With fall quickly upon us, my focus this time of year is typically on the annual pilgrimage that my angling brethren and I take into the woods and rivers of Missouri. The pilgrimage that is necessary for recharging and reconnecting. The pilgrimage that makes trout and livers very nervous. The pilgrimage that brings spiritual fire, religious currents, and church for the adventurous. This year, however, I will miss the pilgrimage for the first time in history. Please do not fret, though--my absence is for good reason. During the fall hijinks this year, my wife and I will be safely within a quick drive to the hospital, anticipating the arrival of our second baby. So instead of tying trouty flies and strengthening my tolerance for brown liquor, I will be preparing the nursery and rubbing my wife's feet this season. I will, though, be dreaming of wilderness debauchery and cheering on my cohorts, wishing them luck both in the water and and at the card table. Please enjoy this post from my old blog site, www.earlsblogazine.blogspot.com, outlining some of the finer points of the event deemed, The Man-Trip. From November, 2015. I love my life, dearly. I love my daughter, my wife, and my dog. There's nothing I would change about it. But the routine of everyday living catches up with one, building steam all year long, like a locomotive, until one day--typically in mid-October--a group of men head into the wilderness where they meet up for four glorious, womanless days, to wreak havoc on their livers, lungs, tastebuds, and brains. These men, when all together for this moment, astonish one another with their keen prowess in whiskey drinking, fire making, trout catching, dollar bill gambling, and incessant bullshitting. The Man-Trip is what it's become known as. Four days of excellence. We eat well, we fish for trout, we tell stories, we stay up late, we engage in games of chance, and we drink more than you do. Please envision, if you will, a kitchen counter lined with whiskies, gins, and vodkas. Coolers of beer stacked in the foyer, some artfully crafted from one of our own brethren, others mass produced by someone with the last names of Miller, Anheuser, Coors, or Busch. Hand-held humidors with cigars, that when smoked, will make it feel like a cat shit in your mouth the next morning. Food upon food stacked so high that you would swear we were preparing for a nuclear invasion. Out on the deck, fish fryers, grills, piles of wood, assembled fly rods ready for a bend, waders hanging over the railing. A view out of the window shows the river where we will stake our claim. Our claim of manliness. A fire will be built on the shoal after a gratifying day of angling. Boaters passing by will be scoffed at for intruding on our bend of the river, scaring ourtrout, and not paddling by faster. Getting back up the hill to the cabin will require engaging in 4-wheel low, a gear our trucks rarely see, aside from snow and ice. If our trucks could grin, they would. The amount of beauty that we ingest is staggering. Ham and beans, Scotch whiskey, countless maintenance beers, gravy on everything in the morning, chili on everything in the afternoon, and a special sammich named after Billy D. Williams. It's a literal gut-check that the weak will suffer from. Pacing one's self is the desired method, but pumping the brakes proves difficult, as this meeting only happens once a year. Shooting out of a cannon is expected, especially on the first night, following the manly, "handshake-back pat" or "man-hug". The only thing there is to do after a man-hug is to drink. It's an unwritten rule of human nature. It signifies that it's time to begin, like a starter's pistol. For some, fishing is a major priority. Figuring out a river after a year's absence is satisfying, especially when the lion's share of your trout are caught on a fly you tied specifically for these trouts' mouths. The fly, by the way, is named the Waylon Jennings. Because it's that good. Of course, those fishing will need to play catch up when calling it a day, because you are definitely in the minority. It's okay though, I feel up to the challenge. Stream-side Scotch? Please and thank you, sir. Every night has at least one winner--someone who takes the cake, captures the flag, wins the crown. It could be staying up til 6am, trying your damnedest to empty a bottle with an old friend. Or, it could be that all the liquid caught up with you at once, prompting you to accidentally lock yourself in a dark bedroom, fall on a bed, breaking it, and then pissing your pants. Either scenario might win. If someone gets hurt, they are basically a shoo-in. The winner has to be informed the next morning of their title. Even then, they still may not remember. Licking one's wounds is an expected part of this adventure. On check-out day, we spend all morning cleaning...those of us that are upright and able. We respect our cabin's owners, and want to continue to be welcomed back. Our eyes are blurry, our backs are stiff, we have shooting pains in our chests, and we are choking back sriracha and gin. We smell of sweat, smoke, fish slime, and booze. Yet we still grin in triumph. Our travels back home are dizzying and painful, reminding us that we are human. We do not habitually act like this, but have to on occasion out of necessity. Once back into reality, we appreciate our daily lives even more so. Living like George Jones for four days slides things back into perspective. Sure, we could do it if we had to--it would just take some tolerance building and a gas station with package liquor. But as much as we'd like to think that we are dead, country music legends, sadly we are not. We are dads, husbands, and one of us, a grandpa. Four days of manly debauchery is enough...for now. But after a week of recovery, sometimes consisting of eating vegetables and not drinking, we are ready for round two. We look back on what we can remember, the fish we caught, the dollars we won or lost, the camaraderie and fellowship, and we once again can't wait until next October. Oh, Man-Trip. You are a beautiful devil. You are 80% joy, 20% consequences. And you teach us that sacrificing 20% to the aches, the pain, and the toilet, is well worth the 80% of elation and pure joy that we experience once a year. It's a manly lesson. It's a manly trip. //re.
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AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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