In a couple weeks, I will be headed to the big lake in New Hampshire to join up with my fishing crew on our annual jaunt for wild fish, great food and drink, sometimes not so great cards at the poker table, but all the, while wonderful comraderie. If you have been following my blog, you will recognize this as just another chapter in the experience.
BEGINNINGS
The first salmon fishing trip three of us took was one very cold experience if memory serves. The cast of characters were Dr.’s senior, junior, and I. We used fly rods with of floating, sinking, or lead core fly lines, long leaders of six pound weight, and tandem streamers to attract old Salmo. A fly line is about 90 feet long and we experts attach another 10 to 15 feet of light six pound monofilament in front of the fly. Then we sit, stand, and sometimes lie down in a boat and drag our irresistible creations from dawn to dusk. Of course as we got older the mid-day obligatory nap shortened our man hours each day. As the years past however, no one on the lake spent more man hours per fish than we, when we were there.
I was probably one of the last of the three to land one of these northern fish, but I will never forget my first strike and the immediate “Oh Shit”, as the fish dropped the fly and returned to the depths. It was as if something wanted to take the rod out of my hands in a micro second of rod bending, splash, and epic jump. The involuntary verbal reaction has stood the test of time and is uttered repeatedly trip after trip……time and time again. It simply means a fish has been lost and not caught. And our frustration is voiced in that coarse expletive. It’s strange, it’s automatic, it’s well…….it’s just Oh Shit! The salmon, I am sure, has a different reaction to that moment. Of course they have a brain the size of a pencil eraser and their reaction is all reflex and probably not thought out. At that point our massive brains seem to approach size of the other end of the pencil and we react out of reflex as well.
Other terms which were initiated on these trips and carried on through the years were such utterances as “Boat Goat”, “Goat”, “Boat Ride Bell”, and the latest term, christened in 2009, was the “House Magpie”. It always seemed that each year a story, or mostly a joke, was shortened to a word or two, and repeated all week long at appropriate times accompanied with nonsensical laughter. Other comments as “Baseball been bery, bery good to me”, referring to a type of poker game that “Boat Ride Bell” coined. It reminds me of the old story about the jokes which were reduced to simple numbers by a group of old men who repeated them to each other so often that all they had to do was to say Number 3 or number 4. They would all would be reduced to hysterics each time. When a newcomer to the group tried it, nobody even cracked a smile. Perplexed, he asked why? And he was told that he evidently he “Just couldn’t tell a joke”! Well, that’s us!
Those first years were marked with the presence of Dr. Frank, Sr. and his long line, spinning road. He figured, and perhaps rightly so, that the further behind the boat his presentation; the less disturbed the fish would be, and the more likely he would be to catch one. Of course we purist experts scolded him about his aversion to the amateur behavior with a “Spinning Rod” and not a fly rod. He never relented. He caught a few like that, but we teased him unmercifully about the long line. Comparing his technique to that of the tuna trawlers found on the high seas of the north Atlantic. Some years later I personally proved the long line technique to be no better than just a few feet behind the boat.
There were a number of fond memories of the good doctor, his card playing, the cocktails, and how he fit right into our “Younger” crowd. One trip up from New Jersey, he was driving and we thought that we would be found dead in the back seat of his big Lincoln Towne Car. He managed to pass a New Hampshire native who was just doing the speed limit and not harming anyone. Solid yellow line and Doc passes the fellow, deep on a curving road, in a fairly secluded pine woods. He has long since past, but also still has not lived down that bit of NASCAR trickery.
There were also mornings, and evenings for that matter, when the water on the guides of the fishing rods would freeze solid. The rods would have to be banged against the boat to break the ice free. Thank God for all the adult anti-freeze we had on hand. We were still cold, but didn’t notice it as much.
Over the years, there have been trips where chain saws, hammers and saws, and paint brushes were amongst the fishing gear. At times even golf clubs were thrown into the back of a Suburban, pick up or SUV. The amount of fishing gear became less in volume as the years progressed. After all when you are young, there’s no telling just what lure, line, or fishing rod you might need. But those early years with Abe’s father were special. After he retired to Florida, he would be the first to call on the evening of the first day of our trips. Always anxious to find out how we did and who was winning at the poker table. He was a nice man who left a lot of fond memories and not just for his immediate family, but his extended family as well.
That extended family has evolved into six people who can abide each other’s company for more than three days.....only once a year. They are Abe, myself, Paul, Bill, John, and Dave. These may be the men who are the history makers, but we sure as hell are not photogenic. Dave missed this trip.
