“Oh, that one. It’s out in the garage by your tenner shoes.”
Early the next morning I head over to Retch’s. I have brewed myself a large vacuum bottle of strong coffee and constructed a delicious lunch: thick sandwiches of fresh homemade bread piled high with roast beef, cheese, and onion; a banana; an orange; two candy bars; and a slab of apple pie. It makes my mouth water to think of the lunch, nestled there next to my bottle of rich black coffee. There? Too late I remember the coffee is still on the kitchen table with my lunch next to it. Drat! Damn all kitchen tables, those incorrigible thieves of fishermen’s lunches!
It’s nearly six when I arrive at Sweeney’s house, two hours late. He will be steamed. I ring the doorbell. Five minutes later Retch opens the door. He is still in his pajamas.
“Wha’?” he says. “What are you doin’ here in the middle of the night?”
“It’s six o’clock,” I snap. “Remember? We’re going to go fish the crick today? I’ve been waiting out in the yard two hours for you to wake up!”
“Good gosh, the crick! That’s right! Look, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.”
“Oh, all right. It’s just that I have such high regard for punctuality.”
Retch leaves and returns a few minutes later. He is wearing his rotten old tenner shoes and carrying his fish pole. There is a dried worm on the hook that dangles beneath a quarter pound of split-shot sinkers.
“What kind of leader you got on?” I ask.
“Twenty-pound,” he says. “The usual.”
“Good,” I say. “We don’t want any fish bustin’ off. Now where are the worms?”
“Worms?” Retch says. “You was supposed to dig the worms.”
“Oh, no! I dug them last year, remember?”
“Yeah, I got an exact recollection. I dug ’em. And the year before that, too. Well, c’mon, let’s go dig some out behind the woodshed. Grab the shovel. You can dig and I’ll pick up the worms.”
“Why don’t you dig and let me pick up the worms?”
“’Cause it’s my shovel, that’s why.”
We go out behind the woodshed, I spade up half an acre of ground, and we find only three scrawny worms. The next day Retch will plant his garden in the area I spaded up, but he fails to mention his plan to me now.
“Hey, I know where we can find some worms,” he says. “Over in my compost pile.”
In five minutes we fill the can half full of worms from his compost pile. Odd that he didn’t think of the compost pile first. Mysteries like this tend to nag at one’s mind.
I suggest that we divide the worms between two cans, but Retch says no, we will be fishing together so we can both use the same can. Besides, he says, he has only one good worm can.
It is ten o’clock when we arrive at the crick and start fishing. As Retch says, ten o’clock is the best time to start fishing the crick, because the fish were expecting us for the early-morning feed and will now be caught off guard. I agree.
The crick, still fed by melting snows in the mountains, is icy cold. We rule out trying to wade it, which means that we must hurl our lines over the wall of brush bordering the crick on our side and listen for the splash of the sinkers hitting the water. No splash means the hook snagged on a branch above the water, where it’s unlikely to attract fish. We make several casts without hearing a splash. We then decide to cross to the far bank, which has less brush. We will cross the crick on two strands of barbwire, the remains of an old fence suspended above the water. The trick to crossing a stream on such a fence is to walk on the bottom wire and hold on to the top wire for balance.
Retch bounces on the fence over the middle of the crick. He begins to lean forward, pushing the top wire ahead of him with his hands, the bottom wire out behind with his feet. “Hanhh hannhh hanh!” he says, but I am uncertain as to what this means. He reverses his posture and is now leaning backward over the crick. “Hannnnhhh!” he repeats, but with no more clarity of meaning. He gives the top wire a vicious pull, and faster than the eye can follow, flips forward. His body is now parallel to the crick, facedown, about a yard above the water, straining between the two screeching strands of wire. “Gah gah gah!” he says. I cannot help but be amused by this marvelous acrobatic performance, but enough is enough.
“Stop fooling around,” I say. “You’re going to drop the worm can.”
My admonishment comes too late. His belly sags toward the water, even though he makes a valiant effort to suck it back up. He now makes a sound similar to that of a dog tugging on a rag—ERRRrrrrERRR! Then there is a whir and a yelp, and Retch plops into the crick.
I knew he would mess around until something like this happened! “Don’t drop the worm can!” I yell. “Don’t drop the worms!”
Ignoring my admonition, he splashes out of the crick on the far side, his mouth spewing out a stream half crick and half profanity. This is a bad omen.
I walk around a bend in the crick and find a cottonwood log that a considerate family of beavers had the decency to chew down so that it fell from one bank across to the other. Many people do not like beavers, but … Halfway across the log, I notice that the spatula-tailed vandals have maliciously chewed a section of the far end down to the dimensions of a toothpick! I try to retreat. Too late.
“Pretty fast moves there,” Retch says. “The first five steps across the water you hardly sunk a bit. But that sixth step was a doozie.”
“Very funny,” I say, wringing out my hat while waiting for Retch to stop cackling. “Since we’re wet and freezing anyway, we may as well just wade down the crick. I’m glad to see you didn’t lose the worms. Give me a handful of them. I don’t want to chase after you every time I need a worm.”
“Whatcha gonna put ’em in?”
“Why, my pants pocket, of course. They might ice up a bit in there, but I don’t think it will hurt them, except they might not be able to have any more children.”
About noon, the fish start biting. Two of them, a small one and a big one. We put them on a forked stick and divide the rest of the day between fishing and trying to find the last place we laid the forked stick. Retch deliberates whether he should eat the big fish or have it mounted. I mention it will cost him ten dollars an inch to get it mounted.
“In that case, I better eat it,” he says. “I don’t have an extra eighty dollars.”
We pass up the best fishing hole on the crick. I am tempted to try for a quick cast on my way past the hole, but I might break my stride. That’s what fast, mean cows watch for, a break in the fisherman’s stride, and then they’ve got him.
“Shall we—pant—try to—pant—vault the fence or—pant—roll under it?” Retch says.
I glance back. The nearest cow is fifteen inches behind us and gaining. “Vault.”
We vault and land safely on the other side of the fence. Not bad for a couple of pudgy, fifty-year-old men. The few little pieces of us left on barbwire are relatively unimportant.
We slip down to the Old Packard hole. It is called the Old Packard hole because years ago someone dumped an old Packard into the crick there. My cousin Buck once drifted a worm through the broken windshield of the Packard and caught a big fat brookie out of the back seat. It is now late in the day. I think just possibly Buck’s brookie’s great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchild might have taken up residence there. So for my final effort of the day I drift a worm through the windshield of the old Buick. The worm drifts down into the dark water of the back seat. I twitch the line ever so gently. I wait. Perhaps there is no big fat brookie there, I think. Then, like a flash of lightning, it happens: I am struck by the revelation that I am never going to catch a fish out of the Old Packard hole. Retch and I give up and head for home.
Driving back to town, wet, cold, exhausted, bruised, cut, and punctured, with only two measly fish between us, we stare silently ahead.
“I kind of expected it would turn out like this, the way the day started,” Retch says. “You forgot your lunch, I forgot to set my alarm cl
ock, we had to dig up half the countryside to find any worms, we both fell in the crick right away and then got chased by cows, all for two little fish.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was perfect, wasn’t it?”
“Yep,” Retch says, grinning. “Just like when we was kids. Funny, ain’t it, how after all these years we can remember how to do everything just right.”
“That’s what a ritual is,” I say. “Doing it all just right.”
Now my wife is shrieking down in the laundry room. After all these years, you would think she would know better than to reach into a fisherman’s pants pockets, especially after he has just returned from performing a crick ritual.
Hunting Camp Etiquette
Once again it is time for my question-and-answer column in which I dispense bits of wisdom, helpful hints, and an occasional downright dangerous piece of advice. The topic for today is “Hunting Camp Etiquette.”
Dear PFM:
I am just getting started in the sport of hunting. Last fall I happened to ask the camp cook what was in the stew. Everyone seemed shocked by my question. The cook went into his tent and pouted for the rest of the evening. What did I say wrong?
Puzzled in Detroit
Dear Puz:
The one question you never ask a camp cook is “What’s in the stew?” You can be quite certain the cook does not wish to reveal the contents of any of his dishes, even if he knows what they are. The other hunters present want even less to hear the concoction described in any detail. Simply eat your stew like a man and don’t ask questions. Afterwards, however, you should try to monitor your vital functions for at least two hours.
Another problem with asking the cook about his stew is that it may not be stew. It may be hash or scrambled eggs or pancakes, which could explain why the cook went to his tent to pout. Can you blame him?
Dear PFM:
I have trouble getting to sleep the first night in camp. The other fellows in my tent seem to drop right off the minute they hit the sack. Then they start to snore, which makes it even more difficult for me to get to sleep. Is there any polite way of inducing them to stay awake until I fall asleep?
Nodding-off in Birmingham
Dear Nod:
Yes, there are two proven methods for doing this. If you have had stew for supper, a mere suggestion planted in the minds of the other hunters can be quite effective in keeping them awake for hours. As soon as everyone is in his sleeping bag, simply shout out, “I can’t feel my legs! I can’t feel my legs!” This is a wonderful way of gaining the attention of the other hunters. They all leap up and rush off to the nearest poison center. Try to get some sleep before they return.
Another ploy is to wait until the other guys are nearly asleep and then say, “What the devil was that? Did you guys hear that weird sound?” The only thing that remains to do then is to plump up whatever it is you are using for a pillow and get some shuteye. The other guys will lie awake for hours, listening.
Dear PFM:
We had a fellow in camp this year who kept asking things like, “Tell me again, which side of the trees does the moss grow on?” Should a person like this be allowed to wander away from camp by himself?
Wondering in Seattle
Dear Won:
Only if he is your guide. I once had a guide who constantly argued with his compass. “That can’t be north,” he would say. “This stupid compass shows north in the southeast! Stupid instrument! Well, forget that! This way, guys. The road has to be right on the other side of that mountain.” Once he got us so lost I resorted to firing three shots in rapid succession. But the light was bad and I missed him.
Dear PFM:
The other fellows in my hunting camp sit around each evening sipping whiskey, chawing on tobacco, and telling coarse jokes. I have never done any of these things. Naturally, I don’t want to offend my friends, but what can I do?
Pure in Pasadena
Dear Pure:
This is a very delicate matter and you must treat it as such. Sipping whiskey while chawing tobacco and telling jokes can be downright disgusting if not done properly, and I can understand how you might disgust your friends if you’re just a beginner. I suggest you practice at home behind the garage until you get the technique down.
Dear PFM:
A member of our hunting party volunteered one freezing morning to get up and build the morning campfire. As he stepped out onto the frosted ground barefoot and wearing only his longjohns, he spotted a buck deer crossing a clearing up on the mountain. Snatching up his rifle, he charged off after the buck. Several hours later he returned to camp, dragging the deer. His underwear was torn and filthy. Although his feet were half frozen, he danced around camp laughing and joking and telling us about how he had tracked down the deer. Is this abnormal behavior for a hunter? What is the proper thing for us to do?
Concerned in Cody
Dear Con:
This is the most serious case I’ve heard about in years. Anyone who volunteers to get up and build the morning campfire has to be crazy! Encourage him to seek professional help, particularly if you notice any other odd behavior on his part.
Dear PFM:
A friend of mine recently stunned a large buck with his last shell. As Joe approached the fallen animal intending to finish it off with his knife, the deer staggered to its feet and began wobbling up a hill. Joe grabbed the buck by the tail and tried to pull it back down. The deer, however, began not only to recover its senses but to pick up speed, and soon it was fairly flying up the hill with Joe hanging on to its tail. As they topped the hill, they practically trampled a young hunter by the name of Rich, also from our camp, who had just come up the hill from the far side. At that moment, Joe let go of the deer’s tail, did a couple of somersaults, sat up, shook his head in disgust, and thrust the knife back into its sheath. “Dang,” he said to young Rich, “I’m just getting too old to run deer down with a knife. From now on I’m goin’ to use a rifle!” My question is, do you think if we told young Rich the truth, it would help him recover, or should we just let him continue to stare off into space?
Sincere in Cincinnati
Dear Sin:
This is an extremely dangerous situation. I have heard that story told at least five hundred times in hunting camps, and the next person who tries to tell it will be sealed in his sleeping bag and freeze-dried as a warning to others.
Dear PFM:
I pulled this practical joke on my hunting companions. After they had gone to sleep and the fire was out, I filled their rubber boots full of water. The next morning they jumped out of bed to go duck hunting and their boots were solid ice. Ha ha! Since mine were the only boots without ice in them, they knew who had pulled the joke on them. Ha ha! I will be out of the hospital soon and want to know if I did anything wrong when I pulled this joke on my former buddies.
Jokester in Jersey
Dear Joke:
You most certainly did do something wrong! Anyone who pulls a great practical joke like that should be smart enough to sleep with his boots on.
Dear PFM:
Some of the guys want you to settle an argument: Which is proper to use with camp meals, paper or cloth napkins? Also, should dishes be passed left to right or right to left? And finally, should the salad fork or the cocktail fork be placed next to the dinner fork?
Mannerly in Missoula
Dear Man:
Every time somebody sets up a new hunting camp, these same questions arise, and I am sick and tired of answering them! For the last time: cloth, left to right, and salad!
Dear PFM:
We recently discovered an abandoned hunting camp, complete with a big old log cabin, which we have fixed up. The hunters who owned the cabin disappeared rather mysteriously, or so we are told by some of the locals. What bothers us, though, is we think the cabin is haunted. In the middle of the night we hear this strange moaning in the room. Then a quavering voice repeats over and over again, “Don’t eat the stew! Don’t eat the stew!” What do you
think it means?
Fearful in Fargo
Dear Fearful:
Don’t eat the stew, dummy.
Stone Soup
Early one summer morning, Crazy Eddie Muldoon stopped by my house and told me he was running away from home. “Want to come along?” he asked.
I was out feeding the chickens at the time. When you’re eight years old, feeding chickens can be complicated. On this particular morning it had been necessary for me to scratch a huge smiling face in the dirt with a stick and then carefully pour wheat along the lines before letting the chickens out of their house. Crazy Eddie seemed unaware that he was standing right next to a living, scratching, pecking work of art, a smiling face composed entirely of live chickens.
“How come you’re running away?” I asked.
“My folks work me too hard,” he said. “I’m fed up.” Offhand, I could not remember ever seeing Eddie do any work for his folks, but maybe they worked him nights, when I wasn’t around.
“Mine too,” I said. “You see these chickens? It must have taken me an hour to feed them this morning.”
Eddie tossed the hair back out of his eyes, still ignoring the chicken face. “Well, you want to run away?”
Lacking any other plans for the day, I said, “Okay, when do we leave?”
“Right now,” Eddie said.
“I can’t go right now,” I said. “I’ve got to eat breakfast and clean my room first.”
The Grasshopper Trap Page 12