one drink that can hurt me more than most, it’s Pagne – see my next blog on Why I gave up drinking.)

So now I’m in 7^th Heaven.  I’m juggling monster size shrimp, consuming mass quantities, and incorrectly assuming everyone is appreciating all of the jokes I’m telling.  This becomes painfully apparent when the person throwing this party stops by the small table that Tom and I are sitting at.   Again, the party I have no business being at.  She says hi to Tom, introduces herself to me and asks who I am…

Well…after our conversation was over, Tom looks at me and gives a bit of Monday morning quarterback advice.  He says, “All you would have needed to say was, “Hi, I’m Steve, I work for XYZ Company, nice to meet you.”  Unfortunately, I didn’t say that.  By that time, my thinking cap was on a little crooked, and I decided to take another path.  Instead, I completely misjudge the lady’s capacity for humor, look her straight in the eye and say, “I’m Tom’s Significant Other!”

Her response was more physical than verbal.  The best way to describe it was she jumped a bit, almost as if she had mistakenly sat on a hot coal.  Very soon after that she excused herself and Tom imparted his thoughts about my choice of words.  Security never showed and we had a more subdued remainder of the party.  I suggested to Tom that he might want his name tag back.

To this day, Tom reminds me on an annual basis how he no longer gets an invitation to that party.

So You Want a Dog for Christmas...

So we have Snowy the Hamster, we have Jack the Cat, and every once in a while I try to start another tropical fish tank. But invariably they turn green and I just haven’t got the time to figure out why.  The family now wants a dog…a puppy…how cute.  I couldn’t be more against it.  I have nothing against dogs.  Growing up I went through three dogs.  It’s just that the overhead involved is mind numbing.  For starters, they don’t take care of themselves.  If the cat is any indication of how much help I’ll get with the dirty work, I think I’m going to have to cut out meals if I’m going to find the time to take care of this pooch.   (Oh, and some very direct advice about introducing your dog to your hamster – Do Not!  I think the experience took at least 6 months off poor Snowy’s life.)

The wife does a ton of research and she decides on a Golden Retriever.   As a really sad last-ditch attempt at avoiding this oncoming train wreck to my sanity, I saw an extremely life-like golden retriever stuffed animal in the window of the local Rite Aid store.  I bought it thinking… I don’t know what I was thinking, (I'm pretty good at wasting $39 at a clip).  We wound up getting the dog.

Golden’s are great family dogs and they like to be outdoors.  If water is around, they’ll live in it…like 12 hours a day.  As a puppy they occasionally get what’s called the “crazies.”  This is pretty funny, as long as they’re outside.  It’s like someone filled them up with a large balloon full of energy, and then let’s it go.  For about 30 seconds they race around in all different directions with a crazed look on their faces.  It’s as if someone scary were chasing them, but they’re thrilled about it.

So the puppy comes home - a mere $1,200, but whose counting.  Besides, how can you put a price tag on cute?  (Well I can, it's real easy!)  It’s also very clear God made them cute for a good reason.  If he weren’t so cute, I’d have punted him out of the house I don’t know how many times.  Listed below are some of the episodes where he almost made it to the big kennel in the sky. 

I’d gone to a local nursery for holiday decorations and purchased two reindeer. They’re about 2 to 3 feet high and made out of sticks that have been bent and woven into impressive artistic creations.  Again, not that I’m counting, but the price tag for Donner and Blitzen was impressive too.   I come home from work one day and there’s been a deer massacre.  (Did I mention that it’s very important to ensure Golden puppies are constantly given something to chew on?  If you don’t, your shoes, your furniture…none of it is safe.)   The only thing that was left from Santa’s two favorite reindeer was kindling for next summer’s campfires.  Dog is lying there in a pile of wood, exhausted, panting with a big sh*t-eating grin on his face.   It’s also good that he can run faster than me.

One of the things I do to relax is fishing.  I should probably rephrase that.  I do more casting than actual fishing.  I’m also not a very proud fisherman.  A bright colored bobber on the end of my line is by no means beneath me.  Nor is using bait from the A&P deli counter if it’s called for.   So it’s early morning and I sneak down to a lake, to get some fishing in before the dog jumps in and scares away every fish in a quarter mile radius.  I have an extremely energetic night crawler dancing on the end of my hook and my bright colored bobber sitting a good distance out in the water.  I’m patiently waiting for action.   But the action I’m about to get is not what I wanted.  Someone has let the door to the house open and Murphy is out.  He sees me down at the lake and starts running towards me at Mach 9.  I can tell he’s looking straight past me and is eyeing the bobber out in the lake.  He thinks it’s a tennis ball and has launched himself like a missile into the lake swimming at it.   All of this is happening in microseconds and I get a “Holy Crap” feeling as I realize a major fiasco is about to hit me.  I’m trying to reel in like a maniac but it’s too late.  Murphy gets to the bobber about 20 feet off shore.  Now my wife and kids are racing down too.  They're screaming that the line is going to get wrapped around his throat and choke him…(hmmm)…not to mention I’m probably going to lose that prize-winning night crawler on the end of my hook.  I’m thinking to myself, “Awe for crying out loud, you have GOT to be kidding me.”  I make an early entry into the water, get him to release what’s left of my bobber... the one he’s crushed in his mouth…he’s fine, and I go put my pole way.  Thank you very much.

Naturally, he has other endearing qualities, like whenever there’s a thunder & lightning storm, he’ll keep me up all night long trying to scratch his way down our shower or bathtub drain…He’s impervious to thunder jackets.   Oh did I mention he sleeps in our bedroom and if he drinks too much before bedtime, he snores.

Not that I want to sound like a human being, but he does have a few redeeming qualities.  He listens to me better than anyone else in my household.  Every night I come home he’s genuinely thrilled to see me (which if you know me is a real feat). He’s got a great sense of humor.  Just about every morning after breakfast, he’ll run up to our bedroom and grab my wife’s underwear out of the hamper.  He brings it downstairs with a huge grin on his face, ensuring we all see it.  Then as if getting to center stage, he’ll position himself in the middle of the family room and dance around for a while shaking his head and eventually wait for us to ask him to “leave it.”  He’s got a very positive mental attitude – you can take him on the same walk for the 100^th time and he acts like this is the first walk he’s ever had in his life.  He’s a cancer survivor – nasty operation and a lot of radiation treatments.  He was a real trooper through it all, and came out of it good as new.  And as my wife reminds me, “The best $12,000 we’ve ever spent.”  And he’s a Loyal and Great Friend.  Last summer when I decided to spray my face and eyes with gasoline (what a surprise), stumble off the dock and fall into the lake, Murphy knew I was in trouble and swam out to help me.

Last but not least, he’s extended the life of our dishwasher… you just need to be very clear with him about when you’re actually done eating.

YouTube Link to Murphy's Antics at the Lake:   www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2ujqcK4PNg

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!