The Kettle River called again this year.
A deserved summer vacation: fishing, barbeque and drinking beer.
The Old Bag thought the idea of sitting in the dirt for a week sucked and decided to stay home. She pointed out that we had lost a bunch of income during the three weeks I'd been on strike, or locked out, depending on your point of view. She'd go to work.
From her point of view, if I left for a week and took the Baguette with me, she'd get her deserved vacation.
Baguette's buddy, Mitsumi, joined us, so I was free to do what I liked. I didn't have to entertain and had no responsibilities beyond ensuring that there was food available and making the occasional gin and tonic for the underage girls.
Loaded up the tent-trailer - the girls brought a tent for themselves - and proceeded to drive six hours with the truck in overdrive. Apparently it's not recommended when you're towing. In fact, it's frowned upon. The whine from the front end became rather apparent about 45 minutes from camp so I chose to ignore it.
Of course, by Monday, when I took the Explorer to the mechanic, it wouldn't make a sound. He checked the wheel bearings, tightened the lug nuts - "you should re-torque lugs on aluminum wheels" - advised me about how I probably came close to blowing up my torque converter and charged me not a nickle.
"We'll get you next time", he said, and if I do that again, indeed he will.
He didn't offer any advice on fishing holes, and my fishing buddy Keath, his brother Glen, son, Danny and I could have used some. Seemed the rainbow trout were all eager and all less than six inches long.
We had planned a long float in our Southfork pontoon boats, but the river was so low and slow we had to give up on the idea. Much as I like fishing, I don't like walking down a river, dragging a boat over the rocks.
Referring to the backroads map book, we set out to find the honey holes by vehicle. That ended less that a mile down Myers road when we stopped to ask the rancher if we could cross his property.
"We don't encourage that kind of activity", he said.
"You could drive down to Midway and ask the rancher there, but, he don't encourage that kind of activity either."
Forgot to mention, we got up at six A.M. for this kind of activity, which I thought was incredibly stupid, but I was outnumbered.
About 11 A.M. we ended up on the West Kettle, a catch and release section, where we had had success in the past - ten to fourteen inch fish. We found more four-inch fish and some sixes and sevens.
And then Keath nailed the bugger under the bridge. Fourteen inches, we figured and fat. It just didn't seem fair.
Two days later, I returned to the bridge by myself, caught a rainbow on every cast, none larger than six inches and despite myself, tied on a nymph.
First cast brought up a nine-inch rainbow, second cast, a twitch of the rod, and I was into Keath's trout. Measured it against the rod and it was truely fourteen inches and fat.
Seemed like the climax to a day, the climax to a trip, but that was to come.
Three A.M. and the girls are shouting in my ear. Trees are falling in the campsite, the heavy-duty construction tarp is in shreds, their tent is in the bushes and there's a guy shouting to pack up and leave.
There's a forest fire burning in the group campsite and the wind is gusting to sixty miles per hour.
"Get out and get up to the highway"
Did what I was told. Grabbed my wallet and little else. At least the girls had the presence of mind to chuck some sleeping bags into the truck. The tent-trailer could burn.
I had my rods, vest and tying bag. Grabbed a couple packs of smokes. I figured if I was gonna die from smoke inhalation, it would be on my terms. Wished I'd tossed a couple beers into the truck, but it was too late now.
Firefighters arrived about an hour later after the wind had died and we retuned to the smoking campsite at seven A.M. to pack up to head for home.
At least we were going home. A guy in a nearby campground isn't. He died when a tree fell on his tent.
"There are no steelhead".
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