Dear Friend,
After our conversation last week I have been unable to escape the one thing that really bothered me. This is an unhealthy habit of mine. The truth is that I thought the conversation was good, and that we had more in common than not, but there is a main point that I want you to understand about me that I may not have made clear.
As you introduced me to your friend you did so defining me as a Libertarian. I had just told you that I was closer to Libertarian than Republican, but I am no Libertarian. I think my problem with politics right now centers on this very frustrating point. I am not a respecter of people, parties, factions or special interest groups! As an individual, I choose to define myself in very different terms. I am a father, husband, brother, conservative, manager, student, Christian, beekeeper with a background in education and science. All of these important roles that I play depend on one thing, and that is my ability to pursue happiness by the dictates of my own conscience. The only “political” title that I would ascribe to myself, if it is a political title, is that of American. If you will humor me for a minute I would like to explain why defining me by political party is almost offensive.
Over the past 16 years, coincidentally my entire ‘adult’ life, I have been disappointed with the political machine of this country. I have watched while both sides of a two sided game fight over and for things I don’t agree with and in fact find repulsive. They have set the rules for the game, refereed the game, coached the game, and played in the game, making it perhaps the most dishonest ‘game’ one could imagine, full of conflicts of interest. While I have supported politicians, and even parties in the past, it has always been half hearted and with the knowledge that the individual I support would act in his or her own self interest and against my will. I get that it is an imperfect system and that I may not always be right, I can and have lived with that, but I really want to believe that there is a better way to do this.
All of that said, something dawned on me about 18 months ago. The people that define this game have set it up so that you and I, the ‘spectators’ of the game, have a choice that looks like this:
Democrats----------------------------------------------------------------------------Republicans
On one side we see the earth loving, politically correct, social leftists that are interested in spending other peoples money in order to feel good about not voluntarily donating their own. In short, Democrats. On the other side you have the business loving, selfish, individual righties that would watch school kids go without lunch and the elderly die alone in a trailer park before they lifted a finger to help. Affectionately calling themselves Republicans. I say B as in B and S as in S! We only believe these things because those that have chosen to rule over us have defined it this way. The people I know don’t fit nicely in either category. The terms of the game have been dictated to us and they are at best inaccurate, and at worst down right dishonest. I have come to believe that in the scheme of political movements the scale looks more like this.
Totalitarianism------Democrats---Republicans---------------Founding Fathers----Anarchy
The Founding Fathers of this country understood two things very well. First, they new that there needed to be a way for the people to defend themselves, negotiate with other nations, and to settle disputes between neighbors. In short, they understood that there needed to be a governing body. They also understood, very well, what a government with too much power looked like. They had lived without freedom, and there were those that believed any government would be too much. The years of pain and suffering that would define our nation came to pass as a conflicted group of men made impossible decisions that tried to marry two opposing forces. What they came up with, as Benjamin Franklin would explain to a woman who asked, was “A Republic… If you can keep it”.
Understandably the Founding Fathers tried to shield the people from the uncontrollable hand of government, and to protect the precious freedom for which the country had bled. They turned out a government that was as close to the anarchy line as they could push it. They warned, coaxed and plead with people to remember the principles under which they had formed this government. Without them, they were convinced, as am I, that a government, by and for the people would fail.
I am sorry if this sounds like I am trying to teach you something you already know. The truth is, it is this message that has reshaped my political leanings and has helped to frame my political arguments. I am an American, in every way, I love the ideal that was set by our Founding Fathers. As I understand it, the principles that were nearest and dearest to the founders are the ones that I personally believe in, and would be willing to sacrifice my own desires to see accomplished.
My ideology is not one of a party, but one of my country and by extension one of principle. Principles like patriotism, love of God, family, honesty, life, frugality, charity, personal sovereignty, personal responsibility and the pursuit of happiness.
It would be a good time to discuss those principles, in detail, here, but I actually want you to read this, and that discussion could be an entire book. If you would like to have that conversation, please let me know and I would be happy to expound on the principles that I believe in. That is why when you ask me to describe my political belief I have a hard time wrapping it up in a sound bite.
I do know that the D’s and R’s are out of my life. I will not carry the water for a game that is cooked. The D’s and R’s are going to the same place, and both are on the wrong side of the spectrum. I will vote for the person that acts like a founder, or that has, in his or her life, espoused the principles that are important to me, in their actions.
It is my belief that when we ground ourselves in principle, then all of these silly little issues that we struggle with become much easier to deal with. With a clear understanding of what we believe, the crap that they want us to hear becomes much clearer, and we might even be able to concentrate on what really matters.
Please understand, I am interested in associating with YOU. This is not an issue of D’s and R’s, unless we let them define us that way. I am and will remain an American, same as you, so long as the flag stands for the principles that we share, and not for a governing party, or an individual that seeks power over us. I put my ideology ahead of party in the last election, and I did not contribute or campaign for McCain as a matter of principle. After what I have seen from the current administration I will not contribute or campaign for them either. Unless things ‘change’ quickly I fear the principles I care so much about will disappear from our leadership completely and our voices will grow smaller.
If you made it to this point, thank you for reading and I hope that you better understand me and where I stand politically. I enjoy our political banter and respect you for your defense of what you believe. We can and ought to have open dialogs, and I hope to hear a stirring rebuttal from you soon.
Sincerely,
Your American Friend
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
LIFE
Dad came in my room at 5:00 a.m. and announced too loudly for the hour, “Rise and Shine Its Daylight in the Swamps!” This was his typical morning entrance to my room, and he always wore a Cheshire cat grin on his face when he did it. He had learned to bolster like his father, and even at the age of forty-something he was proud of his ability to mimic his old man. Unlike most mornings, I did not have to be asked twice. I got out of bed and pulled on my cloths enthusiastically. By the time I had reached the kitchen, my kid brother Ben, and his annoying best friend, Brett, were sitting at the table making disgusting noises and laughing about bodily functions.
Ben was three years, three months and 6 days my junior. If you are forced to have a little brother, in my opinion, that is the perfect spread. Ben was young enough not to question my position as the stronger, smarter, and in general superior sibling. That said, he was close enough in age to be relatively entertaining on occasion. We got along better than most other brothers I knew, and I didn’t mind having him around for the most part. Brett on the other hand brought out the worst in Ben. Separated, they were good kids, but together they were the most vile, disgusting, morbid human beings on the planet. I would like for this to be a family narrative so I will respectfully bypass the details of their adventures, but suffice it to say I seldom hung out with the two of them at the same time. Today would be… interesting.
We ate a quick breakfast, and loaded up the car. By 5:30 we were picking up Grandpa Mac from his house in ‘the burbs’. Grandpa Mac wore a permanent grin on his lips and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He was an imposing man, 6 feet 3 inches tall and I bet he tipped the scales at, at least, 250. He had a thin white mustache that shaded his upper lip and despite his advancing years, the ground shook when he walked by. Grandpa Mac was, if nothing else, predictable. The flannel shirt was earth tones and completely understated, the cowboy hat was grey, nothing flashy and always had a sweat ring just beneath the band. He walked on well worn cowboy boots that were sharply pointed at the toe and the belt and buckle were strictly for keeping his pants up.
He strode up to the car and commandeered shotgun from me without having to say a word. As I got out of the car to assume my spot in the back seat with the ‘Disgustotwins’ Grandpa Mac patted me on the back and offered a jovial “good morning son”. He never meant to, but spit shot through his lips every time he spoke and that morning was no different, so I was literally showered with a good morning greeting. That was uniquely Grandpa Mac.
The ride was quiet. Ben and Brett fell asleep, thankfully, and my dad and Grandpa spoke quietly about things I didn’t understand or care to hear about. Once in a while Grandpa would turn and address me as though I was involved in the conversation. I would nod or say something innocuous like ‘oh really?’ to deflect any hint that I was clueless as to what was being said. Had the charade gone on I might have been found out, but I was bailed out by the familiar site of a gas station that lied on the edge of the town of Delta Colorado.
It was a long standing tradition in our family that if we made it across the “Great American Stinking Desert”, a stretch of desolate land located just south of the town of Grand Junction and north of Delta, we would thank the desert gods by purchasing a drink at the local gas station. My dad always made a big production of this part of the trip. He would pretend to be faint, and would announce that he didn’t think it would have been possible, and he wasn’t sure how we had just traversed the 45 miles of alkaline desert, but that he was certain of one thing, we needed to stop and purchase a pop. We were always more than happy to go along with the drama.
This landmark also signified the downhill portion of our trip. We were headed for a day of fishing and hiking in the valley of the Smith Fork River nestled in the southwest portion of the Colorado Rocky Mountains. This had been the home of my ancestors and was still home to some distant relatives that owned the old homestead along the river.
My dad had grown up fishing the river along with his dad, and while I hadn’t spent much time in the valley, it held a special place in my heart. I instinctively understood what this place meant to our family, and looked forward to seeing Needle Rock, the Smith Fork River, and the old, retired, farmhouse that stood in the foreground at the site of the homestead.
The old farm house was used as a storage shed now, but wore the years of use, and memories that had passed by and through it along the way. The building itself looked solid. It was no more than 25 feet long and 20 feet wide, but stood two abbreviated stories high. The windows were small and several of them were broken. I was never invited to go inside, but I remember imagining what was on the other side of those doors, and how things might have looked from the other side of those windows. At a family reunion once, I was shown several pictures of the homestead in its prime. One picture was taken from outside the building, and apparently after my forefathers had been hunting. I remember seeing a line of elk that had been killed on the hunt, there must have been a dozen of them. They stretched form one end of the building to the other and Imagined the smiling faces that must have been looking on.
We arrived at the homestead at 7:30 a.m., discouragingly late in the day for my grandpa’s liking. On cue I shot from the car and anxiously looked around for trouble. Ben and Brett began to feel the effects of the root beer they were drinking, and started back in on the art of flatulence. Dad, stood up from the car and predictably stretched out his arms, simultaneously groaning loudly, think Chewbacca from Star Wars. I then watched as a ritual that I had only heard about unfolded.
Dad told me that he seldom fished with his own father, but that he had gone fishing with him often as a child. That didn’t make sense to me until I watched as grandpa gathered his equipment, and headed for the river, with a wink to me and a nod to my dad. That was it. No commentary, no invitations to go with him, he just wandered off into the river and headed up stream. Dad didn’t bother with his gear; there would be time for fishing later. He rounded up the three boys and we headed down stream and away from grandpa.
We crossed the river, headed up a steep hill on the far side, and caught up with a trail that led to some good climbing rocks. We climbed rocks, jumped caverns, and felt the thrill of near death experiences that only life on the edge of a mountain can offer. While we climbed, dad wandered off to explore. After about an hour, he called out for us to come quick. Hopeful that we would see something incredible we raced to my fathers’ side.
He stood by the side of a swiftly moving runoff stream, full of clear beautiful water headed for the river. It was no more than three foot deep at its deepest and about 6 to 8 feet across, but it looked daunting. I was shocked when my dad suggested that we go for a swim. I wasn’t prepared, I had protested. We don’t have trunks, no towels… Then my dad singled me out and challenged. “What are you a wimp?! Take off your cloths and jump in, that is what we did when I was a kid.”
In my mind I thought, ‘you must have been reared by Neanderthals’, the truth was that I was uncomfortable with my body, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to show anyone my underwear! The thought of it all was horrifying, and my internal audience was screaming, “This is socially unacceptable!” Yet somewhere deep inside me I realized that I was in the water already. I was just putting off the inevitable.
I justified what was going to happen like this. The day was already terribly hot, the water did look refreshing, and here was my dad not just allowing me to go in, but taunting me. I began to disrobe. My father looked pleased, Ben and Brett looked surprised, but soon we were all in our underwear and moving toward the bank of the stream. We spent several precious seconds daring each other to be the first to go in, but I put one big tow in the water and realized why my dad, was laughing behind me. The pain shot through my entire body! The water could not have been colder!
Now pride was on the line. Ben followed my lead and realized the dilemma we were in. The look on his face was priceless, his eyes bugged out, as he fought for the breath that had been taken from him by the cold water. Brett, was less ambitious and after feeling how cold the water was, announced that he wouldn’t be accompanying us on this adventure. My dad was laughing hard but continued to press us to do this horrible thing.
Something in Brett’s fear, and Ben’s pain emboldened me, and instinctively, I new that it was my obligation as the oldest, to lead my minions into the water. I grasped for every ounce of courage I had, and threw myself into the center of the creek, landing in a curled up position so that Ben and Brett wouldn’t be able to escape the spray.
I would have screamed as the pain shot through my body, but my breath had completely and utterly left me. I came up gasping and drowning in 2 feet of water, and I fought to make it to my feet, which were stinging and pulsing beneath me. While I had done this in an effort to lead Ben and Brett into the creek, I was most anxious to see how my father would respond. I gathered myself as quickly as I could and I immediately found my fathers face. He looked concerned, or surprised by my actions, but in a blink of an eye, I saw what I had hoped for. Pride.
Ben must have seen it to, because in about as much time as it takes a fly to find a cow pie, Ben was in the water experiencing the same pain and anguish that I was. Brett, reluctantly, wouldn’t be out done. The three of us took turns putting our heads under the water and went through a series of breathless dares and trash talk before calling uncle. I believe that the entire episode lasted less than five minutes. The chill would last the rest of the day. We crawled out of the creek and laid on a nearby, rock that had been baking in the sun, to dry off, and then headed down the hill back to the Smith Fork River.
It took anther hour to find Grandpa Mac. We rounded a bend in the river and there he was, standing in the middle of the river with his creel slung over his left shoulder and pole in his right hand. I didn’t think of my grandpa as a fisherman and I suspect he never saw himself that way either, but I do remember how peaceful he looked standing in knee high water, doing something that he loved. I remember how beautiful the setting was, and I believed that there was not a better way to spend a day.
Like any annoying kids, Ben and Brett started in a chorus of what’d you catch?! Grandpa told us that he had released what he had caught. They were disappointed, but I was frustrated. This was a disturbing concept to me. I couldn’t believe that he would spend so much time trying to catch something just to let it go. Grandpa Mac would later explain that it is called ‘fishing’ not ‘catching’, and that the joy of the sport was in an objective that seemed counter intuitive. The simple explanation and the romance of the setting made the objective seem reasonable.
As we made our way through the river and back to the car, Grandpa Mac remarked that the river didn’t seem to have as many fish in it as it had had in the past. This line of conversation seemed to wake up my dad. He began a discourse on the devastating effects of ‘Whirling Disease’ on the fish populations in Colorado and commented on how the disease had dictated the bag limit that year. He continued to explain how the disease works in the fish’s body and the life cycle of the parasites that are responsible. I listened and was in awe of his breadth of knowledge, and entertained by the cadence of his voice. He was excited, and it was clear to me that he had found his comfort zone. I don’t think grandpa cared very much about whirling disease or the anatomy of fish, but he grunted once in a while to let my dad know that he was still listening.
My dad is a scientist. He grew up a serious nerd, but found his stride in college and turned his inordinate fondness for books into a career at the local college teaching nursing and biology students. He is built like my grandpa, but less predictable in his dress. Still, I imagine that others might know by looking at the way he dresses that he is a college professor. To me he always appeared to be put together comfortably and cleanly. That day was no exception.
When we got to the car, we all set down and ate sandwiches that had be prepared by my mother before we left. Peanut butter and jelly tastes a lot better after a tough morning of hiking swimming and climbing. We then set out for Crawford reservoir, which lies above the smith fork valley. According to my dad, were about to get to business. The way he said it we all almost believed that we were off to do serious mans work.
The reservoir was beautiful. The sun beat down on the clear mountain water and green foliage rested on the banks like a halo. The lake wasn’t busy, and we were able to drive right up to the east shore where we unloaded the fishing gear and prepared for business. Grandpa Mac helped me get rigged up while dad worked with Ben and Brett, and in minutes we were watching our bobbers bounce with the waves created by a light wind.
Almost immediately Ben pulled in a small perch that had been just waiting to take his bait. Ben squealed with delight and although he refused to touch the slimy fish he had pulled out of the water, he was more than happy to inform anyone that would listen that he had caught the first fish of the day. The feeling of defeat was palpable. Almost nothing is more deflating than your kid brother showing you up. Unfortunately, things got worse before they got better. Ben and Brett experienced great success, and over the course of what seemed like hours, they made a haul. I tried moving to where they were fishing, nothing. I tried changing my bait, four times, nothing. I prayed, seriously prayed for a fish on my line, nothing. It seemed all was lost, and every second that past felt more painful than the last. My dad must have seen the look on my face and understood the pain I was experiences because he began to offer encouraging words to me.
Ben was understandably enthusiastic about his own success, and was the opposite if empathetic about my situation. He offered a series of taunts regarding my lack of fishing prowess, and thought of ridiculous reasons why I might not be catching any fish. Perhaps you smell bad. Maybe you forgot the hook. Every shot he took hit its target and I was on the verge of unacceptable tears. I choked them back until I was on the brink of exploding when it finally happened.
I saw the bobber drop out of sight and watched as the end of my pole slowly tipped toward the surface of the water. What happened next was less predictable. I flipped out. Adrenaline flooded my veins and in what I can only describe and uncontrollable fury I yanked as hard as my body would allow. The hook had been doing its job approximately 15 or 20 feet of shore, and in the course of about .5 seconds the perch was flying over my head and Grandpa Mac was ducking for cover. The fish landed 20 feet behind me, my dad nearly killed himself laughing, and Grandpa calmed himself down by using words that don’t appear in dictionaries.
When the dust had settled, we went to see the fish I had pulled from its watery home. It lay there on the ground covered in slime and dirt, the gills slowly opening and closing in its last attempts at taking a breath. I had set the hook well my grandpa told me, and it could mean just one thing. This fish would not partake in my grandpa’s catch and release program.
By the end of the day we had all caught a lot of fish. The sun was going down behind the lake and dad announced that it was time to pack up. Ben, Brett and I were exhausted and I’m sure we had no desire to continue, but for some reason we protested.
We pulled back onto the road and headed home in the dark. I recall the smell of fish that clung to my fingers, the sound of Ben and Brett chanting some stupid, nonsensical, rhyme they had come up with, and the sound of my dads voice as he spoke to his father and reflected on the day. I fell asleep on the ride home, but it was involuntary. Given the chance I believe I would have lived that day forever.
Ben was three years, three months and 6 days my junior. If you are forced to have a little brother, in my opinion, that is the perfect spread. Ben was young enough not to question my position as the stronger, smarter, and in general superior sibling. That said, he was close enough in age to be relatively entertaining on occasion. We got along better than most other brothers I knew, and I didn’t mind having him around for the most part. Brett on the other hand brought out the worst in Ben. Separated, they were good kids, but together they were the most vile, disgusting, morbid human beings on the planet. I would like for this to be a family narrative so I will respectfully bypass the details of their adventures, but suffice it to say I seldom hung out with the two of them at the same time. Today would be… interesting.
We ate a quick breakfast, and loaded up the car. By 5:30 we were picking up Grandpa Mac from his house in ‘the burbs’. Grandpa Mac wore a permanent grin on his lips and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He was an imposing man, 6 feet 3 inches tall and I bet he tipped the scales at, at least, 250. He had a thin white mustache that shaded his upper lip and despite his advancing years, the ground shook when he walked by. Grandpa Mac was, if nothing else, predictable. The flannel shirt was earth tones and completely understated, the cowboy hat was grey, nothing flashy and always had a sweat ring just beneath the band. He walked on well worn cowboy boots that were sharply pointed at the toe and the belt and buckle were strictly for keeping his pants up.
He strode up to the car and commandeered shotgun from me without having to say a word. As I got out of the car to assume my spot in the back seat with the ‘Disgustotwins’ Grandpa Mac patted me on the back and offered a jovial “good morning son”. He never meant to, but spit shot through his lips every time he spoke and that morning was no different, so I was literally showered with a good morning greeting. That was uniquely Grandpa Mac.
The ride was quiet. Ben and Brett fell asleep, thankfully, and my dad and Grandpa spoke quietly about things I didn’t understand or care to hear about. Once in a while Grandpa would turn and address me as though I was involved in the conversation. I would nod or say something innocuous like ‘oh really?’ to deflect any hint that I was clueless as to what was being said. Had the charade gone on I might have been found out, but I was bailed out by the familiar site of a gas station that lied on the edge of the town of Delta Colorado.
It was a long standing tradition in our family that if we made it across the “Great American Stinking Desert”, a stretch of desolate land located just south of the town of Grand Junction and north of Delta, we would thank the desert gods by purchasing a drink at the local gas station. My dad always made a big production of this part of the trip. He would pretend to be faint, and would announce that he didn’t think it would have been possible, and he wasn’t sure how we had just traversed the 45 miles of alkaline desert, but that he was certain of one thing, we needed to stop and purchase a pop. We were always more than happy to go along with the drama.
This landmark also signified the downhill portion of our trip. We were headed for a day of fishing and hiking in the valley of the Smith Fork River nestled in the southwest portion of the Colorado Rocky Mountains. This had been the home of my ancestors and was still home to some distant relatives that owned the old homestead along the river.
My dad had grown up fishing the river along with his dad, and while I hadn’t spent much time in the valley, it held a special place in my heart. I instinctively understood what this place meant to our family, and looked forward to seeing Needle Rock, the Smith Fork River, and the old, retired, farmhouse that stood in the foreground at the site of the homestead.
The old farm house was used as a storage shed now, but wore the years of use, and memories that had passed by and through it along the way. The building itself looked solid. It was no more than 25 feet long and 20 feet wide, but stood two abbreviated stories high. The windows were small and several of them were broken. I was never invited to go inside, but I remember imagining what was on the other side of those doors, and how things might have looked from the other side of those windows. At a family reunion once, I was shown several pictures of the homestead in its prime. One picture was taken from outside the building, and apparently after my forefathers had been hunting. I remember seeing a line of elk that had been killed on the hunt, there must have been a dozen of them. They stretched form one end of the building to the other and Imagined the smiling faces that must have been looking on.
We arrived at the homestead at 7:30 a.m., discouragingly late in the day for my grandpa’s liking. On cue I shot from the car and anxiously looked around for trouble. Ben and Brett began to feel the effects of the root beer they were drinking, and started back in on the art of flatulence. Dad, stood up from the car and predictably stretched out his arms, simultaneously groaning loudly, think Chewbacca from Star Wars. I then watched as a ritual that I had only heard about unfolded.
Dad told me that he seldom fished with his own father, but that he had gone fishing with him often as a child. That didn’t make sense to me until I watched as grandpa gathered his equipment, and headed for the river, with a wink to me and a nod to my dad. That was it. No commentary, no invitations to go with him, he just wandered off into the river and headed up stream. Dad didn’t bother with his gear; there would be time for fishing later. He rounded up the three boys and we headed down stream and away from grandpa.
We crossed the river, headed up a steep hill on the far side, and caught up with a trail that led to some good climbing rocks. We climbed rocks, jumped caverns, and felt the thrill of near death experiences that only life on the edge of a mountain can offer. While we climbed, dad wandered off to explore. After about an hour, he called out for us to come quick. Hopeful that we would see something incredible we raced to my fathers’ side.
He stood by the side of a swiftly moving runoff stream, full of clear beautiful water headed for the river. It was no more than three foot deep at its deepest and about 6 to 8 feet across, but it looked daunting. I was shocked when my dad suggested that we go for a swim. I wasn’t prepared, I had protested. We don’t have trunks, no towels… Then my dad singled me out and challenged. “What are you a wimp?! Take off your cloths and jump in, that is what we did when I was a kid.”
In my mind I thought, ‘you must have been reared by Neanderthals’, the truth was that I was uncomfortable with my body, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to show anyone my underwear! The thought of it all was horrifying, and my internal audience was screaming, “This is socially unacceptable!” Yet somewhere deep inside me I realized that I was in the water already. I was just putting off the inevitable.
I justified what was going to happen like this. The day was already terribly hot, the water did look refreshing, and here was my dad not just allowing me to go in, but taunting me. I began to disrobe. My father looked pleased, Ben and Brett looked surprised, but soon we were all in our underwear and moving toward the bank of the stream. We spent several precious seconds daring each other to be the first to go in, but I put one big tow in the water and realized why my dad, was laughing behind me. The pain shot through my entire body! The water could not have been colder!
Now pride was on the line. Ben followed my lead and realized the dilemma we were in. The look on his face was priceless, his eyes bugged out, as he fought for the breath that had been taken from him by the cold water. Brett, was less ambitious and after feeling how cold the water was, announced that he wouldn’t be accompanying us on this adventure. My dad was laughing hard but continued to press us to do this horrible thing.
Something in Brett’s fear, and Ben’s pain emboldened me, and instinctively, I new that it was my obligation as the oldest, to lead my minions into the water. I grasped for every ounce of courage I had, and threw myself into the center of the creek, landing in a curled up position so that Ben and Brett wouldn’t be able to escape the spray.
I would have screamed as the pain shot through my body, but my breath had completely and utterly left me. I came up gasping and drowning in 2 feet of water, and I fought to make it to my feet, which were stinging and pulsing beneath me. While I had done this in an effort to lead Ben and Brett into the creek, I was most anxious to see how my father would respond. I gathered myself as quickly as I could and I immediately found my fathers face. He looked concerned, or surprised by my actions, but in a blink of an eye, I saw what I had hoped for. Pride.
Ben must have seen it to, because in about as much time as it takes a fly to find a cow pie, Ben was in the water experiencing the same pain and anguish that I was. Brett, reluctantly, wouldn’t be out done. The three of us took turns putting our heads under the water and went through a series of breathless dares and trash talk before calling uncle. I believe that the entire episode lasted less than five minutes. The chill would last the rest of the day. We crawled out of the creek and laid on a nearby, rock that had been baking in the sun, to dry off, and then headed down the hill back to the Smith Fork River.
It took anther hour to find Grandpa Mac. We rounded a bend in the river and there he was, standing in the middle of the river with his creel slung over his left shoulder and pole in his right hand. I didn’t think of my grandpa as a fisherman and I suspect he never saw himself that way either, but I do remember how peaceful he looked standing in knee high water, doing something that he loved. I remember how beautiful the setting was, and I believed that there was not a better way to spend a day.
Like any annoying kids, Ben and Brett started in a chorus of what’d you catch?! Grandpa told us that he had released what he had caught. They were disappointed, but I was frustrated. This was a disturbing concept to me. I couldn’t believe that he would spend so much time trying to catch something just to let it go. Grandpa Mac would later explain that it is called ‘fishing’ not ‘catching’, and that the joy of the sport was in an objective that seemed counter intuitive. The simple explanation and the romance of the setting made the objective seem reasonable.
As we made our way through the river and back to the car, Grandpa Mac remarked that the river didn’t seem to have as many fish in it as it had had in the past. This line of conversation seemed to wake up my dad. He began a discourse on the devastating effects of ‘Whirling Disease’ on the fish populations in Colorado and commented on how the disease had dictated the bag limit that year. He continued to explain how the disease works in the fish’s body and the life cycle of the parasites that are responsible. I listened and was in awe of his breadth of knowledge, and entertained by the cadence of his voice. He was excited, and it was clear to me that he had found his comfort zone. I don’t think grandpa cared very much about whirling disease or the anatomy of fish, but he grunted once in a while to let my dad know that he was still listening.
My dad is a scientist. He grew up a serious nerd, but found his stride in college and turned his inordinate fondness for books into a career at the local college teaching nursing and biology students. He is built like my grandpa, but less predictable in his dress. Still, I imagine that others might know by looking at the way he dresses that he is a college professor. To me he always appeared to be put together comfortably and cleanly. That day was no exception.
When we got to the car, we all set down and ate sandwiches that had be prepared by my mother before we left. Peanut butter and jelly tastes a lot better after a tough morning of hiking swimming and climbing. We then set out for Crawford reservoir, which lies above the smith fork valley. According to my dad, were about to get to business. The way he said it we all almost believed that we were off to do serious mans work.
The reservoir was beautiful. The sun beat down on the clear mountain water and green foliage rested on the banks like a halo. The lake wasn’t busy, and we were able to drive right up to the east shore where we unloaded the fishing gear and prepared for business. Grandpa Mac helped me get rigged up while dad worked with Ben and Brett, and in minutes we were watching our bobbers bounce with the waves created by a light wind.
Almost immediately Ben pulled in a small perch that had been just waiting to take his bait. Ben squealed with delight and although he refused to touch the slimy fish he had pulled out of the water, he was more than happy to inform anyone that would listen that he had caught the first fish of the day. The feeling of defeat was palpable. Almost nothing is more deflating than your kid brother showing you up. Unfortunately, things got worse before they got better. Ben and Brett experienced great success, and over the course of what seemed like hours, they made a haul. I tried moving to where they were fishing, nothing. I tried changing my bait, four times, nothing. I prayed, seriously prayed for a fish on my line, nothing. It seemed all was lost, and every second that past felt more painful than the last. My dad must have seen the look on my face and understood the pain I was experiences because he began to offer encouraging words to me.
Ben was understandably enthusiastic about his own success, and was the opposite if empathetic about my situation. He offered a series of taunts regarding my lack of fishing prowess, and thought of ridiculous reasons why I might not be catching any fish. Perhaps you smell bad. Maybe you forgot the hook. Every shot he took hit its target and I was on the verge of unacceptable tears. I choked them back until I was on the brink of exploding when it finally happened.
I saw the bobber drop out of sight and watched as the end of my pole slowly tipped toward the surface of the water. What happened next was less predictable. I flipped out. Adrenaline flooded my veins and in what I can only describe and uncontrollable fury I yanked as hard as my body would allow. The hook had been doing its job approximately 15 or 20 feet of shore, and in the course of about .5 seconds the perch was flying over my head and Grandpa Mac was ducking for cover. The fish landed 20 feet behind me, my dad nearly killed himself laughing, and Grandpa calmed himself down by using words that don’t appear in dictionaries.
When the dust had settled, we went to see the fish I had pulled from its watery home. It lay there on the ground covered in slime and dirt, the gills slowly opening and closing in its last attempts at taking a breath. I had set the hook well my grandpa told me, and it could mean just one thing. This fish would not partake in my grandpa’s catch and release program.
By the end of the day we had all caught a lot of fish. The sun was going down behind the lake and dad announced that it was time to pack up. Ben, Brett and I were exhausted and I’m sure we had no desire to continue, but for some reason we protested.
We pulled back onto the road and headed home in the dark. I recall the smell of fish that clung to my fingers, the sound of Ben and Brett chanting some stupid, nonsensical, rhyme they had come up with, and the sound of my dads voice as he spoke to his father and reflected on the day. I fell asleep on the ride home, but it was involuntary. Given the chance I believe I would have lived that day forever.
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