“Can I keep it?!” I gripped the beautiful rainbow trout with
eagle enthusiasm, enthusiasm that was not lessened by the fact this was the 5th
such fish I had hauled into the boat.
“No. If everyone thinks they can keep a fish we’ll be
packing home 28 fish.” Calder carefully released the hook from my prize’s mouth
and set it back in the water.
I stuck out my lower lip. “But I wanna EAT it!” I frowned
and watched my potential dinner happily swim away.
Calder laughed and cast his line over the opposite side of
the boat. “You want to eat every fish you catch.”
“Yup. And look what I have? No fish.” I haughtily threw my
line over the side, determined that he’d have to wrestle the next one out of my
hands.
Years before, not too long after we had first met, he had
taken me to this lake, hidden away on his family’s ranch, an emerald sunk deep
in the Crazy Mountains. It was paradise, and on that trip I had somehow managed
to pull a mammoth of a fish out of it while we lazily dozed in the summer sun. We
took it home and shared it with our friends, a delicious lemon soaked 27-inch trout.
Since then, fishing the lake on Calder’s birthday was always the highlight of
the year for me, and since we were the only people who ever did, the fishing
was easy to the point of being ridiculous. I probably could tie a shoelace to
my finger with a marshmallow and still catch something. However, that didn’t
lessen the excitement for me, and every fish was potentially delicious trout
puffs. A specialty that one of the friends we had brought along this trip was
superb at cooking up.
As much as I appreciated his sincere compassion for the
fish- fish was one food I had no qualms about eating. I loved fish. And a fish from an unspoiled and
largely populated Montana paradise hardly seemed wrong. Admittedly, I was known
to have eyes bigger than my stomach, and if he let me have my way I’d sink the
boat under a mountain of fish.
“I GOT ONE!” I squealed in delight and set to the task of
wearing out my 6th treasure before I brought it in. I watched its
pink and silver scales flash through the water, and it gave a mighty leap on
the surface, splashing back down to continue the fight. It really was
beautiful. Minutes later and finally clutching it to my chest, I looked up at
Calder with a giant grin. “Can I keep it?!”
He sat back and studied his pipe with all the thoughtfulness
of Sherlock, finally rolling his eyes. “Yeah, ok. ONE. You can keep one. But I
better not find it stinking up the cooler 3 days from now.”
I shook my head with eyes wide in innocence, as if I’d never
dream of leaving a fish uneaten… that I packed carefully away to take home…
that I promptly forgot about… that I left in his Tahoe for a week before
remembering it. No. Never again.
Not this girl. “Nope! I’ll have Swaz help me cook it up tonight.”
~
I gazed up at the glowing flecks of wood shimming away from
the fire. The smell of cooking trout wafted up from Swaz’s pan, his pug Jezebel
at his side, just daring anyone to mess with the process. Selby’s voice rang out from the
tailgate as he strummed Willie Nelson songs, the firelight playing under the
brim of his Indiana Jones hat. Calder’s laughter rang out as he stood next to
his father, Frankie. A tall and thin man, he had a mop of wild hair and a buckskin
poncho outrageous enough that only he could wear it and command respect. Serena
magically produced a fantastic bottle of red from somewhere in the darkness, a
magic trick that I always appreciated. Kline was making jokes as usual from the
comfort of his camp chair, a mind that was always 2 steps ahead of everyone
else and left you gasping for breath or spitting out your drink. Saghatelian,
DJ and Tanner had discovered a snowy hill where they could slide down like
penguins, making everyone laugh at their antics. I shut my eyes halfway,
letting the firelight dance across my eyelids, wondering why life couldn’t
always be like this.
The sudden squawk of Price’s voice startled me from my
reverie, and the next instant the world was down, my feet were up and Jezebel
was unceremoniously licking wine off my face as I lay in a crumpled mess,
staring up at the swaying fabric. Price was doubled over in laughter about
something… and as I took a mental step back from the situation, I realized it
must have been me. Apparently I had managed to fall asleep in the hammock,
startled myself awake, forgot I was in a hammock and catapulted myself and my
drink a good 5 feet away.
Price helped brush off the pine needles and dirt as I
gingerly made my way back to the group, making a mental note about the dangers
of wine and hammocks. I shook my head in amazement at Nordy, who miraculously
was still going strong and had not tumbled into the fire despite his wobbly
dance moves, punctuated by a friendly swing or two in the direction of Fursty, who
was twisting his mustache and shifting slightly to avoid Nordy. I settled
myself on a log and joined into song with Selby about the Traveling Man,
dreaming of the fish I’d catch in the morning.
The next day I stomped around the breakfast table in impatience,
waiting for Price and Toad to wake up. I was counting on the fact that a Bloody
Mary bar was residing in the back of their van. Price always thought of things
like that- extra socks, snacks, dry bags… a trait I was thankful Calder also
possessed, since I pretty much just lived off of whims and leaping first. However,
whims occasionally required a Bloody Mary to be launched into action. An
adventure in lock picking briefly crossed my mind, but I decided it might be
rude to crawl over a sleeping couple to commandeer their alcohol at 8 am. At 9am
I might be justified.
“…possessed you to run around the tent like a banshee,
shouting ‘ca-caw!’ at THREE AM…” I heard Price’s voice around the corner, while
Nordy looked completely bewildered, casting a glance over each shoulder to see for
whom the lecture was intended. I sprinted out the door to obtain access to the
van and finally, with Bloody Marys in hand, we headed for the lake.
Calder taught me how to gently remove the hook from the
fish’s mouth without hurting it. A process that distracted me long enough to
forget my immediate need to keep every fish that ran into my Jake spin. However,
unaided, it also gave me the opportunity to sneak a fish or two into the basket
while he was distracted.
The rest of the weekend continued on in its usual peaceful
chaos- and the afternoon of the last day, as we all gathered for the
traditional group picture, we’re already looking forward to next year’s trip.
~
“Ugh. I have gotta clean out the BroStop.” ‘BroStop being the
longstanding name for Calder’s Tahoe, as it has been the adventure vehicle for
all the homies over the years. It stops to pick up the bros. ‘Nuff said.
“Yeah, it’s getting a little, uh, spicy”. I wrinkled my nose
at the smell that was somewhere between whiskey, campfire, and mud. We pulled
up to the condo, and as I hopped out, Kline’s voice drifted out of the garage
with some information about a rabbi and a bar, which was received by LB’s deep
loud laugh. Calder cracked open the back hatch to investigate the mess as I
began to wander inside.
“HonEEEEY!”
Uh oh. I know that tone, and it isn’t particularly one of
endearment. I froze in my tracks and turned my head to see Calder holding up a
soggy bag, with a limp fish tail hanging out the side. Shit. Did I really---
“Oh! Ha! Knew I forgot something.” Kline sauntered past me
to claim his prize. “Fish at my place tonight? Any takers? Crazy sonsofbitches.
This is a delicacy! Straight out of the streets of Hong Kong! Rolled on the
thighs of Puerto Rican woman!” Calder looked at him in amused disgust and
shouted a string of commands at LB that involved Lysol.
I beat a hasty retreat into the house. Thank God for Kline.
