I’ll be sure to squat barefooted next to my cup full of fire, tattered loincloth hiding the barest of essentials as I first flame then rend my goat meat – keeping a wary eye for uninvited guests.

It’s plain I’ve missed a couple generations of outdoor gear and am completely out of touch with contemporary amenities and “roughing it.”

“Roughing it” is when you eat better than when you’re home, the bathrooms smell sweeter – and are far more spacious, the dining room is better lit, the booze and cigars are older and more plentiful, and instead of someone counting how many slices of pie you eat – they’re insisting you have two or three more… 

I thought jerky and bananas chased with warm water from a hydration pack was the ultimate in outdoor cuisine – in light of the groaning board of vittles inhaled at creek bank, there’s a new culinary ethic that renders my provisions Third World.

My crime is ascribing to the “anti-social” school of angling, not like the scowling tarts that resent intrusion into their riffle  – more of the Dan’l Boone, ” I kilt an eight weight on this Shad” explorer ethos.

Returning to civilization used to be the retelling of deprivation and manly prowess – to a horrified and sympathetic audience; this many days without shaving, that many days without bathing, and how you pried that bear’s jaws open with your fly rod to save a friend from certain death.

The New Outdoors are vastly different – shaving and bathing are essentials, and only running out of Worcestershire sauce or ice cream is met with outpourings of sympathy and horrified gasps.

I’m a man without a country, and insist on an outpouring of faux-sympathy.

I can’t help but blame SMJ and his fly thieving Older Bro for tainting my camping ritual beyond measure. They were aided by the fishing hardcore from the Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club, whose members showed equal skill with shooting heads and shad flies as white linen and spatulas.

Steaks, pie, corn, salad, fried rice, shrimp, Lumpias, and SMJ’s killer White Beans with Ham Hock as chaser – served by smiling attendants in starched livery. The  liquor was 15 years old, and the closest the cigars had been to the States was El Salvador.

I’m standing there with a pair of body temperature Kashi bars (Peanut Butter) – hoping someone had a soup pot going so I could contribute more than smiling and possessing an appetite.

I can remember fly patterns to the letter, and names not at all. My thanks to the fellow who makes the bamboo rods (Tom?) – my guess as to the host of this debauch.

I’ll lick my wounds while contemplating my battered collection of Sierra cups, fire blackened aluminum cookware, and tattered sleeping bag – as even the household pets slept on better …

The venerable old club has a new face, lots of talented young guys whose interest is in fine dining fishing – much different than the casting focus of the club I knew when living in San Francisco.

Hearing Armando Bernasconi’s gruff voice reminded me of those Old Days; even 20 years ago he was the club’s official greeter – a welcoming mustached figure whose energy and smile charm the public and sets beginners at ease.

One of the guys breaks from the choicest part of the line – insisting Armando take his spot. At 87 he’s slowed down some – and realizing the current’s heavy is about to back out when the guys break ranks and wade over to break the current and steady him as he wades deeper.

Made my entire trip – just to watch.

The club has a new face and so does the Outdoors, and while I thought Solar Showers were a cutting edge luxury – I find that running water adds an obscene touch that simply must be endured.

Like Poppa says, “any fool can be uncomfortable.”

My thanks to the Eberle clan, Max – and the rest of the crew for the vision of camping – the fishing, and mostly the meal. I’ll not see the likes of that for a couple of seasons.