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Personally, I've always thought spring was over-rated. Americans are very easily impressed. I could cite hundreds of examples to illustrate this point, but it would belabor the point. You can't turn on the idiot box without being besieged by promises of green grass, wonderful vacations, fewer insects, better cuts of meat, and SUV’s; those over-powered-10 miles to the gallon-hormone dedicated-1.2% financed-cost more than your house-all terrain-death traps.
Even though SUV’s didn’t exist when I was growing up, they would have been the answer to my father’s dreams. In my mind, I can envision the meetings at General Motors (my father would drive nothing else) as the design engineers salivated at the possibility of being able to modify the new model just a bit, in order to incorporate that extra bell or whistle, expressly to impress Dad. My father was the poster boy for high-tech gimmickry. In 1954, he owned the only new Chevrolet station wagon in the neighborhood capable of shooting high-pressure jets of water onto the hubcaps while he drove around. Of course, the pump and reservoir of fluid were so large they left no room for windshield washers, but the inability to see the road was a small price to pay for having perpetually shiny hubcaps.
Of course, since he had the baddest wagon on the block, his primary mission in life became finding situations capable of testing all the design functions. This normally meant leaving the pavement behind. Living in Colorado made this a no-brainer, so this wasn’t a problem, but since four-wheel drive was a luxury found only in Jeeps, I spent many hours trying to free our Chevy from holes large enough to swallow a Volkswagen. My father was also of the opinion that there was simply no terrain his marvel of engineering couldn’t conquer, in our pursuit of The Perfect Fishing Hole.
My dad was not likely to be mistaken for a wilderness outfitter. He loved to go fishing, camping or preferably both, but somehow, the planning of such an outing escaped him. He really did enjoy taking me with him. I think it was his idea of male bonding. Planning, however, was never Dad's long suit. His concept of equipment for a camping trip was two blankets, a canteen of water (for me), a skillet, a couple of assorted rods and tackle boxes, 2 coolers of beer (one was for emergencies or the trip home, whichever came first), a carton of Camels, and a roll of toilet paper.
Once, I suggested that maybe we ought to buy a lantern, or maybe take along a little something to keep my stomach from roaring in my ears, but I was informed that we'd soon have plenty of fish to eat. Besides, my dad semi-patiently explained, there is nothing better than sitting around a campfire with only its light to protect us. After all, ghost stories aren’t any fun unless it's pitch black around you.
Sounds idyllic, you say? Yea, well, tell that to an eight-year-old who is wandering around in the dark, looking for berries, wild onions (gag), grass, mushrooms or damn near anything remotely edible to shove down his throat to get his stomach to shut up! By first light, I would be starting to get a little sleepy, considering I’d been up most of the night trying to forget the sounds of bears fighting just out of sight. I also wished we'd brought along some insect repellant. I swear I was awakened by the sound of two mosquitoes arguing. They couldn’t agree whether to eat me here or take me back to the family. Evidently, they concluded it was best to remain here. If they took me back, the big ones would get me. At that point I didn’t much care as I tried to keep warm in the J.C. Penney factory-second blanket my mother had gotten on sale, roughly the same time that World War ll ended.
After the sun comes up in the Colorado Rockies (if it isn't raining or snowing), you can usually control your body's shaking long enough to bait a hook. I no longer cared about anything but food as I desperately tried to dispel my thoughts of patricide. Hell, I even thought of ways to kill him with food! Did you ever sit and think about how painful and agonizing it would be to be smothered by a baloney sandwich? Well, I did, and I was able to dispel the notion only temporarily when he asked me what I was grinning about.
"Oh, nothing…" was the reply, as I tried to look pitiful enough to convince him that we should hop in the station wagon and head for civilization and get something to eat. More often than not, he seemed to know when I was truly miserable, and he would acquiesce to my desires-- but not without bemoaning my lack of fortitude during the entire 51 miles back to the trailhead. I could quote him chapter and verse after awhile, as each homily invariably began, "Bubba, someday you'll thank me for this"...
I'm still trying to find time to do that. And I still can't eat baloney, it being a murder weapon and all…
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