Road Trip #20--Continuing adventures at the Ant Hill

This is Morher Nature's World.  She just loans it to us.  To fish in.

     This was my second trip to the Ant Hill.  Two years ago, James and Neil invited my grandsons, Ben and Ian, and me up for a fly fishing clinic.  We camped out up here and each boy had his own expert guide to show him how and why to do things with a fly rod.  The boys caught enough trout to feed us and their eyes still get big when they talk about the trip.  They will never forget the experience---it has colored their view of life and given them a glimpse of a world they might never have known otherwise.  I will always be grateful to James and Neil.

     Since I was an “old hand” at the Ant Hill, I took it upon myself to show Ratisseau around, while James and Neil unloaded the Land Cruisers.  Our campsite was in a clearing on a level bluff, about fifty feet above the meandering stream that dominated the valley.  There was a crude fire pit, nothing more than a small depression surrounded by sizeable rocks, with some leftover firewood stacked nearby.  I recognized some of the firewood.  It had been dragged up by my grandsons, two years ago.  This place, as beautiful as it is, does not suffer from a lot of traffic.

     I took Wayne down the hill to the “facilities.”  Thirty yards away from the camp, back in the woods, was the most welcome sight of the morning.  Ingeniously mounted across two fallen logs was an open and inviting commode lid.  No toilet, just the seat and lid.  Our hosts had the foresight to attach the white contraption there, with the lid permanently raised and rested against a healthy pine tree.   All refuse fell safely below, between the logs which supported the seat and into a sloped little depression.  The shape and slope of the depression allowed for flushing to be done by Mother Nature, during the frequent spring showers.  With her infinite wisdom, she also provided a convenient broken limb at just the right place to hold a roll of toilet paper.

     Mother Nature was upset about something.  The wind was getting stronger.  The three fishermen were anxious to get into their gear and decrease the trout population.  Since I didn’t get the fishing gene, I busied myself setting up camp, making a small fire for coffee, and arranging and staking down the lawn chairs.  I anchored the work table and set up the pantry as I watched my companions practice a time-honored ritual.  Dressing for battle.

A master, outfitted for the battle, at work.  The other masters were downstream.

     Fly fishermen have very specific duties to go through before they ever wet a hook, or, I guess, in this case, flip a fly.  First, they must get dressed.  Blue jeans and tee shirts won’t cut it.  All three of the fishermen stripped down to their long johns and stepped into khaki-colored waders, a sort of waterproof overall with built-in boots hanging from long suspenders.  I watched as each of my friends very carefully and seriously adjusted the length of the suspenders and tested the feel of the boots.

     A specially constructed shirt followed the waders.  It was also khaki-colored, with long sleeves and assorted pockets of many shapes and sizes.  The pockets were scattered around and fitted into various unlikely places, such as on the inside part of the sleeve or outside the shoulder.  Fabric overlays concealed mesh inserts, probably for ventilation.  A long pocket covered the entire lower back of the shirt, with openings on either side.  I could readily see that you wouldn’t be able to pick up one of these shirts off the shelf at the local Dollar Store.

     The boys then layered on a light-weight, sleeveless vest with a dizzying array of additional pockets and compartments; some fabric, some mesh. Secured mostly by Velcro strips, with some old fashioned snaps or buttons, these pockets contained all sorts of necessities for the serious trout fisherman.  Cushioned fabric areas on each vest allowed an assortment of hand-tied flies to be attached so that they could be inventoried and placed into service with a minimum of effort.

     The final accessory, the crowning achievement, was, of course, the hat.  Each hat was unique, individual and fitted to the size and shape of the owner’s head and personality. In the wind today, all would need to be tied in place.  The hats provided additional storage for more inventory of feathered flies, each held in place with its tiny hook.  The number and variety of hand-made flies seemed to be a point of pride for each fisherman, and they were treated with the reverence and respect that a decorated soldier places in his combat ribbons.

     A nine foot, custom-built fly rod, fitted with a state of the art reel, completed each outfit.  The rods, as well as many of the flies, were all carefully hand made by our companion, Neil McMullen.  The rods bore his signature.

     Mother Nature apparently had a serious case of PMS.  The wind only increased as the day wore on.  We heard that this same wind was feeding wildfires on the Arizona/New Mexico border, not far south.   It hampered our cookout at the Hallmarks, and was showing no sign of abatement.  Fly fishing is difficult on a still day.  I could see no hope with the wind as it was, but the boys were not the least bit dismayed.  They couldn’t wait to get into that creek.

     The water was deep and rushing almost violently down stream, fed by a late and unusually heavy snowmelt.  Beavers had complicated matters by constructing two dams which widened the creek and made wading more difficult.  Even so, James caught three brown trout and Neil caught two.  As hard as he tried, Wayne didn’t land any, but all were excited when they came back to camp to wait out the wind.

     I did some exploring while they were fishing.  Down near the “facilities,” I discovered some gouges, actually claw marks, on a tree, about eight feet up.  A bear had evidently discovered the “signs’ left in the latrine and decided to mark his territory.  He was more than welcome to it. I would not contest him for his space---he could have the whole thing, commode lid and all.

     The wind got worse as the day wore on.  The fishermen went back later in the day, but it was impossible.  We retired to camp and cooked a campfire dinner.   Neil cooked fried potatoes with onions and James pan-fried the trout.   It was wonderful---I had forgotten how good campfire food is, especially when McMullen and Collins cook it.



Dutch oven cherry cobbler by the apprentice boy.



     I cooked a cherry cobbler in the Dutch oven.  James brought two cans of cherry pie filling and turned them over to me as we prepared supper.  He remembered a similar cobbler I made two years ago.   I made pie dough with flour and Crisco, mixed some cinnamon into the pie filling, and layered the ingredients in the Dutch oven.  I nestled the oven into the edge of the fire, and put hot, glowing coals on top.  In about thirty minutes, Neil suggested I check the cobbler.  Any longer and I would have burned it, but it was excellent, even if I do say so.

     As we sat around the fire after dinner, I couldn’t help but think about our surroundings and reflect on my lifetime.  The little fire cast a shimmering light into the faces of four old friends, telling stories and remembering a total of three hundred years of life experience.  There were bears in the surrounding woods and beavers had built two dams in the nearby creek.  We were isolated, far from civilization, in a place that has changed little in the last thousand years.

     I feel privileged.  A fifties comedian, Brother Dave Gardner, said, “Everything you ever did in your whole life has brought you to this place at this moment.”  He called that “Hard Sayings,” but I don’t think it’s hard at all.  I grew up in Lubbock, with friends like these.  When I reflect on that, I realize I am the luckiest of men.

The acknowledged masters, Collins, left, and McMullen working on scrambled eggs and bacon.