The Duffle

I made it home with no serious hiccups but my big rolling duffle went walkabout. PenAir decided that they needed to lighten the load by a couple-hundred pounds before we lifted off from Dillingham and I won the “left behind” lottery. It’s a sick feeling to be left standing at the luggage conveyor, watching that last sad bag (someone else’s) circle over and over and over again.

Sud'bá, my friend Will would say. My destiny.

After leaving my forwarding info with Baggage Control, I moved on with just my carry-ons, back through security, and settled in at the gate for my next leg. With a couple of hours till liftoff, and my confidence shaken in luggage logistics, I started a list of the contents of the REI duffle. Just in case.

It turned into a challenge, a game, to remember it all. Exercise for this old brain. And since I’ve written it down, I thought I might share it here. Just for grins.

So here's what came back from Alaska:

Simms G3 Waders – Lived in them. Friggin’ bulletproof.
Simms Guide Jacket – See above
Simms G4 Boots – See above
Redington Sonicdry Wading Pants – Seriously Comfy. Wear them whenever I can. Didn't.
Simms Vapor Boots – See above.
Patagonia Stormfront Roll Top Pack – Best piece of new gear of the trip. Stuff stayed dry.
SmithFly Digi-Pouch – Kept the SLR handy and dry
SmithFly 3X Pouch - Catch-all for small gear. Solid.
Simms Guide Vest – Didn’t use this trip. Guides had it under control.
Folstaf Wading Staff – I don’t leave home without it
Socks (REI, Wigwam, Swiftwick, Simms) – MUST have fresh socks. Carried a wad!
Quick-dry underwear (REI, Patagonia) – Absolutely critical
Boxers (Old Navy) – Comfort around the lodge and when sleeping
REI Midweight Baselayer Pants – Because it’s good to be warm
Select Soccer Warmup Pants – See above
REI Light Poly Baselayer Shirt – See above
Redington SonicDry Baselayer Shirt – See above
UnderArmour ColdGear Baselayer Shirt – See above
Simms Merino Wool Light Sweater – See above
Northface Windwall Fleece Jacket – See above
Allsport Heavy Fleece Pullover – My son’s. A very special warmth, and a tear or two.
Orvis Fingerless Fleece Gloves – Keeping the digits warm
Manzella Light Gloves – See above
Fleece-lined Stocking Hat – Keeping the ears warm
Columbia PFG Quick Dry Pants – Because I generally don’t travel/fish in anything else
REI Sahara Shirt – See above
Levi’s 527 Jeans – For kicking around the lodge
Howler Brothers Longsleeve Loggerhead Shirt – See above
Fiberglass Manifesto Retro Fly Longsleeve Shirt – Sleep shirt. Best logo in the industry.
Tilley Hat – Old school. In case of sun. It could happen.
Nylon Belt – No sagging allowed
Bathroom Kit – Travel necessity
Fireball Cinnamon Whisky (2 bottles) – See above

Those were the things I remembered and wrote down. I’m proud to say that I only failed to recall three items:

Book – Corman McCarthy’s Blood Meridian
Sony Digital Voice Recorder – You can’t always write shit down
Nestle Hot Chocolate Packages – Good with a little Fireball in it

Not bad for an old man with mush for memory. But I must admit, as long as it took me to decide what to take, and to pack it, I should have been able to recall it all. And though the list is long (and I carried more than a few “splurge” items), I stayed under my fifty-pound limit. Given my penchant for over packing, that’s pretty amazing.

So. What’s in YOUR bag?


Note: It all worked out in the end. No need to haggle over the list of items. The duffle made it's way home, a day later. Just long enough to insure that everything inside smelled plenty ripe.

Another note: Of course, I carried-on my fishing gear. You can take my clothes and leave them where you will, but the fly rods are coming with me. Maybe I’ll post the contents of that carry-on too, if anyone happens to be interested.

Directions For Use

Don’t aim directly at him at first. Point the spray about fifteen feet out and three off the ground, between you and the bear, so if he comes he has to come through the cloud.

Having the bear spray on my belt makes me feel badass, but the bravado melts away quickly as Todd gives me tips on how to use it. I know that the chances of pulling the trigger are slim, but the fact that I’m carrying it at all is sobering.

You’ve got seven seconds worth of spray, but don’t blow it all in one blast. Shoot two or three seconds, then pause.

That’s assuming, of course, that I can get the canister off my hip and flip free the safety while ol’e griz is sizing me up. Assuming I can move at all. I idly wonder how bears might react to the smell of freshly soiled shorts, but decide not to ask.

After that first blast, watch the bear, then the cloud. Be ready to adjust for wind or any other atmospheric conditions before spraying again.

So let me get this straight. Strategically position the first blast. Precisely time the duration of each dispersal. Monitor and assess the large, threatening carnivore’s reactions and the meteorological movements of the gaseous deployed deterrent and adjust application in equally measured portions according to these varying factors.

Fuck it. I’m just gonna spray Todd and run like hell.

Bad Boyfriend

Forgive me, Dani. I knew he was trouble.

I should have known better, that he'd steal you away, spend your money, leave you breathless. But I introduced you to him anyway. What was I thinking? How did I not see that you’d fall for him? Hard.

Sure, you asked about him first, but that's no excuse for my actions. What I missed was that he’d already caught your eye out there on your forays into the southeastern woodlands, restoring those pretty little brookie streams, learning to love the surroundings. But, when you asked, I should have talked you out of it. I should never have helped with the whippy little 'glass starter setup. You said it was just for an alternate sampling method, but I should have known better. It was about spending time with him.

It happened so fast. Seems like just yesterday you called me from Virginia, excited about catching your first small stream rainbow. Next thing I know, you're with him, sending grip-and-grins from Colorado’s South Platte; Eleven Mile Canyon, Dream Stream. You’re even posting about the big one that jumped and spit the hook, telling the one that got away stories like a veteran. He put you up to that, I'm certain. He’s sweeping you off your feet like a swift, tumbling current on worn vibram soles.

So before this infatuation goes any farther, there are a few things you need to know about him.

He’s moody. He’ll stand you up two, three times in a row. Skunk you bad. And just when you’re ready to toss him out he gives you a day that makes your head spin. He keeps stringin’ you along so you never know where you stand.

He’ll dress you up in ways you could never have imagined. Kinky. Belts and rubber and big boots kinky. To show you off to his friends.

He’ll get under your skin and you’ll find yourself thinking of him constantly. Every waterway you pass, no matter how big or how small, will bring him to mind. You’ll drift away at work, at play, in your dreams. It’s scary sometimes.

And just so you know, he treats his men friends just as badly. I'd rather not talk about it.

I implore you. Dump the bum. He’s no good. He’ll consume you. He’ll take you to far away places and then rain on you. He'll make you buy him stuff. Lots of stuff. That 5wt's not enough. He’s a monster.

If it’s not already too late, turn and run. Please, please, please listen!

Fly fishing is a bad boyfriend.

Bad.

But, then again, sometimes bad can be very, very good...

Notes: My thanks go out to my good friend and neighbor Dani for allowing me this bit of fun. Despite my warnings, I am thrilled to have her as a fellow fly fisher and wish her the best of luck in all of her angling endeavors. I sincerely hope that they bring her as much joy as they have brought me.

And be sure to visit Dani’s blog, Chasing Spring: Each Day a New Beginning. It’s a warm and honest look at the challenges of raising a family with a special needs child. The lessons are universal, lovingly told and beautifully depicted.

A nod and a thank you, as well, to Mike Taylor of the Peak Guide Shop, located in Colorado Springs and Woodland Park, for the image of Dani and her first western rainbow. Well captured, sir. The smile is priceless.

Finally, a reminder to all you women anglers out there that your first year of TU membership is currently free. Take advantage of this great offer to get started with this fine organization.

In All Seriousness...

It occurs to me that I may have given you the wrong idea. Don't worry, it's entirely my fault. So, please, allow me a moment to set the record straight.

I'm not much of a drinker.

It's true. Despite all evidence to the contrary - the copious references to adult libations, pervasive malt beverage images, incoherent ramblings and tenuous hold on the English language (no doubt interpreted as slurred sloppy-speech) offered here on these pages - I’m really a cheap date.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I do truly love a good brew and can think of few better ways to spend an evening than with good friends over glassware. But two's my limit (three if you twist my arm and I'm not driving) and I've been known to nurse that final pint a long time.

Why am I telling you this?

Simply put, I'm feeling a bit irresponsible characterizing recent trips as alcoholic binges. They weren't. You see, I don’t advocate wasting perfectly good fishing and travel time managing a hangover. That’s infinitely more suited to the office.

But you wouldn't always believe that by what you read here. And I'm not alone in this. A quick check confirms that my favorite digital fishing outposts are rife with similar content. My blogging buddies do it too.

So why is it that we like to boast about our drinking? Why do we celebrate the buzz and believe it makes for a better story? Perhaps it’s our sportsman’s birthright, passed down from our revered patriarch, Papa Hemmingway, to all who dabble with rod and pen. Perhaps it’s the brash young man in us, trying desperately to recapture our “wondrous college days” or to reassert our youthful invincibility to drink. Perhaps we believe that the ability to hold our liquor (or survive those times that we don't) makes us more virile.

After all, the most interesting man in the world stays thirsty. Right, my friend?

And we fly fishermen are the worst. You need only consider that our unofficial official beer is Pabst Blue Ribbon to realize that we’ve come off the tracks on the subject. Completely.

Think about it. Who wants the beer yips when there are 1/0 clousers in the air? Or a good snootful of Woodford when wading wild and wicked waters? And isn’t outsmarting finicky trout hard enough when you're stone cold sober? It is for me.

So when you read here the subtle (or not) influence of demon rum, or of the San Juan worm in the bottom of the tequila bottle, take the passage with a grain of salt (and slice of lime) and know that it’s all in good fun. That it's nuance and texture in storytelling. Okay, maybe there is a little basis in fact, but every now and then I have to act like an adult.

This is me, acting like an adult. In all seriousness, partake responsibly. I do, believe it or not.

There. My civic duty is complete, my public service message delivered, the record set straight, and we can now get back to our regularly scheduled sophomoric content.

I’ll drink to that!