Difficulties? What difficulties?
"What a drag it is getting old."
That's a recurring refrain from the Rolling Stones' song, "Mother's Little Helper." It perfectly sums up what the Three Amigos were thinking before this year's Annual Road Trip (ART).
All three of us had some medical issue that looked like it was going to interfere with our 16th ART. No need to go into details but it did cast a shadow over the viability of the three of us climbing into our trusty boat, The Three Bettys, and heading off into the middle of a large and remote lake on a tribal reservation up north.
But like all life's challenges, you have to figure out a few things ahead of time, learn to adapt, graciously accept a helping hand now and again, and not worry too much about what anyone else might think as you clamber out of the boat on all fours. As a former Prime Minister of Australia always used to say when he made some risky political move: "Crash through or crash!"
And when we were finally out in the middle of that remote lake our common thought was: what the hell, we're on the trip, we're catching fish and we are surrounded by magnificent forests and mountains. What's not to like?
Back to Bussard Lake
The transition from Washington D.C. to the wilds of Washington State never fails to amaze Wayne and me on these annual pilgrimages to the West.
Once again we are staying in Linda's little cabin overlooking Bussard Lake. From the deck we watch the horses grazing at the water's edge, breathe in the wafting scent of freshly mown grass and lilac trees, and stare in wonder at the hazy blue mountains in the distance. And if all this is not enough, a few days after our arrival, we watch a large Elk plunge into the lake and swim across to the other side.
As always, a warm welcome from Rich and Yvette awaited us. And this year there is an added bonus--Rich's daughter, Dominique, is visiting from Las Vegas. The last time I saw Dominique was in Manila in the mid-70s when she was about three years old. I remember her being cute, talkative, full of energy and wildly adventurous. Nothing has changed--seriously!
Wayne sprang into action and made one of his famous Manhattans for each of us. That started the reunion rolling and we then sat down to a wonderful dinner that Yvette had prepared. I think Yvette and I might have finished a bottle of wine together. I vaguely remember wandering (stumbling?) back to the cabin after dinner and being entranced by the night sky. We sure weren't in Kansas (or D.C.) any more.
Back to Waitts Lake
I do realize that these annual blogs contain many common elements--lakes, fish, endless reminiscences, crazy moments, horses, cigars and the odd Manhattan--but each year seems to be more golden and more suffused with light and memories than the last year. Perhaps that is one of the joys of growing older. You tend to live more in the moment, find joy in simple things, and cherish every moment you can spend with loved ones and dear friends.
So, heading off for Waitts Lake for our first fishing expedition felt very familiar but also special in a way I cannot describe. After sixteen years of doing many of the same things on our ARTs, I can only say that they just get better and better. Bussard Lake and Waitts Lake are dear old friends--and to take a quote from Shakespeare wildly out of context: "age cannot wither them, nor custom stale, their infinite variety."
Whatever difficulties we might have anticipated were quickly forgotten. The Commodore backed the boat into the water with uncanny ease and great aplomb. As the volunteer "wet" guy, I waded in and pulled the boat to the small "boarding" wall to the right of the boat ramp. I was the first to climb into the boat but with my bad knee (yes, I had a ripped meniscus), I sort of fell in and landed on my back in the prow of the boat. This was not a good omen and, indeed, foretold further indignities at other points on our fishing ventures. More on that later. Rich and Wayne came on board effortlessly and we took off for the middle of the lake.
The Commodore was the first to catch a good size Rainbow Trout. As the guy in charge of the boat and the one responsible for all the tricky maneuvers which enable good fishing, this was a favorable omen. Wayne was the next to catch a Rainbow and it was more than a good size. After last year's terrible fishing tribulations which nearly drove him to despair, this early catch put him in a jubilant mood which lasted for the whole trip. Phew!
Meanwhile, in the prow of the boat, the official Photographer and Treasurer, was not having any luck at all. I was not saying anything just in case the other two had not noticed that my hook was not connecting to any fish. Dear Lord, was I going to go through the same fish drought that Wayne had experienced last year? But his drought ended in glory. He caught two or three whoppers on Twin Lakes at the end of the trip. Would that be my uplifting story too?
I won't keep you in suspense. I hardly caught five or six fish during the whole ten days we were in Washington State. Based upon the cost of the outrageous "out of State" fishing license fee, each of my fish cost $14!!
Apart from the Commodore's wry remark that "Newport is not doing so well today," nothing else was said about my paltry contribution to the final catch that day of 15 trout (5 for each fisherman) ordained by Washington State's miserly fishing regulations. So what, I didn't catch many fish. But this is a team effort so I just rejoice in the team's overall take which was 50 plus trout this year. Not a bonanza like some years but perfectly respectable for Three (Old) Men in a Boat!
Cigar Night
Yet another annual ritual. At some point in the last sixteen years, Wayne instituted the Cigar Night routine. While I don't remember the Commodore ever indulging in a cigar, Yvette and I happily join in even though we don't smoke. And we both agree that if you are going to smoke a cigar you might as well inhale and get the real experience. Wayne and many other cigar smokers would not agree. I suppose if you smoke cigars all the time, inhaling might not be such a good idea.
We went down to the dock one fine evening with our cigars and several Manhattans which Wayne had made and set ourselves up for the "cigar night." The Commodore did not join us because he was "taking rest" after dinner and planning the next day's fishing.
This year Wayne produced the very best cigars we have ever had--and those have included a number of fancy Cuban cigars. I think the ones we had this year were from Honduras. They were so rich and utterly smooth that you almost felt like you might have another one--but don't worry, common sense prevailed. The length of ash that accumulates at the end of your cigar supposedly indicates its quality. If that is true, these cigars were the ultimate!
It was a beautiful calm evening on Bussard Lake. Just sitting there puffing away, sipping our Manhattans and imbibing the extraordinary view, we came as close as possible to experiencing a genuine Zen moment. But now I come to think about it, Zen is probably not a good allusion--how many Buddhist monks have you seen smoking Honduran cigars? Let's just say it was a heavenly moment, although there is no reliable evidence of cigar smoking in heaven either. (In hell, maybe)?
Twin Lakes
If you are an avid reader of this blog (at least three other people are!), you would know that last year we finally convinced the Commodore to take us to Twin Lakes for a day trip. This is up north on a tribal reservation. He had often mentioned that he and his Dad and sometimes Uncle Wayne (Linda's dearly departed hubby) had gone fishing there with very good results. And it turned out that the fishing was truly excellent.
So, this year we decided to book a fishing cabin for two nights which would give us about 2.5 days of fishing on the northern lake of Twin Lakes. We headed for the Trillium Ferry which takes you across the Columbia River, which is very inconveniently placed in your way if you are wanting to go north. Unfortunately, we discovered that the road to the ferry was being repaired after the savage winter snows and freezes. Bummer. We had to do a 20 mile detour to get to the ferry but finally crossed the mighty Columbia River. As we drove off on the other side saw this sign. (Read last year's blog for an explanation of the various tribes who live on the Colville Tribal Reservation).
We signed in and found our little fishing cabin, right down on the lake's edge. Glorious views from the deck sort of made up for the lack of Ritz-Carlton comfort within. I mean you should not expect too much from a fishing cabin in the N.E. of Washington State or Montana or Idaho or even Canada. At least this did not have offensive words and symbols carved into the walls like one old and crusty cabin we stayed in when at Lake Mary Ronan up in Montana. (You don't want to know that you are sleeping in the self-same bunk where Billy and Moira found unbridled happiness)!
As usual, there was some discussion of who would get the two bedrooms as opposed to the pull-out sofa in the living/dining/kitchen space. Sadly, it has become a tradition that the guy with the strange British accent doesn't get a bedroom. Even more so based on my lousy fish catch so far. However, I was surprised to find that the sofa proved to be a lot more comfortable than the racks in the Tower of London--and came with sheets and blankets which were absent in those good old days.
By the time we arrived it was past 2 o'clock and it was a grey and windy afternoon (see above). The two professional fishermen could not wait to get on the lake even though there was not a single boat out there on that vast expanse of water. I decided that I would rather cook dinner which I had planned ahead. I was going to make a great beef stew and had brought Yvette's fancy Instant Pot with me to make life simple.
So, while the Boyz went out fishing, I started cutting big chunks of chuck beef, and chopping onions, garlic, red peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms, etc. But horror of horrors when I opened the Instant Pot I discovered there was NO pot inside the Instant Pot! What? The damn thing was back at Bussard Lake. I have to admit that I might have used a few expletives but this was a fishing camp and I don't think anyone really cared. Mind you, they wouldn't understand disgusting Scouse swear words anyway!
What did I say at the beginning of this blog about "learning to adapt?" So, I had to use a battered saucepan that looked like it might have been used for target practice during the Civil War and just hope that the beef would get tender in the next five hours of stewing. (The Instant Pot does it in 45 minutes).
The Boyz came home after about 3 hours on the cold, windy lake with news that the fishing was a bit "slow." These are the weasel words used when you don't want to jinx fishing the next day. Just as well I was not depending on a fish catch for dinner. I can't honestly remember whether the stew turned out OK but nobody died of food poisoning or came down with Mad Cow disease at a later date.
The next morning was radically different. Bright sunshine, no wind, and a vast expanse of calm blue water and a cloudless blue sky. We were blessed. Our boat was tied up at one of the largest docks (see above) I have ever seen on any of our fishing trips. And a lot of old geezers were sitting out there fishing off the dock. Oh no, I thought, if I fall into the boat again and lie there with my legs in the air, I am going to be mortally embarrassed. And what about getting out with my gammy knee on all fours. And all this anxiety was mixed in with a feeling that I was not going to get any fish--even on this legendary lake. Don't tell anyone that I was thinking this way. A defeatist mentality is easily communicated to fish and they tend to hide.
Well, as it turned out, I did catch one really good fish and another not so sizeable fish but that was it for the day. Of course, the fish would be absolutely delicious to eat and, ironically, the smaller fish taste better than the big guys who have been around for a while. But for this amateur fisherman, SIZE does matter. Rich and Wayne were having a very good day and kept catching and hauling them in for several hours that morning. And in the afternoon when we went out again and I got nothing.
I did not whine or anything, just sobbed quietly at the front of the boat while my two fishing companions were pulling up big ones and plunking them down in the ice box where they thrashed around and several times knocked the lid off. It was really too much to bear. Now I know what FOMO means but this was even worse. I had acute and unbearable NDFAS. You don't know what that is? It is listed in the U.S. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Yes, you guessed it, I was suffering from the painful and incurable No Damn Fish Again Syndrome!
But when they are dead, I can sort of get used to touching them, although now and again you come across one that suddenly flaps its tail on the operating table and scares the bejeezus out of you. So, I cut, gutted and cleaned all the fish that day. Although Rich and Wayne didn't say anything, I knew that I must have done a good job because they didn't complain about the state of the fish afterwards. But I knew that they thought I was a failed fisherman. No wonder I always get the pull-out sofa. I deserve it.
The next day was our last day at Twin Lakes. Surely, I would catch something to make this trip worthwhile? But no, it was not to be. I think I might have caught something but if I did I have forgotten it now. Nothing to record. We drove home and I sat in the back of the truck wondering whether I should throw myself out and garner a bit of sympathy from my more successful fishing companions. But I couldn't get the door open. Man, I was a total failure.
The Newport Rodeo
Rich and Yvette had bought us great seats for the Newport Rodeo. Yes, there is a nearby town called Newport and every year they have a big rodeo. Professional rodeo riders from all over the country come to the Newport Rodeo. We were on one of the grandstands with an excellent view of the whole spectacular show. I have to say that this was the highlight of the trip and for a city slicker like me it was an absolutely riveting show.
First come the cowgirls galloping around the stadium at maximum speed, all glittering, all smiling and all doing their little rodeo wave as they pass by. They are followed by cowboys and then riders with various flags of the United States, Canada, and the various States or other towns which were sending their best professional riders for the rodeo.
This was followed by cowboys on bucking broncos, guys on mad bulls, a woman standing on two horses galloping through rings of fire, cowpokes roping young steers, riders hurtling around an obstacle course making impossible turns and, finally, a large team of horses without riders thundering around the stadium. It was an epic night and I was blown away by the skill of these amazing riders, men and women, and the magnificent horses who carried out their commands to perfection. And that mad bull was really, really mad! I don't think I would try that even if I was offered a million buckaroos. Besides, you would probably not live to enjoy your million dollars.
I just regret that Terry and Regee are not with us to experience this gastronomic nirvana. Maybe the photos of our fishing cabins and outdoor dunnies have not attracted them to the great outdoors? And of course, sitting in a boat listening to Wayne's chiuaua jokes and Schtaz's views on GATT and college basketball for hours on end, might also be a disincentive? But they really don't understand what they are missing.
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