Fly
Fishing with the Pros
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Chocolate
is the Best Reason for Hiking
Finally it's getting
warm enough to camp and hike. There's nothing better about summer than the
outdoors. But I'll be honest. There are three reasons why I like summer. Chocolate,
hotcakes and milkshakes.
These are my weaknesses and I try not to indulge. Until I get in the outdoors.
Sometimes I think I took up backpacking just so I could eat chocolate.
When I started hiking in the early '60s, word was chocolate provided the quick
energy fix hikers needed. Back in those days breaks along the trail took on
a near mystical quality. And it had nothing to do with the fresh air or expansive
views. It was the Hershey bar. Growing up I was never allowed to eat chocolate
except on special occasions and chocolate always turned hiking into a special
occasion.
A few years later when the hippies came along, the entire scheme of backpacking
changed. Granola became easy snack food and quickly found its way into packs.
And even quicker found a name--G.O.R.P, an acronym for "good ol' raisins
and peanuts." A dictionary says the word was coined in 1968.
Later GORP became trail mix, only now it had a new ingredient: bits of chocolate.
First chocolate chips, then M&Ms. Now it's climbed to gourmet status with
chocolate covered almonds.
Today it's pure delight taking breaks on the trail. And I take lots of them.
Next, my second weakness. Hotcakes. Only in the outdoors can these be called
flapjacks. Nothing is finer than a batter of Bisquik frying over an open fire.
To be done right, of course, you have to use too much oil so the edges sear
to a burned perfection, the entire concoction oozing with butter. Then they're
only right if you drop them in the dirt.
Chocolate and flapjacks happen enroute and in camp. Then coming out of the
woods, I head for my third weakness. Milkshakes.
Ah, the milkshakes I have known.
I bought myself one up in Eagle Nest after catching a two pound trout. I bought
another after sitting through a terrifying lightening storm one afternoon
in a drippy tent in Montana. Years later when I clambered out of the Gila
Wilderness with some friends, first thing we did was head for a milkshake.
Probably the best shake I ever had was after my mother and I hiked out of
Bandelier. We'd taken the Stone Lion/Painted Cave loop. Besides getting lost
we ran out of water. It was the middle of August. All we could think of as
we finally stumbled out of the canyon was a thick, gooey milkshake. Chocolate,
of course.
When we reached the car, we went immediately to the nearest fast food joint
for milkshakes. If I'm not mistaken, we each had two. It's been years since
we took that famous hike and when we get to reminiscing about it, we always
end up talking about those shakes.
Experts now say that chocolate is no longer the answer for getting energy,
that sugar depletes the body. Now they say it's carbohydrates that produce
energy. This is good. Now I can eat all the hotcakes I want in camp. But I've
been hiking and eating chocolate for 35 years. Think I'm gonna change my ways?
Not a chance.
I'm planning on another 35 years of hiking and you can bet that my pack will
be filled with the most delicious chocolate in the wilderness. For me, it's
the next best reason for being there.
Fly
Fishing with the Pros
Anything
done by a pro looks easy. Fly fishing is no exception. After moving to Pecos
I decided to give it a try. What's a little homesteading without some fishing,
especially when you live right on a river.
My friend Jack is a fisherman. He's caught every imaginable fish there is;
he's even won international tournaments in saltwater fly fishing.
He told me once, "You've never been fishing if you haven't been fly fishing."
And offered to teach me whenever I was ready.
The only fishing I'd done was with a dropline off a pier when I was little.
So when summer rolled around, I invited Jack to come on out. I was thrilled.
Finally, I was going to learn fly fishing. But I'm afraid once things got
underway Jack was a little sorry he'd offered his help.
The contrast between us is more than opposite. Jack was editor of Field and
Stream for 15 years. Now retired, he travels the world fishing. What he knows
about the outdoors and especially about fishing have already filled 20 books.
What I knew about fly fishing ran along the line of thinking a wet fly was
merely a dry fly that had gotten a little wet. I honestly don't think he had
any idea what he'd gotten himself into.
He probably got his first clue when he handed me the rod.
"Hold it in your left hand. No, the rod. No, the line. I mean, your right
hand."
Next came the casting. If you've done any fly fishing, you can guess what
happened next. Tossing that itty-bitty piece of fuzz right where you want
it to go is a much more delicate matter than it looks. I managed to toss it
everywhere I didn't want it to go--in trees, on bushes, around rocks. On one
exceptionally good cast I caught my hat.
When I'd lost enough flies to feed a whole school of trout, Jack finally told
me how to tie on my own. And he wouldn't turn me loose until I could tie that
one certain knot. I ended up doing it perfectly--when Jack was watching. As
soon as he went down river, I couldn't remember a thing. So I used the knot
I tie my horse with, figuring if it could hold 1,000 pounds, it could hold
a trout.
I continued catching twigs and leaves, my jacket, a log floating by. But Jack
wasn't about to give up on me. A friend of his is a guide on the San Juan
River in Northern New Mexico. The river is one of the primo fly fishing spots
in the west. They invited me to go along, both determined to teach me the
art of fly fishing.
I did end up catching some sizeable trout, using both dry and wet flies. (I
finally learned the difference). But as for the art of it, I was still a long
ways from being graceful. All day long whenever I was ready to cast they'd
yell, "There she goes. Duck." Besides catching trout, I was still
pretty good at catching sunglasses and hats.
I continue walking down to the river every once in awhile to try my luck at
catching my meal. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. If I could eat branches,
I'd never go hungry. At a party recently I got to talking with a fellow fly
fisherman. We talked about the latest rise, the latest hatch. When I explained
who'd taught me, he was very impressed. "Wow, that's like having God
teach you how to pray."
Some parallels can be drawn. I mean, not everyone can fall a boat load of
people to their knees, praying I won't snag their ears.
