It was the same eerie death rattle I’d heard earlier from Wally, who was keenly aware of the piles of rods, waders, and tackle, being transferred from porch to vehicle, and once freed found two cars in the driveway with doors open – and he’d made a dash for the Old Familiar.
Tail thudding a steady beat, big pink tongue lolling at half mast, he’s regarding me from the back of the Chandler automobile, “I’m going to Sizz-ler, we going fish-ing, I’m going…” wet tongue pauses in mid pant, huh, Tennis?
A big Charlie Brown wail of anguish as Miss Nancy disappears in a cloud of dust, Sausage Dog trying to claw his way out the rear window …
Now I’m replaying the same scene, my navigator’s fingernails clawing desperately at the passenger armrest – as civilization and pavement becomes a memory, “No, you Caustic Ignoramus – I meant hard left!” – triggering yet another four point broadslide in loose aggregate, tires snarling for purchase as we careen through the woods.
“Jesus Tom, a little lead time on them directions would be appreciated, something akin to ‘at the next bloated deer carcass, make a left.’ ”
“Hush, I’m confusing your innate sense of direction, Break Right, RIGHT I said!”
Rocks and tree limbs bounce off the undercarriage, and we’re plowing sideways through another stand of small pines, 140 degrees into the full 360, when the tires find narrow purchase on the tent of unwary campers; kids and adults scatter screaming, and we’re through their dining area and clawing onto the road pulling a festive streamer of laundry and barking dogs…
“There, right there – go down that!”
I make out a dim track between tall pines and cut the lights, and as we jostle down the rocky path TC is scanning for enraged pursuers. “OK,” he says, “now the tricky part – I’m going to have to blindfold you.”
Before I can protest, my vision is obscured by an empty gallon sized “Baja Picante” Doritos bag thrust over my head, and I can’t help sneezing uncontrollably as each dip and bulge in the road shakes additional dust from bottom seam – all the while listening intently to “left, gas, right, brake, hard left,” from the passenger seat.
“We’re there, can you see the river?”
“Nope, TC – can I remove the fuggin bag now?”
“In a sec (I can hear the whine of the camera autofocus, click-whirr, click-whirr), OK – now you can.”
I’m clawing at the door, eyes watering from the combined Picante and pepper, trying to blow the last of the potato chips out of my nose – and there’s a sudden steely grip on my arm. “Wait, I should warn you – there’s mosquitos.”
I crack the door anyway and we’re instantly inhaling waves of blood seeking flying suction. Two grown men making schoolgirl noises intent on securing whichever bag contains the worst chemicals. Out of my vest comes the last of the vintage Muskol, 100% DEET – guaranteed to cause birth defects, melt fly lines, and kill everything – including the wearer.
TC is doing homage to Michael Jackson away from the vehicle, attempting to shoot some inferior aerosol product on all the pertinent limbs, both his and the neighboring pines, and managing a reasonable falsetto while doing so.
I dived into the safety of my sweltering cocoon of neoprene to reduce exposure, then combed a generous double handful through my hair – and the pair of us re-emerge looking like slickened stock brokers, but we’re no longer a food group.
The mosquitos are at a safe distance, but undeterred; they know what we know – it’s early yet and with the heat of midday, coupled with a vast expanse of flank steak, that impenetrable barrier of protection will weaken with each droplet of perspiration…
I’m preparing the next edgy retort – when I’m robbed of speech; despite the dented truck smoldering nearby, and after donating a couple of pints of Hemoglobin, I’m surrounded by the Mother of All Pristine.
An alpine torrent surrounded by lush vascular growth, framed by fallen trees and deadheads. It’s a rare moment for any fisherman, and happens a half dozen times in our travels, the solitude and majesty of your surroundings is first in the retelling, and fishing may serve only as punctuation to the story.
“Watch out for the Cow Flop, it’s fresh …”
My revery is punctured grapically, yet I’m wondering about the role reversal; I’m the hardened callous urbanite – what wades in a chemical cesspool, and Mr. Bamboo Nestle-Anti-Christ is swilling Wasabi Peas, painting the forest with noxious chemicals, and ignoring the barbed wire …
“Catch the first fish, fling something over by that log there..”
I yank out some line and prepare to cast when I see the look of consternation on my host, “… the downstream dry fly – Oh well, if you must…” TC’s fumbling with the blue kerchief knotted around his neck as a mosquito barrier, and I can just make out its transformation to nimbly tied cravat – which makes me feel the better, as I’m much more comfortable as a callous heathen than consummate champion of the Wild.
The fishing was extra-ordinary – and we developed a modified variant of the “Cover two” – where one fellow leapfrogs the other while offering biting commentary, stomping the bank near his pal’s feeding fish, or hurls a soggy cigar butt into the midst of the prime lie …
… and absolutely none of it mattered.
The fish ate dry flies all day, and with the dense timber every pool was a blend of shade and direct sunlight, offering both bugs and fish someplace to hatch or eat from morning till dark.
Beautiful little brown trout that ate without restraint and whose coloration was dictated by hiding place; dark fish under the log jams, light fish in the riffles, and golden bellied to match the instream mix of volcanic rock and downed timber.
Ample shade offered a lot of egg laying stoneflies; golden’s interspersed with the smaller olive, and the occasional giant stone. Mosquito’s outnumbered everything but the repeated stop to re-dip the upper torso kept everything but the pesky bluebottles at arm’s length.
TC offered up some dried “kibble” bar for lunch, so I had to break out the chemical mainstays; trail mix with M&M’s, accompanied by a piquant fistful of Chevron station Teriyaki beef jerky.
I’m not sure that he wasn’t asking the same question, “did I put this in the pocket for the Sausage Dog, or is this human food?”
“Tom, you ever consider flaking this greenish-Wally kibble up and selling it by the kilo?”
It actually tasted pretty good – but after six hours of humping logs, concrete would’ve had its moments too…
Two tired and appreciative old guys embarrassed by the bounty of riches, buttressing our obscene resolve to catch even more fish, hoping that last swig was off the hydration pack and not the Muskol bottle…
“OK, on the way out we make a mad dash for the truck, toss your gear in the back at the run, then drive up the ridge in your waders until it’s safe, then we can stow everything.”
“Do I have to wear the Doritos sack again? Might slow us considerably.”
“Nice one, Smartass – just remember not to remember anything.”
Role reversal followed by living Catch-22 – and I’m giggling wondering whether Yossarian or Major Major is my co-pilot.
I mash gas and it’s academic, we’re both careening about the cab in a dash for freedom.
Grab a rod for its length versus label, a reel for storage, a handful of simulated insects which have no latin counterpart, and go someplace singular – populated with scrappy fish whose idea of selectivity is hiding under a log. It’s exactly what lured us to the sport in our youth – one really superb day, forging a lifelong pursuit of another just like it.
My thanks to my host for sharing something truly spectacular.
(No, I can’t find it again, but as the directions to the party you were supposed to go to were on my dash – suggesting you were relieved of that responsibility, you owe bigtime …)
By this evening I’ll be waist deep in icy unclean water. It won’t have been that way before I arrived, but after I dip them big feet into all that fast moving pristine, it’ll make 
I saw my first Hex on the river. I’d fished over these monstrous bugs many times on Fall River, but it was the first time I’d encountered one on the Underwear. It collided with me while I was waist deep and nearly knocked me over.
Colors remain Pink and Orange, and I keep changing from one to the other just to try some of the oddball stuff I keep dreaming up.
I see it as a sign of the times, 
All them black and white bleeding fish hanging from gantries died with Hemingway, and we’re straining to hold a dead fish away from our stretch pants hoping the biggest thing dripping isn’t our chin. A far cry from the heroic glare rendered while crouched predatiously over a fallen yet noble foe.