My summer vacation....or 14 days to twelve steps

[Expertise]

My Summer Vacation....or 14 days to twelve steps

A Tragedy in two parts

By Expertise


Hello fellow traveller. I hope this little missive finds you well. Things here in the far east of the western world are slowly returning to normal after that annual rite of summer..... vacation. I survived it and have returned to work (where I can get some much needed rest) I have decided to share the joy.........

Part I

As I have mentioned in some previous posts I fancy myself something of a fisherman. I quite regularly ply the rivers, lakes, brooks, estuaries and bays of this beautiful province for smallmouth and striped bass, trout, chain pickerel and even those "Johnny Come Lately's" of the St John River watershed the Muskelunge. The pursuit of these species is something I have some measure of skill at and rare is the day when I do not "boat" or "land" one.

That being said, to be considered an "Angler" in this part of the world requires the almost mythic quest of something higher than these "coarse" fish. The "Holy Grail"..... the most noble of gamefish, Salmo Salar.....The Atlantic Salmon. In this I am at best a tyro.

Now, gentle reader, you may ask yourself "Why? Oh great and mighty Expertise would you choose to pursue a fish at which, by your own admission, you are a rank amateur"? Two reasons. Reason number one, my father was picking up the tab. The second.... new gear.

You see, I love any sport or activity that involves lots and lots of gear. Sure, I have enough gear for regular old bait casting and spincasting to give US Army logistics officers a reason to go on a three day binge, but fly fishing "necessitates" a completely new set of kit. A new 9 foot graphite and carbon fiber fly rod hand built with my name embossed upon it, a little stick that weighs about as much as a cocktail umbrella but that can support the weight of an NFL offensive lineman and a wide receiver although it would be cost prohibitive to both of them unless they had bonus clauses in their contracts. Secondly a reel, which while surprisingly simple in design employs a hundred or so years of British tradition and exotic metals which it is still illegal for any country not a member of the nuclear non-proliferation treaty to import. Next lines..... floating, sinking, tapered .... a dazzling array of the worlds most expensive clothesline in neon and bile colors (so as to better ascertain where they are notted in that birch tree). Then flies. I have in my possesion an array of tiny tufts of fur and feather from creatures so exotic that only fly fishermen and a select few missionaries to the upper Amazon have ever seen them (lucky for me PETA isn't big here they'd faint dead away after dousing me with paint) and finally the clothes. Now for the average bass fisherman tear aways a beer t-shirt and a ball cap are haute couture. The angler however holds himself to a higher level of sartorial splendor. Colared long sleeved cotton crested button downs, brimmed hats or three figure fitted ball caps with Orvis or Hardy tastefully embroidered on the peak, tailored fly vests and fitted rubber waders (more on this in a moment). In fact the vast majority look better than I do going to work on a monday morning............

To be cont'd

 

[KillerMuffin]

Welcome back Mr. Gulliver!

Looks like you had, er... fun...?

 

[Mensa]

Something smells

I thought you went fishing just for the halibut.

(I can't believe I actually said that!!)

 

[Sparky Kronkite]

Man! You might love the Keys.....

I was down there last week - Mini-Bug (lobster) season.

And you talk about fucking gear????

First you gotta have huge Detroit metal - we're talkin' deisel power, duals and fifth wheels - for to pull - yer 22' plus, dual Yahmaha 250's, completely rigged, fishing boat - that's also outfitted to dive from. There are 10's of Thousands of these damn things down there. I beleive that we are talkin' bout a nearly $100K investment that you can't sleep on/in and only costs you "boat loads" of money "down the road." (Cool! Two puns in one sentence!)

But, but, but - yer best off if you've got a frizzy, bleach blond haired, over tanned and tatooed, 40'ish, hard lookin', chain smokin', pot-bellied South Florida bitch - sittin' next to you drinkin' a PBR.

That way you won't look like a tourist.

 

[Cheyenne]

Expertise- good to see you back on the bb! I really was just thinking about you this evening on my drive home from work. You, Isabella, Thumper, a few other people I haven't seen around in awhile and I miss. Then you post and Rosebud shows up, too, all in one day! Cool.

 

[lavender]

 

[Siren]

NIce to see you back Expertise....

 

[floridaguy64]

Ahhhhhhhh, another angler........

I tend to practice the art of catch and release myself........ and as I love the sport of fishing, yet do not often consume them, I will only keep that which I am going to eat within a day or two. And it absolutely kills me when I cannot release a catch unharmed back into the waters for another fight on another day (if I cannot release it unharmed, then I will make sure that the catch is consumed and never wasted............fish are one of God's greatest life sustaining creations, to be pursued, yet worshiped all the same................ you'd have to be a true fisherman to understand this.............)

 

[Cheyenne]

I'm a true fisherman from way back, but mostly for pan fish. We catch them, keep them, eat them. Any that are big enough, that is. I worship those fish with butter and flour and a nice hot frying pan.

 

[Expertise]

Part I - Second Installment

Good morning gentle reader. Having bored you to tears with my tale I will now continue it in the hopes that your interest will grow to the point where you enjoy a nice little nap as a result.

Getting there is half the fun.....

Having purchased all my new gear and taking several calls from the fine folks at Master Card assuring them that my plastic ticket to debtors paradise had not been stolen, I donned suitable attire loaded up the SUV and headed for the mighty Miramichi.

Now although I am no stranger to different and exotic races ,having served in the Balkans and Africa and traveling widely, it never ceases to amaze me the difference in people and culture that a drive of only 90 minutes can bring about.

I live in Fredericton. Often described as the pampered pet of "Old New Brunswick". A gentle and genteel little burg on the banks of the St. John River. A very green and refined city charachterized by Georgeian,Victorian and Edwardian houses as well as the gothic spires of cathedrals and churches jutting through the canopy of ancient elm and oak trees. She is home to two universities of note as well as being the provincial capitol. The Miramichi is everything Fredericton is not.

The Miramichi is the beauty of rural decay. It is vast tracts of softwood and equally vast clearcuts. A hundred little villages connected by the river and a stretch of two lane black top rough enough to make me wish I had worn a kidney belt. It is junked cars and major appliances on the front lawn, hard by brand spanking new logging equipment, concrete garden gnomes and freshly painted wind powered whirly-gigs (one of which was pornographic). It is Royal Canadian Legion dances on Saturday night and dustups in the parking lot of Fran and Molly's takeout afterward. It is the land of the Dungarvon Whooper and subsistance hard won from the natural resources of its forests, Social Assistance and Federal Unemployment Insurance. It is "Lumber Camp fiddle music" played on the CD player of a million dollar tree harvester, but most of all it is its people.

Now to say the inhabitants of this region are a breed apart would be British in its understatement. They tend to be a reserved and reticent people, at least until the second bottle of Golden Nut gets opened at which time they like to "WHOOOOOP!!!!" The family and social dynamic that many of them live in would make them primo guests for the Jerry Springer show, if only they had cable so as to get that damn 800 number. They speak with an accent that is, to put it mildly, unique. Imagine a touch of Irish brogue melded with the twang of Appalachia and seasoned with coloquialisms so obscure that a non-resident has no idea that he is being insulted. But they are a friendly people, the salt of the earth, warm, charming, homey...... unless you are "from away". Now some might think that the phrase "from away" means someone who doesn't reside along the river. What it really means is that until you have 3 or 4 generations planted in the local "Babtist"(sic) or "RC" cemetary, that you have established your lineage and relations out to your third cousin Huberts unemployment insurance scam and proved to the general populace that you are not a "big feelin' son of a whore" they will give you, at best, monosylabic responses. I love em'.

Now having arrived in the Village of Blackville I figured it was time to gas up and purchase a few snacks. Stopping at the local Metro station I entered in to one of the many contrasts that this region provides. The gas station cum convenience store is situated between a solid looking late 1800's Baptist church and an early '70 vintage Pentacostal one that looked to have been designed by an architect who was unsure if he wanted to find Jesus or the set of The Merv Griffin show. The Metro has the required bunch of local teenagers hanging around out front. They're desperately trying to look cool and "straight out' the 'hood" but come off as "The Crips go Northwoods". I nod to them surpress a chuckle and mumble g'day (required courtesy in this neck o' the woods). Upon entering the store I grab a wide variety of high cholestorol non-nutritious snacks and discover an excellent selection of porn mags wedged between the cassettes of Conway Twitties Greatest Hits and the "Jesus Saves" bumperstickers. A hundred and some odd dollars, a Hustler, Penthouse and Swank later I am gassed up provisioned and ready to hit "The Lodge".

For the uninitiated, a "Salmon Fishing Lodge" is usually quite modest in its accomodations and creature comforts. It was most likely a former "Fishing Camp" or "Fishing Club". The proprietors of which, having realized ( via the use of semantics, a good cook, and its positon and leases on some of the most valuable water on earth) that they were sitting on a money machine. Gentle reader Salmon fishing, on any water worth fishing, costs like sin while forcing you to wear more clothing. This particular Lodge charged $580.00 "per rod" per day and might rate two, to at most three, stars on a Micheline Guide (with the exception of the food which at all Fishing Lodges worthy of the name tends to be spectacular and in obscene abundance).

Now I mentioned earlier that Anglers are big on gear. Arriving in the parking area I realized that my Explorer had already been trumped by a gaggle of Expiditions, Navigators, Yukons and the like. It being mid-day the lodge was fairly well populated with guests and the most praetorian of anglers "The Members". As I unloaded my gear (making sure to have wedged the porn covertly between the super-sacks of Frito-Lays) I fell under their appraising eyes.

Chumley: What have we here Presley?

Presley: Apparently a (semi-exasperated sigh) .... a guest.

Chumley: Acceptable vehicle, suitably attired, looks vaguely upper crust, well provisioned with munchies and beverages..... might be ok.

Presley: I hope he brought porn.

To be continued...........

 

[Cheyenne]

well? Where is the continued part??