I first kind of realized that my uncle and cousins were into the sport of fly fishing during a nice chat with my grandfather. I was still heavily into spin cast fishing and lake fishing. The rivers and work of fly fishing never took to me. Anyway, back to the story, the boys were packing for a trip to go down the Gunnison for a three day tour. They were rigging up for the trip and a horseback ride down the Black Canyon, now a national park, to the take off point on the river. My loving grandfather just shook his head, "Why in the world would they need all that wine and beer? They are not going to make it down there with all the crap." I just nodded my head and realistically agreed, poor horses. Every day of their trip we would sit out on the porch and see thunderclouds over the canyon, and grandpa would say, "Boy they are gettin' a rainin' on now." I would just nod my head and agree wholeheartedly. It turned out that the trip went great and everything went well, not much rain to speak of and a great time to be had, and I just had to smile.
Uncle Maury had always talked to me about getting into fly fishing. I always drug my feet, "Yeah, when I get the money.....maybe." About a month after my grandmother had died, I decided that a recreational sport would be nice to take up. Well Unky Maury a.k.a. Pops, Scrappy, the Silver Fox, Grey Fox, Mr. Ed, (well that is not one of the most common ones but it would fit appropriately), took me fly fishing gear shopping. I purchased a Scientific Anglers starter kit; pole , reel, backing, fly line, tippet and leaders all for $69.99. The boots, $29.99, waders $49.99; and accessories, well Maury threw in for those, and I was the cock of the walk ready to slay some fish. One small thing, I had no idea what the hell I was doing with all of this shit!
Ole Pops came through from the beginning. He taught me the essentials, knots, and more knots. I now and then get a little radical and go away from what was taught initially, but it always seems to come back to what I was taught from the start, the nail knot (which only takes me a brisk 30 minutes now), surgeons knot, and improved clinch. What they mean by the name of the knots, I don't really know but they work and look pretty when you tie them right. As for casting, Pops, my Zen master, showed me the way. It was in the front yard, but nonetheless I learned the basics, don't get hooked on a blade of grass, the apple is not your friend, and don't cast around your neighbors, they are all going to laugh at you! Humility is also a good thing to be taught also!
Now it was time to get some action, get my fly wet, flip my rod a little.... a lot, and see if I could catch a brown trout. Hmmmmm. The Gunnison river was the first spot I had the pleasure to fish. Little did I know that I had a fishing Mecca in my own back yard. Let alone the fishing, it had a nice little four wheel drive road to get where we start fishing. Fishing , four wheeling , drinking a beer, what more could you ask for? Well, forget the last part of the question.
The first day out with my Uncle and I, we busted ass fishing, or so I thought. I caught a few fish, including a brown about 18 to 20 inches, that is guy inches. After a few more little ones I was hooked forever. When seeing a trout come up and slurp up your dry fly and hook him, it is just truly amazing to see! By the end of the day a couple of Browns caught, a few wind knots, a killing lower back pain, and my left forearm ready to fall off, we decided to head home for the day. When we headed out of the canyon there was a possibility that my cousin Michael would be meeting us after some business, I never thought anything about it, but when I did, at the end of the day, I prayed not to see him. But no, oh no, I saw a white Landcruiser coming down a hill with the sun at it's back like some Clint Eastwood movie and I knew who it was. My wonderful cousin. We backed down the hill and stopped to say, "Hey". "Let's get some dries in on this lower stretch.", Mike replied. It was like acid in my veins when I heard that. Okay, so I slap on my waders, boots, and rig up again. Again, my back killed me and I couldn't feel my left arm, but I was eager to get out and catch some more fish. Thanks Mike.
Now don't get me wrong, I am not a prejudice kind of guy, fly fishing and spinning have their own great qualities. I had now learned to differentiate them: Spinning; sit on a bank and watch your pole while eating sunflower seeds, drinking a beer, and throwing rocks at your little cousin, a good thing. Fly fishing; now walk up and down freezing cold, stern, ball shriveling waters, flipping line back and forth constantly hoping to see a fish slurp a fly, and drinking a beer. Regressing? Maybe. For the better? Most definitely.
After my first trip on the Gunny and a few more after that, I thought that I would tag along for the next trip with the "Boys". I had heard a few stories about the fun and fishing when the annual fishing trip occurred. I had to give it a whirl and see what it was all about. I thought, "What's the worst thing that could happen?"
Uncle Scrappy, cousin Mike and Josh were in Durango for the start of the fishing trip. I decided to meet them there after work and we would let the chips fall where they may after that. My directions to get to the Jarvis Suites, where we were staying, were to go down to Main Street and turn right at the El Rancho bar. Little did I know they shut Main Street off for some sort of fair, maybe a county fair. You know the kind, carnival/carnies, and booths full of very unusual stuff you would only buy for your inlaws. There must have been a rodeo too, judging by the belt buckles seen that were the size of Volkswagen hubcaps! Anyway, back on task, I finally got to the suites on some side roads and a half an hour of driving around. Come to find out the Boys were at a bar down the street and I was to meet them there. The name escapes me at this moment but, anyway, I hopped on down to the quaint little place admiring the beautiful and eclectic scenery. I turned the corner and recognized the name of the bar and the three times I drove by it looking for the Jarvis. I made it up the first step into the bar only to be tackled by my uncle at the door, "Todders!" Here we go! I got to see cousin Josh next, lightly toasted, and cousin Mike next, burnt toast. It is funny, I asked Uncle Scrappy and Josh about the name of the bar I met them at later in the year, but they couldn't remember. But, what they did remember, as Josh put it, "I can't remember but, Mike was toast." Maury put it, "I don't remember the name but we were all drunk!"
Now you have to know that cousin Mike, a.k.a. Kid Kratic, is a legend in his imbibing, in my book and everyone else's. When I am ready to go nighty night, he is getting his second wind and ready for the rest of the night. I have to take advantage of this time to tell one on him for the thirty he has on me. I had a little lead on him, not drinking until I got there. I did try to do my best to catch up and get into the groove. After a few stories, a pull on my beard or two, some pool games and on amazing story about Mike's masse on the pool table that day. I had succeeded to look just as fuzzy as they did.
After 10 or 15 games of pool and a drink or two per game, we decided to get some sustenance, not a Guinness stout beer but food. Randy's was the spot to go and enjoy a nice atmosphere and great food. There was talk about a wonderful waitress we needed to get at Randy's, a Katie I believe. No Katie to turn up that night but good food did. I can't remember what Josh and Scrappy had, but I remember a Bombay Sapphire and tonic, and shrimp and chicken pasta, which was wonderful. Mike had a prime rib, I believe. Great too, I snuck a few bites, or maybe I didn't sneak and Mike just didn't care.
After we were satiated and ready to hit the town and have some fun, we decided to go to a photo shop and get a group picture taken. Okay, no problem for me. All this place did was old west garb and authentic looking pictures, outstanding, I was pumped for that. That last time I had a picture taken like that was when I was about six with my mother and a renewal would be kindly appreciated. I had a feeling we were in trouble for the rest of the night when three lovely young girls proceeded to make fun of cousin Josh and his, "Tevas". They announced that he was wearing, "Tevaass", in a rich pompous accent, that had us all rolling. We didn't really have any comeback to a couple smart ass but funny kids for that night anyway.
Our turn was up to get the pic taken and history captured. Our photo lady was a good looking gal with the possibility of having a whip behind the counter. She got us all straightened out and ready to go, despite hits and pickup lines from all of us. Questions abounded if she was AC, DC or both. Our picture consisted of a group of uncommonly western well traveled, and educated misfits. Scrappy had a double barrel shotgun looking like a cross between a cattle rustler and a disgruntled teacher. Mike looked like a gun slinging loan shark ready to sell the New Territory to the highest bidder. Josh was the baby faced financier that ruled with an iron fist. And me, a weasley little bastard here to baffle you with bullshit and to steal your daughter. Picture taken, another moment in history, next stop the Summit.
By about the time we hit the Summit, a wonderful bar in downtown Durango, I was ready to go Ba Ba Ni Ni Blankey, as Kratic would say it. We had a few more beers while playing pool when I fell in love, check, in lust with the "Joy" of my life. Joy Wilson and her band just so happened to be playing there that very night. She has a wonderful mind piercing voice. She reminds me of a cross between Natalie Merchant and a folksy version of Stevie Nicks mostly Natalie, weird combo but when done right, voila--- Joy Wilson. I vowed to find some of her music and get a chance to hear her again, of course this was all in a drunken lusty haze. Thanks to Kid Kratic, he found two CD's of her's that are out now. Unfortunately for us lowly greenies, she took her band up to Seattle to, "make it big". Good luck , hope you come back to your roots and I just so happen to be there. So concluded the night of ill repute; a walk to the "no tell motel", (which I don't remember well), a few beers left over in the fridge and a wonderful sleep.
The next morning our wake up call was at seven in the A.M. We didn't ask for it but that is when the first Narrow Gauge Railroad departs on one of its daily trips. This among about three others, we figure, go up to Silverton and come back down to Durango seeing great scenery for the day. Our next agenda was to get food for the trip. After stumbling around the suite and catching showers, I think I surpassed mine, we drove to the local Albertson's to load up. And I mean load up. I figure we didn't miss one aisle without leaving that particular aisle with at least five items each time. Go figure 20 aisles, five items an aisle, hmmmm. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating, ...four items an aisle.
After it was all said and done, we broke a few deadly sins:
Gluttony- close to a 600 dollar bill.
Sloth- bought firewood for the first time in my life for?
Lust- well lay that one on me for the Joy factor.
There were a few vital life lessons that I learned that day while grocery shopping: I learned that free spinach dip and wheat crackers in the deli, is a savior and great for hangovers, you need to go to the liquor store first on Saturdays so you won't have to buy 3.2 beer on Sundays and have to deal with grumpy old farts in the future in other areas of the land. I also learned that Mike and Scrappy's shopping list was better contrived than the war plans for Desert Storm.
The next step was to load up the vehicles. There was a lot of shit to pack. Oh, but little me, why should I worry. No problem, I forgot that Scrappy can pack fifty pounds of shit in a ziploc and still have room for a bologna sandwich. With the newly anointed Toyota Landcruiser, Chevy Tahoe, and Toyota Hilux packed to the hilt, not only with commodities, but with memories and fun to be had, we embarked on the journey which many tales could be weaved. We just had to add a little fishing, campfire conversation and what more could you ask for, except, well maybe, the Swedish fly fishing bikini team!
