I had posted some of these recollections here a few years ago, but today I'm thinking about the passing of an old friend and so...
This week marks the passing of my great pal, Bob, six years ago.
If you all are interested in characters, you may want to read these accounts of just some of the many capers Bob and I were party to...
I think before I forget about this stuff, I ought to write down some of the adventures I had with my friend Bob. Bob and I went way back; I met him at one of my erstwhile two-Martini lunches (I always capitalize the word, "Martini", for reasons that are obvious to many of you) and we became fast pals. He liked hunting and fishing, or at least the idea of hunting and fishing appealed to him.
Bob was a big guy, maybe over four hundred, and he died earlier this year, and I'd hate for the details of these adventures to be lost. On the other hand, maybe I'm the only one who's interested. Whatever.
Adventure number one was the Canada Goose hunt (actually, there were many Canada Goose hunts, but this one stood out from the rest), probably in the seventies sometime. The way we hunted them in upstate New York was to follow a flock around in a car until they landed, then stalk them up in the field, crawling on our bellies through the wet grass. This was challenging for Bob, not just because he was nearly as high on his stomach as he was standing up, but also because he always had one of those extra-long brown cigarettes in his mouth, and the wet grass kept putting out the fire. He had to stop every so often, roll onto his back, and re-light it. Stealth was a sometimes thing with us.
Anyway, we drove around all morning and followed a bunch of flocks, to no avail. It seemed that Bob's Monte Carlo was just not fast or maneuverable to keep up with the fast-flying birds. Eventually, though, we were able to spot a small gaggle on the ground, about a hundred yards off, and we parked the car next to a barn, Bob lit a cigarette, we flopped down in the field, and the game was afoot. Now Bob was not a patient man, and after about ten yards or so of this commando business, he'd had enough. Up he jumped, faster that you would expect due to his size, and so did the geese.
BOOM! BOOM! He was shooting a nice Browning Superposed (in 20 gauge--go figure!) and at about seventy yards, one of the geese miraculously fell from the sky. Did I mention that Bob was normally a lousy wingshot? Not that day! Proud as hell, Bob leads the way over to the downed bird, relighting as he walked. Arriving on the scene, it's real apparent to me that the bird is far from dead, because he is spread-eagled on the ground, and alertly regarding our approach with a wary little black eye.
Bob had broken a wing pinion. That was it. Healthy, great big Canada Goose, looking up at us and figuring his escape. What did Bob do? Did he, in compliance with New York game laws, dispatch the wounded bird? He did not, and rejected my suggestion to do it for him. What he did was pull a length of clothesline from his pocket and tie a slip-noose in one end. "I want to show my son what a Canada Goose looks like, and not all shot up. I'm going to slip this rope over its head and strangle it."
Again, for the record: "I'm going to slip this rope over its head and strangle it."
What I was supposed to do was easy: stay out of the way. No problem--this was the stuff stories were made of, and I was takin' notes.
So Bob, cigarette poking out of his mouth at a high angle, knelt beside the bird, noose at the ready in one hand and the Superposed in the other. Now, the clothesline was about six feet long, max. Unbelievably, the bird let him place the noose around its neck, and Bob pulled it tight, hanging on to the other end.
I remember as a kid, one of my favorite toys, and maybe the most sophisticated, was a .049" engine model airplane, a Mustang, I think. You gassed it up, hooked the dry-cell battery to the engine, and flipped the prop with your index finger to get it started. The plane went airborne fast, and you controlled the ascent and descent with two strings fastened to a plastic handle. The procedure was pretty challenging, and accidents were common: you were spinning around in a tight circle hanging on to this screaming banshee until it ran out of gas or crashed. Great fun.
As an adult, I hadn't thought much about my model airplane days until the episode with Bob and the goose. Then the memories came ripping back. There was Bob, a big fat guy, at the end of a short rope, spinning in a circle, with a crazed, panicked full-sized Canada Goose playing the part of the P-51, swooping and diving and honking, con mucho gusto and all the appropriate sound effects. The Browning had departed, airborne, for the long grass, but the cigarette was still firmly clamped in Bob's lips. Round and round they flew, neither willing to give up, until the rope finally tore loose from Bob's mitts. We last saw the goose, flying pretty well in spite of a broken wing, trailing the clothesline behind him like some ancient WWI Red Baron's scarf, heading for the horizon.
It probably goes without saying that I was not much help at that point. My belly muscles were aching terribly from laughing. Of Course, Bob did not see the humor in it at all, and after retrieving his gun, we made our way back to the Monte Carlo and that was the end of our hunting for the day.
A wonderful day.
Strangely, years later when Bob would tell the story, acting out all the parts, he switched the roles and I became the goose-flyer.
No matter. It was a great story and a great time.
Next time: The Great Trout Hunt in the wilds of the Adirondack Mountains.
My friend, Bob
I miss Bob, I really do. When our friends die, they take some things of ours with them, not the least of which may be the certainty that we'll never again be able to reproduce the craziness and fine times we shared. Bob, my old friend, died today, and on his own terms. He left this earth as both the victim and the beneficiary of big steaks, double martinis, and tobacco. Bob denied himself nothing and I'm sure he considered his life well-lived when he departed at sixty-seven.
Now that Bob's gone, I tend to see his humanity, his flaws, in a different light. He and I shared many, many hunting and fishing trips, each one of them an adventure. Bob was a character, and all his friends are diminished by his passing. Me, especially.
Bob was, well, a large guy. He stood over six feet tall and over the years I knew him, his weight steadily increased and ultimately must easily have topped four hundred pounds. His hair was an unruly mane of uncontrollable curls and waves, and he always sported a moustache of the type usually associated with walruses. He garnished this look with an ever-present ultra-long brown cigarette, "More", I think the brand was. He always kept it in his mouth at a sharp angle so as to keep the smoke out of his eyes.
One characteristic that defined Bob, besides his immense size, was that he was a know-it-all, and although he was a world-class story teller and great guy to hang around with, he could sometimes be a bully, albeit a paper-tiger, big-hearted kind of bully. He needed to run things, even on those excursions which had no need of a boss. His friends liked him so well that we overlooked these faults, and let him have his way in most things. His enthusiasm for all things sporting was contagious, and he could be very persuasive. Accordingly, this got us into interesting situations, even into trouble… many times.
I tell you all this because when the mighty fall, it's a lot funnier when they hoist themselves upon their own petard. This is exactly what Bob did a few years ago in the wilds of New York's Adirondack Mountains.
Here's the story.
Like all the adventures Bob dragged me to, this one was built on shifting sand. He had read an article in one of the better outdoor magazine extolling the extraordinary size, number, and palatability of the native brook trout in a far north pond named Little Clear Lake. No one ever fished there, it was said, and the silence and remoteness would renew our spirits and cleanse our minds. Up there, toothy, toothsome fish actually jumped into the boat, filleted themselves, and brought the butter. It was a trout Valhalla, and we needed to experience it. Thus, it was imperative that we mount an expedition to this salmonid Garden of Eden, where we would doubtless catch so many bull trout that our arms would fall off from the effort of reeling them in. We would then roast them over coals and enjoy the most primitive and delicious meal ever under a canopy of twinkling stars and the night sounds of the Adirondack Mountains.
Preparations had to be made. Getting to Little Clear Lake involved driving several hours north from our central New York homes, and then making two portages, each of about a mile. Now, I was in pretty good shape, considering, but as I may have mentioned before, Bob was a big guy, about six feet or so tall, and this was at a time when he had topped out at around the four hundred pound mark. Add to that the fact that he had never been seen in public without that infernal cigarette dangling from his mouth--well, you get the idea. He was in terrible physical shape. Nevertheless, we had decided to go, and that was that, shortcomings of the physical kind be damned.
We decided to stay camped on the bank for five days, and so we packed enough food for twice that time. We had steaks, pork chops, macaroni, bread, pies; godalmighty, our pannier weighed more that the two canoes combined. Bob was confident about catching fish, but he was taking no chances! Starving, or even minor peckishness, would never be in Bob's game plan!
So, we strapped the canoes atop his old Ford Bronco (another story--he eventually literally beat this hapless vehicle to death, revving the living daylights out of its engine and popping the clutch was his SOP) and started out driving north into the Adirondack Mountains, Bob all the while glowingly extolling the piscatorial pleasures we were about to enjoy, cigarette smoke swirling around his massive head like the emanations of a steam locomotive. About four hours later, we arrived at the trailhead, and set about to unload our gear.
I should say right now that Bob, having been an Eagle Scout, or so he claimed, considered himself to be an expert on canoe driving. As I had scant experience with these tippy boats, I deferred to his advice--as usual-- and approached it his way, seating myself in the rear (aft!) and stacking some of our supplies to the front. After we had loaded our stuff into the canoes, off we paddled, Bob's boat so overloaded with his considerable bulk and our food boxes that it literally shipped water over the gunwales.
After paddling for an hour, we arrived at our first portage. Since Bob-- the alleged Eagle Scout --was navigating, this was a certified miracle. The temperature was at least eighty-five degrees, May being unusually warm that spring. The humidity was intense, and the mosquitoes and black flies were swarming aggressively over our protein-rich bodies and feasting on us unmercifully.
Right then and there, sane men would have got back in the truck and gone home. Not us. Huge trout awaited, and we would not be deterred. Bob said he could almost smell the trout sizzling in the pan, redolent with bacon grease and seasoned with our angling prowess. Onward!
The less said about the portages the better, but you can imagine the two of us making multiple trips, carrying heavy loads, uphill both ways--or so it seemed-- and poor Bob, sweating and huffing and puffing and barking orders and swearing, all the while chain-smoking those long brown cigarettes.
Did I mention that the only clothes Bob brought were the tee shirt and jeans he was wearing and a rubber rain suit? No? Well, more about that later!
The hours passed, and we finally transferred our canoes and packs to the next lake. Away we went, exhausted and bitten-up. After a short paddle, we reached the next portage and repeated the awful process. As you might imagine, this trip was no easier than the first, but at least the effort resulted in our arrival at our destination: Little Clear Lake, home of monster brookies.
I don't know if you've ever been there to see it, but Little Clear Lake is a glacially-formed pond, carved from the rocky soil of the Adirondacks. As such, it sits deep in a natural bowl, its edges a precariously steep tangle of fallen trees, thick vegetation, and rocks. No beach, no sandy shoreline, nothing. As Bob--the Eagle Scout-- glided into the area we had chosen for our encampment, he decided to demonstrate proper canoe disembarkment while in about four feet of water, since he couldn't paddle any closer to shore due to the congested topography of the bank. And, for reasons known only to him, he had decanted the contents of his tackle box into innumerable little plastic containers. As he climbed over the side of the overloaded boat, basic principles of physics took over, the essence of Little Clear Lake gushed over the gunwales, and the canoe spun like a crocodile eating a wildebeest, taking Bob right with it. Ker-Sploosh! Believe it or not, when Bob finally surfaced, his cigarette was still hanging rakishly from his lips, and of course Bob was soaked from head to toe. The little boxes containing his fishing tackle floated all around him. There he was, the USS Enterprise, surrounded by his battle group!
My gawd, it was funny! I was convulsed, but Bob was in no mood to appreciate the humor of the situation. I figured out real soon that the curses and threats echoing across the pristine north- country lake were coming from a bad place deep inside him, and I struggled mightily not to laugh, lest he kill me on the spot. I actually debated whether to help him out of the water, but in the end, I had no choice; he had the only map and compass!
As you may recall, the only dry clothing Bob now had with him was a rubber rain suit. In this humidity, his tee shirt and jeans would never dry, so he was pretty much stuck with Plan B. He stripped off his wet clothes (now, there was a sight I didn't need to see) and climbed into the rain suit. Eighty-five degrees, one hundred percent humidity, legions of mosquitoes and black flies, and an angry fat guy in a rubber suit. This would be a long night.
We had no option but to pitch our tent on the sloping terrain, and so we did the best that we could, considering how tired we were. The resulting campsite was nothing you would ever see in the Boy Scout Manual, for sure, and one of our challenges would be to avoid rolling downhill onto each other while we were sleeping. By the time we had a workable shelter erected, we were so tired that we never even constructed a fly over the tent. No worries, we would build a fire and grill some steaks, have a glass of scotch, and enjoy the solitude of the night.
Right.
The quantity and fierceness of the biting insects was beyond anything in our combined experience. We were literally driven into our tent, swatting and smashing these airborne attackers nonstop. Believe me, it took real courage even to venture out to grab some cookies for our supper. Answering "calls of nature" rose to the level of military operations, and were not entered into lightly. Every foray out of the tent was fraught with imminent peril.
So much for our steak dinner. As darkness enveloped our bivouac, we were entertained by a group of young rowdies across the lake, playing hard rock on a portable stereo and accompanying the raucous "music" with a pair of harmonicas, simple instruments which they had never bothered learning how to play. Solitude, my foot! Who writes these articles, anyway?
The next morning dawned clear and sunny, thankfully, and we immediately made plans to rig our poles and begin hauling out those amazing trout. Wisely donning headnets, we grabbed our gear and somehow boarded our bigger canoe without falling overboard. Paddling to the middle of the lake amid swarms of black flies, we baited up and tossed out our lines. We drifted, we anchored, we jigged, we tried different depths and lures--not a single fish would answer our calls. Bob all the while was suffering greatly in his rubber suit, sweating like a glass of cold lemonade on a hot day and bellyaching loudly about his tribulations. After several hours of this fruitless activity, Bob announced that he needed to avail himself of bathroom facilities.
This is the part where, if you have delicate sensibilities, you might want to stop reading.
Well, we found a spot where the bank was somewhat less than ninety degrees to the water, and I carefully let Bob off to complete his toilette. He bulled a short way into the woods, and backed up against a tree. Loud, rude noises filled the clear air, and presently, I heard him bellowing, "I need some toilet paper! ". What were the chances that we'd had the foresight to carry such a luxury in the canoe with us? No chance at all, and I told him so.
"Then throw me my sandwich!", he yelled, desperate for a hygienic solution. The sandwich, ham on rye as I recall, was wrapped in wax paper. Apparently, the plan was to eat the sandwich, then use the wrapping paper appropriately. I paddled closer to the bank and tossed it to him. I was surprised that it fell near enough to him that he was able to retrieve it without too much trouble. So far, so good. Bob ate his lunch and completed his nether ablutions. Finished, and smug that he had actually made a plan work, he pulled up his rubber pants and opened his mouth to yell to me that he was ready to be picked up and to issue precise directions on how this was to be accomplished.
As he did so, a black fly flew directly into his throat.
Bob gagged and erupted with a giant cough, as any of us would. Fine, except that Bob's "toilette" was not, um, completed, and the cough caused him to "complete" it in his rubber pants, which fact he immediately announced. Holy cow! Such language! He thrashed around the trees and bushes, angry moose-like, and headed for the water. Hip-deep in the water (again!), he stripped off the pants and furiously swished them around to rid them of their noxious contents. Now the rubber pants were soaked inside and out. Somehow he wriggled back into them and clambered into the canoe, nearly swamping us in the process. We silently paddled back to the campsite--and I could hardly contain myself--Bob had done it again!
Nightfall. Again, we were prisoners in our tent, held hostage by the bugs from hell. Bob was hugely uncomfortable in his drippy rubber suit, and he didn't smell too good, either. Venturing cautiously outside, we lit a fire and competed with each other for the spot where the smoke would envelop us, in a feckless attempt to dissuade the biting insects as Bob set about preparing our supper. Predictably, the food was a disaster; obviously a cooking merit badge was one the corpulent ex-Eagle Scout had eschewed. Since we had no savory native Adirondack brook trout to sauté, Bob settled for a brace of rib-eye steaks. Rib-eyes are loaded with marbled fat, which is why they taste so good, and they're fairly easy to grill.
For most people.
Ours were charred black and crispy on the outside, and ran purple and bloody at the center. We ate them anyway, mainly because I was afraid to criticize Bob's cooking, especially after the scatological misfortunes of the afternoon. A high point was canned corn--cold and right out of the tin.
After our succulent repast, we retreated into our shelter, scabrous, underfed, and discouraged. We had challenged the lakes and the mountains, and we were losing badly.
Now, Bob was the type of guy who hated to admit a mistake--in fact in can't recall that he ever did. But that night, when I suggested that we get the hell out of there in the morning, he agreed--and I knew I'd pay a heavy price. Forevermore, Bob the master storyteller would let everyone within earshot know that I had wimped out on our great fishing adventure. No matter. I knew he was secretly relieved that we were leaving. And so was I.
So, if you ever find yourself on the southeastern shore of Little Clear Lake in the heart of the northern Adirondacks, you might want to look for a rock shaped somewhat like the province of Newfoundland; if you dig underneath it, about fifty pounds of our food should still be there.
Bon Appetit!
Tim Neveldine
[email protected]
Fayetteville, NY
This week marks the passing of my great pal, Bob, six years ago.
If you all are interested in characters, you may want to read these accounts of just some of the many capers Bob and I were party to...
I think before I forget about this stuff, I ought to write down some of the adventures I had with my friend Bob. Bob and I went way back; I met him at one of my erstwhile two-Martini lunches (I always capitalize the word, "Martini", for reasons that are obvious to many of you) and we became fast pals. He liked hunting and fishing, or at least the idea of hunting and fishing appealed to him.
Bob was a big guy, maybe over four hundred, and he died earlier this year, and I'd hate for the details of these adventures to be lost. On the other hand, maybe I'm the only one who's interested. Whatever.
Adventure number one was the Canada Goose hunt (actually, there were many Canada Goose hunts, but this one stood out from the rest), probably in the seventies sometime. The way we hunted them in upstate New York was to follow a flock around in a car until they landed, then stalk them up in the field, crawling on our bellies through the wet grass. This was challenging for Bob, not just because he was nearly as high on his stomach as he was standing up, but also because he always had one of those extra-long brown cigarettes in his mouth, and the wet grass kept putting out the fire. He had to stop every so often, roll onto his back, and re-light it. Stealth was a sometimes thing with us.
Anyway, we drove around all morning and followed a bunch of flocks, to no avail. It seemed that Bob's Monte Carlo was just not fast or maneuverable to keep up with the fast-flying birds. Eventually, though, we were able to spot a small gaggle on the ground, about a hundred yards off, and we parked the car next to a barn, Bob lit a cigarette, we flopped down in the field, and the game was afoot. Now Bob was not a patient man, and after about ten yards or so of this commando business, he'd had enough. Up he jumped, faster that you would expect due to his size, and so did the geese.
BOOM! BOOM! He was shooting a nice Browning Superposed (in 20 gauge--go figure!) and at about seventy yards, one of the geese miraculously fell from the sky. Did I mention that Bob was normally a lousy wingshot? Not that day! Proud as hell, Bob leads the way over to the downed bird, relighting as he walked. Arriving on the scene, it's real apparent to me that the bird is far from dead, because he is spread-eagled on the ground, and alertly regarding our approach with a wary little black eye.
Bob had broken a wing pinion. That was it. Healthy, great big Canada Goose, looking up at us and figuring his escape. What did Bob do? Did he, in compliance with New York game laws, dispatch the wounded bird? He did not, and rejected my suggestion to do it for him. What he did was pull a length of clothesline from his pocket and tie a slip-noose in one end. "I want to show my son what a Canada Goose looks like, and not all shot up. I'm going to slip this rope over its head and strangle it."
Again, for the record: "I'm going to slip this rope over its head and strangle it."
What I was supposed to do was easy: stay out of the way. No problem--this was the stuff stories were made of, and I was takin' notes.
So Bob, cigarette poking out of his mouth at a high angle, knelt beside the bird, noose at the ready in one hand and the Superposed in the other. Now, the clothesline was about six feet long, max. Unbelievably, the bird let him place the noose around its neck, and Bob pulled it tight, hanging on to the other end.
I remember as a kid, one of my favorite toys, and maybe the most sophisticated, was a .049" engine model airplane, a Mustang, I think. You gassed it up, hooked the dry-cell battery to the engine, and flipped the prop with your index finger to get it started. The plane went airborne fast, and you controlled the ascent and descent with two strings fastened to a plastic handle. The procedure was pretty challenging, and accidents were common: you were spinning around in a tight circle hanging on to this screaming banshee until it ran out of gas or crashed. Great fun.
As an adult, I hadn't thought much about my model airplane days until the episode with Bob and the goose. Then the memories came ripping back. There was Bob, a big fat guy, at the end of a short rope, spinning in a circle, with a crazed, panicked full-sized Canada Goose playing the part of the P-51, swooping and diving and honking, con mucho gusto and all the appropriate sound effects. The Browning had departed, airborne, for the long grass, but the cigarette was still firmly clamped in Bob's lips. Round and round they flew, neither willing to give up, until the rope finally tore loose from Bob's mitts. We last saw the goose, flying pretty well in spite of a broken wing, trailing the clothesline behind him like some ancient WWI Red Baron's scarf, heading for the horizon.
It probably goes without saying that I was not much help at that point. My belly muscles were aching terribly from laughing. Of Course, Bob did not see the humor in it at all, and after retrieving his gun, we made our way back to the Monte Carlo and that was the end of our hunting for the day.
A wonderful day.
Strangely, years later when Bob would tell the story, acting out all the parts, he switched the roles and I became the goose-flyer.
No matter. It was a great story and a great time.
Next time: The Great Trout Hunt in the wilds of the Adirondack Mountains.
My friend, Bob
I miss Bob, I really do. When our friends die, they take some things of ours with them, not the least of which may be the certainty that we'll never again be able to reproduce the craziness and fine times we shared. Bob, my old friend, died today, and on his own terms. He left this earth as both the victim and the beneficiary of big steaks, double martinis, and tobacco. Bob denied himself nothing and I'm sure he considered his life well-lived when he departed at sixty-seven.
Now that Bob's gone, I tend to see his humanity, his flaws, in a different light. He and I shared many, many hunting and fishing trips, each one of them an adventure. Bob was a character, and all his friends are diminished by his passing. Me, especially.
Bob was, well, a large guy. He stood over six feet tall and over the years I knew him, his weight steadily increased and ultimately must easily have topped four hundred pounds. His hair was an unruly mane of uncontrollable curls and waves, and he always sported a moustache of the type usually associated with walruses. He garnished this look with an ever-present ultra-long brown cigarette, "More", I think the brand was. He always kept it in his mouth at a sharp angle so as to keep the smoke out of his eyes.
One characteristic that defined Bob, besides his immense size, was that he was a know-it-all, and although he was a world-class story teller and great guy to hang around with, he could sometimes be a bully, albeit a paper-tiger, big-hearted kind of bully. He needed to run things, even on those excursions which had no need of a boss. His friends liked him so well that we overlooked these faults, and let him have his way in most things. His enthusiasm for all things sporting was contagious, and he could be very persuasive. Accordingly, this got us into interesting situations, even into trouble… many times.
I tell you all this because when the mighty fall, it's a lot funnier when they hoist themselves upon their own petard. This is exactly what Bob did a few years ago in the wilds of New York's Adirondack Mountains.
Here's the story.
Like all the adventures Bob dragged me to, this one was built on shifting sand. He had read an article in one of the better outdoor magazine extolling the extraordinary size, number, and palatability of the native brook trout in a far north pond named Little Clear Lake. No one ever fished there, it was said, and the silence and remoteness would renew our spirits and cleanse our minds. Up there, toothy, toothsome fish actually jumped into the boat, filleted themselves, and brought the butter. It was a trout Valhalla, and we needed to experience it. Thus, it was imperative that we mount an expedition to this salmonid Garden of Eden, where we would doubtless catch so many bull trout that our arms would fall off from the effort of reeling them in. We would then roast them over coals and enjoy the most primitive and delicious meal ever under a canopy of twinkling stars and the night sounds of the Adirondack Mountains.
Preparations had to be made. Getting to Little Clear Lake involved driving several hours north from our central New York homes, and then making two portages, each of about a mile. Now, I was in pretty good shape, considering, but as I may have mentioned before, Bob was a big guy, about six feet or so tall, and this was at a time when he had topped out at around the four hundred pound mark. Add to that the fact that he had never been seen in public without that infernal cigarette dangling from his mouth--well, you get the idea. He was in terrible physical shape. Nevertheless, we had decided to go, and that was that, shortcomings of the physical kind be damned.
We decided to stay camped on the bank for five days, and so we packed enough food for twice that time. We had steaks, pork chops, macaroni, bread, pies; godalmighty, our pannier weighed more that the two canoes combined. Bob was confident about catching fish, but he was taking no chances! Starving, or even minor peckishness, would never be in Bob's game plan!
So, we strapped the canoes atop his old Ford Bronco (another story--he eventually literally beat this hapless vehicle to death, revving the living daylights out of its engine and popping the clutch was his SOP) and started out driving north into the Adirondack Mountains, Bob all the while glowingly extolling the piscatorial pleasures we were about to enjoy, cigarette smoke swirling around his massive head like the emanations of a steam locomotive. About four hours later, we arrived at the trailhead, and set about to unload our gear.
I should say right now that Bob, having been an Eagle Scout, or so he claimed, considered himself to be an expert on canoe driving. As I had scant experience with these tippy boats, I deferred to his advice--as usual-- and approached it his way, seating myself in the rear (aft!) and stacking some of our supplies to the front. After we had loaded our stuff into the canoes, off we paddled, Bob's boat so overloaded with his considerable bulk and our food boxes that it literally shipped water over the gunwales.
After paddling for an hour, we arrived at our first portage. Since Bob-- the alleged Eagle Scout --was navigating, this was a certified miracle. The temperature was at least eighty-five degrees, May being unusually warm that spring. The humidity was intense, and the mosquitoes and black flies were swarming aggressively over our protein-rich bodies and feasting on us unmercifully.
Right then and there, sane men would have got back in the truck and gone home. Not us. Huge trout awaited, and we would not be deterred. Bob said he could almost smell the trout sizzling in the pan, redolent with bacon grease and seasoned with our angling prowess. Onward!
The less said about the portages the better, but you can imagine the two of us making multiple trips, carrying heavy loads, uphill both ways--or so it seemed-- and poor Bob, sweating and huffing and puffing and barking orders and swearing, all the while chain-smoking those long brown cigarettes.
Did I mention that the only clothes Bob brought were the tee shirt and jeans he was wearing and a rubber rain suit? No? Well, more about that later!
The hours passed, and we finally transferred our canoes and packs to the next lake. Away we went, exhausted and bitten-up. After a short paddle, we reached the next portage and repeated the awful process. As you might imagine, this trip was no easier than the first, but at least the effort resulted in our arrival at our destination: Little Clear Lake, home of monster brookies.
I don't know if you've ever been there to see it, but Little Clear Lake is a glacially-formed pond, carved from the rocky soil of the Adirondacks. As such, it sits deep in a natural bowl, its edges a precariously steep tangle of fallen trees, thick vegetation, and rocks. No beach, no sandy shoreline, nothing. As Bob--the Eagle Scout-- glided into the area we had chosen for our encampment, he decided to demonstrate proper canoe disembarkment while in about four feet of water, since he couldn't paddle any closer to shore due to the congested topography of the bank. And, for reasons known only to him, he had decanted the contents of his tackle box into innumerable little plastic containers. As he climbed over the side of the overloaded boat, basic principles of physics took over, the essence of Little Clear Lake gushed over the gunwales, and the canoe spun like a crocodile eating a wildebeest, taking Bob right with it. Ker-Sploosh! Believe it or not, when Bob finally surfaced, his cigarette was still hanging rakishly from his lips, and of course Bob was soaked from head to toe. The little boxes containing his fishing tackle floated all around him. There he was, the USS Enterprise, surrounded by his battle group!
My gawd, it was funny! I was convulsed, but Bob was in no mood to appreciate the humor of the situation. I figured out real soon that the curses and threats echoing across the pristine north- country lake were coming from a bad place deep inside him, and I struggled mightily not to laugh, lest he kill me on the spot. I actually debated whether to help him out of the water, but in the end, I had no choice; he had the only map and compass!
As you may recall, the only dry clothing Bob now had with him was a rubber rain suit. In this humidity, his tee shirt and jeans would never dry, so he was pretty much stuck with Plan B. He stripped off his wet clothes (now, there was a sight I didn't need to see) and climbed into the rain suit. Eighty-five degrees, one hundred percent humidity, legions of mosquitoes and black flies, and an angry fat guy in a rubber suit. This would be a long night.
We had no option but to pitch our tent on the sloping terrain, and so we did the best that we could, considering how tired we were. The resulting campsite was nothing you would ever see in the Boy Scout Manual, for sure, and one of our challenges would be to avoid rolling downhill onto each other while we were sleeping. By the time we had a workable shelter erected, we were so tired that we never even constructed a fly over the tent. No worries, we would build a fire and grill some steaks, have a glass of scotch, and enjoy the solitude of the night.
Right.
The quantity and fierceness of the biting insects was beyond anything in our combined experience. We were literally driven into our tent, swatting and smashing these airborne attackers nonstop. Believe me, it took real courage even to venture out to grab some cookies for our supper. Answering "calls of nature" rose to the level of military operations, and were not entered into lightly. Every foray out of the tent was fraught with imminent peril.
So much for our steak dinner. As darkness enveloped our bivouac, we were entertained by a group of young rowdies across the lake, playing hard rock on a portable stereo and accompanying the raucous "music" with a pair of harmonicas, simple instruments which they had never bothered learning how to play. Solitude, my foot! Who writes these articles, anyway?
The next morning dawned clear and sunny, thankfully, and we immediately made plans to rig our poles and begin hauling out those amazing trout. Wisely donning headnets, we grabbed our gear and somehow boarded our bigger canoe without falling overboard. Paddling to the middle of the lake amid swarms of black flies, we baited up and tossed out our lines. We drifted, we anchored, we jigged, we tried different depths and lures--not a single fish would answer our calls. Bob all the while was suffering greatly in his rubber suit, sweating like a glass of cold lemonade on a hot day and bellyaching loudly about his tribulations. After several hours of this fruitless activity, Bob announced that he needed to avail himself of bathroom facilities.
This is the part where, if you have delicate sensibilities, you might want to stop reading.
Well, we found a spot where the bank was somewhat less than ninety degrees to the water, and I carefully let Bob off to complete his toilette. He bulled a short way into the woods, and backed up against a tree. Loud, rude noises filled the clear air, and presently, I heard him bellowing, "I need some toilet paper! ". What were the chances that we'd had the foresight to carry such a luxury in the canoe with us? No chance at all, and I told him so.
"Then throw me my sandwich!", he yelled, desperate for a hygienic solution. The sandwich, ham on rye as I recall, was wrapped in wax paper. Apparently, the plan was to eat the sandwich, then use the wrapping paper appropriately. I paddled closer to the bank and tossed it to him. I was surprised that it fell near enough to him that he was able to retrieve it without too much trouble. So far, so good. Bob ate his lunch and completed his nether ablutions. Finished, and smug that he had actually made a plan work, he pulled up his rubber pants and opened his mouth to yell to me that he was ready to be picked up and to issue precise directions on how this was to be accomplished.
As he did so, a black fly flew directly into his throat.
Bob gagged and erupted with a giant cough, as any of us would. Fine, except that Bob's "toilette" was not, um, completed, and the cough caused him to "complete" it in his rubber pants, which fact he immediately announced. Holy cow! Such language! He thrashed around the trees and bushes, angry moose-like, and headed for the water. Hip-deep in the water (again!), he stripped off the pants and furiously swished them around to rid them of their noxious contents. Now the rubber pants were soaked inside and out. Somehow he wriggled back into them and clambered into the canoe, nearly swamping us in the process. We silently paddled back to the campsite--and I could hardly contain myself--Bob had done it again!
Nightfall. Again, we were prisoners in our tent, held hostage by the bugs from hell. Bob was hugely uncomfortable in his drippy rubber suit, and he didn't smell too good, either. Venturing cautiously outside, we lit a fire and competed with each other for the spot where the smoke would envelop us, in a feckless attempt to dissuade the biting insects as Bob set about preparing our supper. Predictably, the food was a disaster; obviously a cooking merit badge was one the corpulent ex-Eagle Scout had eschewed. Since we had no savory native Adirondack brook trout to sauté, Bob settled for a brace of rib-eye steaks. Rib-eyes are loaded with marbled fat, which is why they taste so good, and they're fairly easy to grill.
For most people.
Ours were charred black and crispy on the outside, and ran purple and bloody at the center. We ate them anyway, mainly because I was afraid to criticize Bob's cooking, especially after the scatological misfortunes of the afternoon. A high point was canned corn--cold and right out of the tin.
After our succulent repast, we retreated into our shelter, scabrous, underfed, and discouraged. We had challenged the lakes and the mountains, and we were losing badly.
Now, Bob was the type of guy who hated to admit a mistake--in fact in can't recall that he ever did. But that night, when I suggested that we get the hell out of there in the morning, he agreed--and I knew I'd pay a heavy price. Forevermore, Bob the master storyteller would let everyone within earshot know that I had wimped out on our great fishing adventure. No matter. I knew he was secretly relieved that we were leaving. And so was I.
So, if you ever find yourself on the southeastern shore of Little Clear Lake in the heart of the northern Adirondacks, you might want to look for a rock shaped somewhat like the province of Newfoundland; if you dig underneath it, about fifty pounds of our food should still be there.
Bon Appetit!
Tim Neveldine
[email protected]
Fayetteville, NY
