For Sunday, May 4, 2008 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 821 words


Just fishing


Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day. Give a fisherman a fish and he’ll cut it up and make bait. Teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime. Starve a man and he’ll figure out how to fish on his own.

These and other circular semantics were shared around the campfire along the East Carson River south of Markleeville last Saturday night.

Gino and I went first-day fishing again with the boys. These boys range from tall teens to our senior member who is 90. For about 40 years these men have rendezvoused at the same primitive campsite made up of boulder-strewn fire rings, rocky roads, tall trees, and a one-pit bathroom shack.

This was an exceptionally cold weekend in the high country. The sun had difficulty beaming through the canopy of ponderosas and cedar to warm the campgrounds, and at dusk, which comes early in the Sierras because the sun sinks suddenly behind 8,000-foot high mountain ridges to the west, the alpine chill settles in like invisible fog.

Notice I said the words campfire and Saturday in the same sentence.

Funny thing happened on Friday night.

For the first time in anyone’s memory, the local sheriff paid a visit to the campground. If you can picture this arrangement, there are so many guys in this fishing party that they split off into about five groups, each with its own fire ring. The largest core group has a huge, deep fire pit, big enough to roast a hippo and have room for potatoes. As usual it was banked with huge piles of cut logs, diced up with chainsaws in advance, ready for their bonfire sacrifice.

Groups with younger members, like father-son teams, camp further away, away from the wild influences and bohemian behaviors that emerge at the core when the moon rises. Gino and I are in one of those fringe groups. We’re with the the semi-retired and the geezers.

Anyhow, the sheriff pulled up to the core camp. We watched from afar. Many gathered around the SUV. Heads were scratched. Shoulders were shrugged. Finally, one of the guys, who happen to have traveled all the way from the Florida Keys to be here, walked down to our site, just as the sun was vanishing.

“Hey, eh, any of you guys have a fire permit?”

“Fire permit? Why do we need a fire permit? This is a campground. There’s a toilet over there.”

“Don’t matter. The fire rings aren’t maintained by a park service.”

Don, our graybeard patriarch life-long veteran, knew this. He came on Wednesday. “I tried twice to get a fire permit,” he said. “I stopped in Markleeville on Wednesday and drove back again on Thursday. The fire station was closed both times.”

“Well, guys, no fires tonight. Sheriff’s orders.”

Brrrrr. That was bad news for our old bears. We sat around the Weber barbecue in the dark trying to draw some warmth from its glowing embers. Our poor 90-year-old friend sat bundled up like Kenny from South Park. Finally we all turned in early, eager to slip into our sleeping bags.

The next day, all that misery was forgotten. The trout were biting. Gino and I drove down the road a few miles, took our folding chairs and tackle down the bank, found a flat spot, cast our lines into a deep pool, and took naps. Now, that’s fishing.

I slept with my pole jammed in some rocks and the line wrapped around my index finger. From some rapturous dream I felt a tug. I awoke to find a nice foot-long rainbow bending my pole. I reeled him in, measured him, and set him free. Gino caught one and released, lost two.

At 1 p.m. we drove back to camp for another tradition: Joe Capone’s cold cut sandwiches. Each year he stops at Corti Brothers in Sacramento and buys pounds of various salami and Italian meats and big bread.

We shared fishing stories. Some had their limits of five. Some had fewer. Some had none. After lunch, we headed back to the river. This time Gino and I walked from camp through the woods and down a steep bank. It was a smart move. We got a lot of nibbles and bites. Our bait kept getting stolen. And we each caught another big trout, biggest of the day.

We let them go.

That’s about it. Nothing exceptional. Just relaxation, good company, and hungry trout.

One the way home, Gino and I engaged in another tradition. We detoured and explored the Sierras. This trip we left Highway 50 at Placerville and drove up to Mosquito, across the cable bridge. Then we drove 23 miles of dirt logging road and came out at Stumpy Meadows, above Georgetown. We stopped halfway, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, pulled out our chairs, and had a picnic in the road. Ate salami. Listened to the birds.