Putting the Lid on the Churn--Final Episode of the Fishing Trip

The Conejos River, near Platoro.

 

     The wake-up aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted up the stairs.  I knew it was sometime after 4:30, and, as John Wayne said, we were burning daylight.  That whole idea confused me, but I climbed out of bed and made my way to the bath room.  I could hear Roy telling his story as I dressed and went downstairs.

      Coffee just tastes better out of a heavy mug.  We pulled on jackets and went outside to sit on the front porch and drink the steamy brew, watch for any hint of daylight, and listen to Roy weave his endless tale.  He was building the drama as he neared the climax.

    “Finally, she got this little gleam in her eye and said, Uh, er, uh—oh shit!  I forgot!” Roy said.

     “What do you mean, she said, ‘I forgot!’ That doesn’t make any sense,” Collins said.

     “She didn’t say 'I forgot.'  I did.  I’m the one who forgot.  I don’t remember what she said, but it was really cool,” Roy explained.

     “Dammit Roy, you mean we been listening to a story for two days and you can’t remember how it ends?  What the hell kind of deal is that?”  Wayne was stunned.  He never failed to properly finish a story, even if he had to make up the ending, which I suspect happened more often than not.   We let Roy off the hook because we all tend to let details drop through the cracks on occasion.  That may be a function of age.

     I fixed “Country Eggs Benedict” for breakfast.  Simply split one of Neil’s big scratch biscuits and top each half with a thick slab of fried ham and a poached egg.  Smother the whole thing with a ladle full of Tabasco-spiked cream gravy and serve with a side of German fried potatoes and onions--sophisticated, southern, and delicious—stick to your ribs food.  I know, I know—some of it will also stick to the inside of your arteries.

     On a fishing trip, I don’t do real Eggs Benedict for several reasons.  We don’t generally bring English Muffins and Hollandaise Sauce to camp.  I could do the sauce from scratch, but it is just not civilized to serve Eggs Benedict unless preceded by spicy Bloody Marys and accompanied by crisp, dry, fermented-in-the-bottle Champagne.  After a breakfast like that, it’s impossible to concentrate on fishing.

A mountain with the not unusual name, "Old Baldy," adjacent to the Alamosa Canyon, near Platoro.

     Time passed, as always, and our few days stolen from reality came to an end.  Someone may find it possible to leave those fellows and not miss them immediately, but not Wayne and not me.  We talked all the way to Kerrville, over 800 miles, about Roy’s wonderful stories, Neil’s quiet wisdom, and James’ quick wit.  We marveled at how little we all have changed, while the world kept turning and perhaps, passed us by. 

     No doubt, we have changed—we’re almost eighty years old.  For one thing, we drink better whiskey.  We also drive better cars and eat better than we once did.    All of us parlayed the lessons we learned in West Texas into a good life.  The work ethic we learned is taken for granted out there, but in the rest of the world it is much admired and sought after.

     I think the lack of change in our personalities is due to the fact that we were pretty well satisfied with who we were when we got out of high school. We chose not to change.  College and professional life taught us new ways to express our ideas and expanded our vocabularies, but short of superficial changes, we stayed true to the land of our youth and the rules of life we learned on the high plains.

     We all have made new friends.  Part of being from the Texas panhandle has to do with being open to friendship.  In the early days out there, neighbors lived on lonely farms, miles apart, and seldom saw each other.  When they did get a chance to visit, they took full advantage of the opportunity and regaled each other with stories, news, and gossip.  Friends were necessary, whether building a barn, rounding up cattle, fighting Indians, or chasing outlaws.  New friends were desirable, and old friends were indispensible.  We inherited these traits, refined them to suit the times, and live with them to this day.

Neil, James, Wayne, and Roy.  Four better fly fishermen may exist somewhere, but I doubt it.  About 280 years of experience is represented here.

     The guys on this fishing trip are some of my closest friends.  We’ve known and loved each other since we all had pimples.  We’ve shared each other’s highs and lows.  We know instinctively which buttons to push…. and which ones to leave alone.   We sometimes don’t visit for months, but that does not matter—we know where we stand.  We’re friends.

    James Collins called yesterday to wish me a happy birthday.  During our conversation, he mentioned that Neil and he were already planning next year’s event and it was going to be a regular stem-winder.  He intimated that if Wayne and I were nice to him for the rest of this year—very nice to him—we might be invited.  Ford nailed it—the little S.O.B. has been that way since he was five years old.