I recently endured that ritual where big strapping outdoors types get bashful as schoolgirls, or drink themselves into a self righteous fury over lost opportunity.

You call it a birthday.

There’s only two kinds of birthdays; the ones that get you closer to drinking legal, and the other kind – which aren’t near as pleasant, which get you further away.

Drinking to excess and wishing you hadn’t only takes about 15 celebrations – and they’re all legendary. After that it’s the long slow spiral downward where plastic soldiers and chemistry sets gives way to soap on a rope, drink coasters, and cologne – and you feign pleasure as it’s expected.

Now that retirements are gone, those 44 annual rituals become days of hedonistic pleasure, where you impose your will on innocents – while they feign pleasure as it’s expected.

Fishing voodoo is never tinkered with lightly, but the prospect of non-fisherfolk baking in the noon sun guarantees incredible fishing, but only if you summon the courage to park girlfriend on the bank watching you fling bright stuff at brighter stuff…

It’s the second most powerful fishing voodoo law; “if innocents are suffering under the hot sun, you’re virtually guaranteed a fish a cast.”

Neither “how many”, how big”, or “how often” tests your level of devotion – only the 2nd Law of Voodoo can determine your loyalties to sport versus family, instant pleasure versus intense long suffering pain – and as face’s flush red and skin starts to peel whether you’ll pantomime, “Just 5 more minutes, Sweetums.” – or wimp out.

Only a Jedi Master can hold their lie in the face of blistering retribution.

I get Dumpling parked on the bank provisioned with books, water, and chow – and stride purposefully into the water. She’s not seen a rational person wade in over their navel – so she’s watching with some concern as I plant feet and scrub a level spot – like a batter digging in at the plate.

I get the shooting head out of the guides and am yanking Frog Hair off the reel; 20 long pulls plus the head should be around a hundred feet, and I give it a half hearted toss so I can rethread the coils on the fingers of the left hand. The Shad Knit, keeping all the line in close, not downstream playing in the current.

The left hand’s threaded and I give it a couple of tugs and the rod buckles forward with a Shad on the other end. Sweetpea’s cheering on the bank and I’m alternately swearing and reeling trying to get some control.

I manage to land the fish and display it prominently. I recover my wading staff from underfoot and reel in the fly line and trudge out of the water,  much to the amazement of the missus…

She’s looking at me expectantly, and I says, “remember how I mentioned once you were really uncomfortable how I was guaranteed the best fishing ever?”

She nods.

“That was the second most powerful fishing myth ever.” I pause for effect, ” the first most powerful voodoo law of Fishing is if you catch a fish on the first cast, you’ll not scratch another fish all day.”

“C’mon, I’ll take you to breakfast…”

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.

Dear Nameless Angler,

That sickening pop followed by the absent splash probably caused you to curse mightily. I’m hoping you had plenty more tied – but also wanted you to know you’re not guilty of leaving brightly colored non-biodegradable waste on the riverbank for some innocent doe to ingest, cough her life out in a bloody paroxysm, and lie there rotting…

That neon Orange bow serving caught my eye as I was dragging my aching rear end out of the line – feeling that five hours of eight weight is how Nolan Ryan’s arm feels after nine innings and a third comeback…

Recognizing real genius when I see it, I pocketed your sample and husbanded it back to the tying bench for massive duplication.

Like all selfless anglers, I was tempted to name it the “Singlebarbed Invented This All By His Lonesome Fly” – but small shreds of decency remain and I’m required to give credit where credit’s due.

Your fly is elegant, simple, sinks like a tramp steamer after a mating dance with an iceberg – and appeals to Shad in a sinister and potentially sexual manner.

Since you invented it, you should be ashamed of yourself.

You’ve placed an entire species on the brink of extinction, and even though I’m ass deep in cold water exploiting your fly at this very moment, the first warden that comes by and crooks his finger at me, I’m gonna rat you out.

Then I’ll make like Vanilla Ice and claim I never sampled your fly or David Bowie, and change the tail by a half shade – achieve fame everlasting and stomp life out of an entire species.

P.S. I found my spool of serving (circa 1985) – but was horrified to find the Brownell folks have switched to braided Dyneema, and no longer make the monofilament flavor.

If you would be so kind, drop me a note with your substitute – anywhere along the Sacramento or American would be fine…