I started keeping a
fishing calendar this past year. My thinking was that I would somehow get to
fish more. I was applying the business proverb of "that which gets measured gets
done". Apparently this doesn't work as well on the home front. Actually, MOST of
the leadership tactics I bring home from work become useless when they pass
between my lot lines. Kind of a Bermuda Triangle of management principles I'd
say. I'll share more on this once I fully understand the phenomenon. In the
meantime, I've learned it's best to just go with the flow most of the time and
try not to get underfoot of the wonderful women in my life.
Sometimes the vehicle we
call life can drive pretty fast and we're not necessarily at the wheel. Although
I love that my daughters stay busy, it does make me ponder what the heck empty
nesters do with their time. The endless stream of sleepovers, homework projects,
ball games, and the like – easily displace the time that "coulda" been spent on
a stream of a different sort. It's "all good" though. I am happy they are busy
well-adjusted kids that basically stay out of trouble. However, it sure is nice
to have some "alone time" once in awhile to slow the pace.
Every once in a while
though, I get a gift of time. Yesterday I found out that the softball tournament
this weekend was somehow going to go on without the Stampede, my youngest
daughter's team. As if they didn't spend enough time together every previous
weekend, they decided to do a movie day with the whole team. Great! Have at it.
Just give me my free kitchen pass and I'm outa here. It's the middle of July.
Darn hot in my part of the country, but I bet I can find a coldwater tailrace
with a few leftover stockers in it even in these dog days. Maybe four hours
drive, at best, but it'd be worth it.
I mentioned it to the
boss. When she said, "just go", she sort of looked at me funny. So, apparently
the vote (or veto) is still out on this one. I am smart enough to know
actions-speak-louder-than-words and did not confuse her yes with a Yes - more
negotiations to resume in the morning. Hmm, it'd probably be good to leverage
some other activity that she is interested in. I may have to get out the massage
table again. Worked for my last fishing trip – though my hands were too tired to
cast. Oh, the sacrifices I whilst make for ye li'l trout. Hmm, maybe if she
comes up with independent plans of her own for Saturday night, then I could
throw the tent in the jeep and head for the mountains.
Sounds like a beer
commercial doesn't it. Well, shoot, I'm just hopeless enough of a romantic to
believe there SHOULD be moments that are beer-commercial-ish. Maybe not with the
athletes and bikini girls, but at the very least something more noble than the
day-to-day grind of improving the widget making processes at work. I guess I'm
searching for some adventure, something that forces one to say, "It don't get no
Didn't quite get up as
early as I'd thought. As soon as was reasonably appropriate (which is frankly a
stab in the dark), I introduced the topic of fishing again but was quickly
reminded of the current state of my yard. She was right. The lawn was turning
into a jungle – a product of our busy schedules and the same distractions that
keep me from trout fishing. Mowing, edging, weeding, pruning, weed whacking,
pool cleaning, dog doo-doo shoveling, and a bunch of sweating later, I was ready
to go fishing. Too late in the afternoon though for a reasonable trip to the
mountains - but when life gives you lemons... make Peanut Butter and Jelly
sandwiches. Oh yeah, I'll explain this later.
I threw the tent,
bedroll, sleeping bag, cotton sheet, cooler, and a couple of fly rods in the
back seat. I grabbed the necessary paper products as well as a lighter. A few
trips to the back of the jeep with armloads of logs completed the preparation. I
was getting away. Not far away, but Away. Oops, almost forgot some flies, my
vest, some sports sandals, and the little neoprene booties I wear for wet
wading; oh yeah, bug dope and polarized glasses. I guess it wasn't as simple as
I had thought. I hope that is everything. I can't help the sinking sensation I
get every time I go camping – that I am leaving the key ingredient behind.
Mental checklist time – yep, got everything. Okay, Away.
This trip I was trying
to keep as simple as absolutely possible. Often though camping can be about the
food. In fact, my wife is an incredible camp chef who works marvels with
aluminum foil packets and hobo pie makers. She puts the George Foreman grill to
shame or even the fancy Fire-and-Ice contraption that cools and cooks that my
buddy Bruce (the James Bond of camping) uses. Camping with my wife Dawn is truly
a culinary experience. Admittedly, I like to dabble in campfire cuisine as well.
But, again, this trip was not about the food. I just need to stop to get soda,
ice, beef jerky, shelled peanuts, and a couple of cigars and I will be whole.
You see, there exists a phenomenon I call the Peanut Butter and Jelly Paradox.
Henceforth described as PB&JP. According the PB&JP, EVERYTHING tastes incredible
after a day in the outdoors, particularly if it is made AND consumed in the
outdoors. If you were out wranglin' doggies for a long day - shoe leather would
taste like steak. If you were out in the woods hunting from daylight to early
afternoon - crackers and cheese would make your mouth water like creme bruele.
My family discovered the
PB&JP a few years ago while on Spring Break. We were spending a day at a Gulf
beach frolicking in the surf and catching some rays. Being so engaged in our
outdoor activities, we were not cognizant of our growing hunger until late in
the afternoon. All we had in the little gutbucket was a few peanut butter &
jelly sandwiches; it was the only food within a mile. You can't possibly imagine
the delectable balance of sweet and nutty, squooshy and crunchy? Try to
visualize: moist bread with tender crusts that melt in your mouth, peanut butter
that sticks to the roof of your mouth, and slippery jelly that glides over your
tongue and past your tonsils. PB&J is a gourmand's dream in the outdoors! PB&J
is as good in the great outdoors as prime rib is in the artificial indoors.
There you have it - the PB&J Paradox.
So, back to my trip -
aligned with this paradox I knew I couldn't go wrong with the simplicity of
shelled peanuts and beef-jerky. Could I? I smiled as I rolled out of the drive.
I'm "off like a herd of turtles" – a phrase an old friend repeated ad nauseam.
My intended destination was a local lake probably only twenty minutes away.
There were primitive sites there with not much more than a fire ring and a
table. No electrical or fancy slabs with hookups – perfect for a rustic camper
from the old school like me. On the way through the hilly country, I noticed
many of the tributary creeks were high. It had been a wet summer in North Texas.
My plan included fishing
Bear Creek once I had set up camp. But as I drove to the campground I crossed
the bridge over Bear Creak and discovered that the normally sparse clear water -
filled to the rim with bream - was actually too deep to wade. Flooded. Shoot, I
thought; I'll have to find a new place to fish. First I better set up camp.
I found the perfect
camping spot high on a point overlooking Lake Benbrook in two different
directions. A nice breeze came steadily off the water; I figured this would be
good to keep the bugs at bay. Great spot to pitch a tent also. It was perfect
except the previous campers had left quite a mess. Trash was all over the site
and partially burned logs had spilled over the edge of the fire ring. It looked
like whomever just left needed a double dose of the golden rule. I began to
clean it up. I do touch a lot of critters and things in the great outdoors that
some people might find disturbing, but for me, nothing was as disgusting as
touching the leftover food trash of strangers. Well, I guess it's not in the
cards for me to ever bus tables – good. I threw all their anthropological
remnants into the fire pit. I planned to burn it all with my campfire late that
There must have been
some embers still aglow in the pit. The trash burst into flames. Well, I guess
I'll roll with this. I threw a couple of logs on the fire and they promptly
started with the help of the wind. I can fish tomorrow; I've got a fire to watch
now. As I set up my tent, I chalked up another lesson the hard way. Okay,
somewhere in the little dome tent manual I'm sure that it says to pound in the
stakes first before erecting. Right, I'm not big on directions. Just after
getting the poles into the bottom pins, the tent did a convincing impression of
tumbleweed. I caught it after the fourth full rotation as it was headed in the
general direction of the boat launch. Talking to it nicely, I coaxed it back to
its intended resting-place.
Although I wasn't
fishing as I intended, it was a good night at camp. In a pavilion nearby, there
was quite a family picnic going on. Somebody's talented uncle brought along a
guitar and a healthy desire to teach children and teens how to sing along with
fifties songs and old country favorites. I must say it was heavenly to listen as
I watched the fire dance. Interrupted more than occasionally by noisy boat
launchings and the personal watercrafts horse-playing in the cove, this music
was simply refreshing. I can stare endlessly into a fire with nothing but the
night sounds of the woods; so this welcomed accompaniment was, well, music to my
ears. Peanut shells glowed as I shucked and chucked them in the fire. The jerky
tasted like... well, suffice it to say – the PB&JP was at work.
I sat and read a U.S.
history book. I was taking an on-line class so there was a practical reason for
cracking the book. However, it really was cool to read it THERE. I was studying
about the nasty things the new Americans were doing to the Cherokees on the
Trail of Tears, and the thousands killed en route to Oklahoma (Indian Territory
back then.). Somehow this all seemed more meaningful sitting fireside looking
over water and some semblance of nature. Yes, I'm a geek like that.
When the fire settled
down enough to kick apart and then perish, I headed into the tent. I read a bit
more history by flashlight. This reminded me of sneaky reading after "lights
out" when I was a kid. Funny how we never actually grow-up. It didn't take long
to start to nodding-off. I threw my glasses in my baseball cap, turned off the
flashlight, and rested my head on the makeshift pillow - a sweatshirt. See I
knew I forgot something.
I woke to church bells
echoing across the lake. At first I thought it was a cell phone. It seems that
in everyday life no matter what you are doing - incessant cell phones ringing
and chiming are inescapable. I reminded myself that I was not within a hundred
yards of another human, then the church bell theory proved more plausible. I
better get going. I always wake up with a pep-to-my-step when I'm camping.
Betrayed often by my stiff back, I like to have an action bias. After all, there
are fish to be caught and adventures to be had. Left over beef jerky for
breakfast, a diet coke from the cold water in the cooler - though the ice was
long gone - added to my building energy. I had all the fishing gear aligned in
the front seat ready to assemble on arrival. Then rallying a quick tent tear
down and chucking everything else in the back seat, I took off down the road.
Headed to the Trinity
River below the dam of Lake Benbrook, I still didn't know if it would be
fishable. The tributaries were high, but maybe they weren't releasing much below
the dam. After all, the dams were for flood control, right? As luck would have
it, the Trinity was perfect. Sunlight cast through the mammoth old-growth oaks
leaving shadows on the edges for bream to hide. The water was only slightly more
stained from the rain and barely above normal level. The fish were looking up.
The poppers drifted well. Fish were aggressive and often visible for the take.
Experimenting with woolly buggers also brought attacks by fish near beds and
grassy islands. In the shadow of logs, hid the big'uns. If I could get
perpendicular to them and cast just upstream, I could strip it about six inches
in front of their nose for an exciting strike and fight. My three-weight labored
against these saucer-sized brutes. I caught fish until I was too hungry to stand
in the river any longer. Maybe fifty fish or more came to my hand and were
released unharmed in the extended morning.
Wonderful time standing
in the water - being a part of something wild. Maybe the Peanut Butter and Jelly
Paradox doesn't just apply to food. Not only does Peanut Butter and Jelly
sometimes taste like Prime Rib. But sometimes rolling hills are as good as rocky
mountains, local run-off creeks are as pretty as alpine streams, and biting
bluegills are as exciting as finicky trout. There you have it – the Peanut
Butter and Jelly Paradox in action. And since my girls are going to be grown up
before I know it – I'll take the little time I get, and enjoy the peanut butter
Scott is a lead
editor and contributor to SouthwestSportsman.com, a website
dedicated to the enjoyment of the great American outdoors.