"Pinball Machines: Now and Then"
Darrel Hammon
I haven’t played pinball for many years. I suspect it is still around in arcades— probably more jazzed than in times past—or in places I do not or would not frequent. Some years ago, my came home and told me about a hot new game they found on someone else’s computer. I asked them what it was. Their reply: pinball.
Highway 93, that long drink of water heading north to Birch Creek, Leadore, Salmon, Idaho, and beyond, took me to my first encounter with a pinball machine. We often went to Birch Creek to fish and camp or motored further north to Salmon to visit my Uncle George and Aunt Ora who had the most wonderful POA ponies. No matter where we were going, our tradition was to stop at Blue Dome, Idaho, to pick up a pop or ice cream or on special occasions have lunch or pie.
Blue Dome served up my first taste of pinball. When I first saw the machine and watched some guy play it, I thought maybe this was something I wasn’t supposed to do. Initially, it didn’t seem proper to stand in front of clanging, pinging machine that had inappropriate pictures—or at least to my way of thinking—at the head of the machine. Besides, it filled the Blue Dome Café with a rush of noises and created a sense of uncomfortableness of us making too much noise while people sat quietly on stools.
It only took a dime to make the machine whine. My brothers and I looked at Dad who sat casually on one of the old swivel stools at the counter for his wink and nod. Receiving his approval, we pulled dimes from our pockets and shoved one into the slot. Several balls—in marble talk, they were steelies—slid into place in the right hand corner. We pulled back the spring-loaded gizmo and let the first on fly.
Instantaneously, the lights pinged and dinged and clanged as the ball bounced of the gadgets. Each direct hit caused the numbers in the counter to flip, higher and higher and sometimes more rapidly and quickly than other hits.
Initially, my oldest brother provided the flipping power. It was almost a defensive basketball stance: legs apart, crouched at the waist, arms spread apart as if some Jordonesque player strolled our way. Instead, his fingers poised around two buttons, one on each side of the machine and flipped for all they were worth, trying to keep the ball in the high ground where the prize for the dings was a larger score.
Finally, the ball made its way to the bottom where my brother used his extreme knowledge of finger dexterity to flip the ball back to the top where the dinging resumed in grandeur. But in most games, you can flip so long, and then the ball, like some green broke horse, knows to head straight for the stall and into the hole where it would not return.
Fortunately, we had about three balls left. It didn’t take us long, though, to flip our way out of balls. The clanging, dinging, pinging, clattering, and other bizarre and noisy noises could keep up so long. Soon, all the balls had found their way to an underground hole, submerged until we inserted another dime. Each of took turns, inserting shiny dimes, flipping balls to the top of the machine where we hoped our numbers would exceed those of our brothers.
Now, you don’t need shiny new dimes. With a good sound card, adequate speakers and hard drive, a big monitor, and a mouse that can click “new game,” Presto! You can be in business.
But it’s not the same as it used to be in the Blue Dome Café. Now, when I hit certain keys on the keyboard, the pseudo-clanging still reverberates, and the virtual ball still pings its way down to the flippers, now mere keys on the keyboard. Perhaps, the ambiance of an old café on the banks of Highway 93 provided a more clandestine yet authentic feeling.
Instead of air conditioning, a 17" monitor, and the ability to click “new game” anytime I want, then it was just me and the machine surrounded by swivel stools, pie stacked in the cylindrical glass palace, the Coca Cola bottle machine against the wall, the freezer full of ice cream bars, and a single pinball machine with all its glamour, lights, and dinging sounds, as I sipped orange Crush from a real glass bottle.
Showing posts with label Idaho. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Idaho. Show all posts
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Trapping
When I was younger, Tom R. and I trapped muskrats one winter on Spring Creek just behind my Uncle Milt's house. It was a very interesting winter. This poem emerged from those memories:
Trapping
When snows first whiten
the fall straw stubble
and barren potato fields,
I pull my muskrat traps
from the 16 penny nails, half buried
in the side of the old barn.
I place the traps side by side
on a 4" x 6" pine plank.
I turn them over and over,
fingering each one with leather-gloved hand,
like pictures in an album
until I remember where
I placed them last season:
under the tall cottonwood
in front of the half-hidden worn trail,
leading into the brush-covered mud bank.
I press each lever with my right heel,
holding tightly, and gently
locking the spring in place.
The jaws gape open at my feet
while I step back to test
their strength and quickness.
I reach into my goose-down jacket,
pull out a creek pebble,
the size of a cat-eyed marble.
From three feet above the trap,
I drop the pebble.
The jaws snap shut before I can
draw another breath.
I test the jaws twice more
until they are ready
for the murky waters
that run beneath the weeping willows,
through the giant cottonwoods
while the muskrats roam up and down
the creek like Titania dancing
under a full Moon,
not heeding where they step.
Trapping
When snows first whiten
the fall straw stubble
and barren potato fields,
I pull my muskrat traps
from the 16 penny nails, half buried
in the side of the old barn.
I place the traps side by side
on a 4" x 6" pine plank.
I turn them over and over,
fingering each one with leather-gloved hand,
like pictures in an album
until I remember where
I placed them last season:
under the tall cottonwood
in front of the half-hidden worn trail,
leading into the brush-covered mud bank.
I press each lever with my right heel,
holding tightly, and gently
locking the spring in place.
The jaws gape open at my feet
while I step back to test
their strength and quickness.
I reach into my goose-down jacket,
pull out a creek pebble,
the size of a cat-eyed marble.
From three feet above the trap,
I drop the pebble.
The jaws snap shut before I can
draw another breath.
I test the jaws twice more
until they are ready
for the murky waters
that run beneath the weeping willows,
through the giant cottonwoods
while the muskrats roam up and down
the creek like Titania dancing
under a full Moon,
not heeding where they step.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Menan Buttes: Lasting Treasures
As you pass over the Snake River Bridge which divides Madison County from Jefferson County, you can see to the west the Menan Buttes, two ancient volcanoes sticking right up in the middle of prime farming country.
As a kid growing up in Menan, I remember my dad telling me stories about the Buttes. One told an outlaw who robbed the Menan bank and hid loot somewhere on one of the Buttes. People came from around the country and tried to find the money, but all they found were jackrabbits, acres and acres of sagebrush full of ticks, and a few rattlesnakes–certainly not the riches they were seeking.
I never found the robbers’s buried riches either, but I discovered a more lasting treasure. A friend and I were tired of taking dates to the movies, so we decided to try something different–a hike up to the north butte in the dark without flashlights. We called a couple of girls (I won’t mention their names, but you know who you are) and told them we had a spectacular date all planned for them. All they had to bring were some hiking shoes and warm coats.
We picked them up, drove down the Substation Road across the Snake River, and headed down the bumpy road to the Menan Buttes. After we dodged “washboards” for about a mile, we four-wheeled it halfway up the north butte and stopped. We made sure the parking brake was one, and I stuffed a huge lava rock in front of each tire. I didn’t want to walk back home and have to tell my dad about a smashed vehicle.
Although the moon beamed down like a searchlight, the girls wanted to know if we had brought flashlights. Of course, we had, but we told them we were going to climb up the north butte using the moon’s rays as our lantern and drink the hot chocolate we had brought in a giant thermos.
It took us about half an hour to reach the top. We walked around the rim to Red Rock and sat down. What a view! Luckily, the wind wasn’t blowing as hard as my dad said it would. The stars sat so low it seemed we could reach out and touch them.
While we talked and laughed about walking though the dark and drinking hot chocolate from half-smashed cups, we surveyed the valley.
Rexburg looked like a giant runway of lights. Menan’s lights twinkled in a dozen spots in the valley. All around us farm lights shimmered in the darkness like tiny fireflies. Even the lights of Rigby and Idaho Falls to south lighted up the sky.
Just across the river, Gunderson’s dogs yipped, and their Holstein cows mooed. A cock pheasant called out from somewhere down by Miller’s slough.
Soon it was quiet. Our laughter and lightness had dissipated somewhere, and we talked about ourselves and the problems we probably would be facing.
I was ironic that on top of Red Rock overlooking our little world and sipping hot chocolate, we matured, while the wind stirred up bits of red dust and carried them down into the crater.
As we climbed down, we felt a new sense of who we were--or at least I did. We had seen our little world, even though it only spread at that time from Rexburg to Idaho Falls. But we were part of it.
Although it had been thousands of years since the Menan Buttes had spewed their last river of smothering lava, that night they came alive for us for about an hour or so. Instead of suffocating ash, they sprinkled us with a new vision, so we could see beyond to the next horizon.
Now, as I pass by the Buttes, I feel that meandering Snake River somehow feeds them through an underground tunnel, keeping their roots alive, so the old volcanoes can sit there, century after century, like giant medicine men, waiting for their followers to gather on their rims and partake of their secrets.
As a kid growing up in Menan, I remember my dad telling me stories about the Buttes. One told an outlaw who robbed the Menan bank and hid loot somewhere on one of the Buttes. People came from around the country and tried to find the money, but all they found were jackrabbits, acres and acres of sagebrush full of ticks, and a few rattlesnakes–certainly not the riches they were seeking.
I never found the robbers’s buried riches either, but I discovered a more lasting treasure. A friend and I were tired of taking dates to the movies, so we decided to try something different–a hike up to the north butte in the dark without flashlights. We called a couple of girls (I won’t mention their names, but you know who you are) and told them we had a spectacular date all planned for them. All they had to bring were some hiking shoes and warm coats.
We picked them up, drove down the Substation Road across the Snake River, and headed down the bumpy road to the Menan Buttes. After we dodged “washboards” for about a mile, we four-wheeled it halfway up the north butte and stopped. We made sure the parking brake was one, and I stuffed a huge lava rock in front of each tire. I didn’t want to walk back home and have to tell my dad about a smashed vehicle.
Although the moon beamed down like a searchlight, the girls wanted to know if we had brought flashlights. Of course, we had, but we told them we were going to climb up the north butte using the moon’s rays as our lantern and drink the hot chocolate we had brought in a giant thermos.
It took us about half an hour to reach the top. We walked around the rim to Red Rock and sat down. What a view! Luckily, the wind wasn’t blowing as hard as my dad said it would. The stars sat so low it seemed we could reach out and touch them.
While we talked and laughed about walking though the dark and drinking hot chocolate from half-smashed cups, we surveyed the valley.
Rexburg looked like a giant runway of lights. Menan’s lights twinkled in a dozen spots in the valley. All around us farm lights shimmered in the darkness like tiny fireflies. Even the lights of Rigby and Idaho Falls to south lighted up the sky.
Just across the river, Gunderson’s dogs yipped, and their Holstein cows mooed. A cock pheasant called out from somewhere down by Miller’s slough.
Soon it was quiet. Our laughter and lightness had dissipated somewhere, and we talked about ourselves and the problems we probably would be facing.
I was ironic that on top of Red Rock overlooking our little world and sipping hot chocolate, we matured, while the wind stirred up bits of red dust and carried them down into the crater.
As we climbed down, we felt a new sense of who we were--or at least I did. We had seen our little world, even though it only spread at that time from Rexburg to Idaho Falls. But we were part of it.
Although it had been thousands of years since the Menan Buttes had spewed their last river of smothering lava, that night they came alive for us for about an hour or so. Instead of suffocating ash, they sprinkled us with a new vision, so we could see beyond to the next horizon.
Now, as I pass by the Buttes, I feel that meandering Snake River somehow feeds them through an underground tunnel, keeping their roots alive, so the old volcanoes can sit there, century after century, like giant medicine men, waiting for their followers to gather on their rims and partake of their secrets.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Homesteading in the Pershimeri
Out in the Pershimeri, near Little Lost River,
flows a quaint creek, just warm enough
for Black Mollies, Swordtails, Goldfish, Guppies,
swimming in and out of tangled moss
and creek stuff.How they all got there
is still a mystery.Someone said that people
who got tired of feeding them, cleaning the tank,
clandestinely sneaked up the dirt road,
dumped fish and all into the warm creek,
thinking their problems solved,and disappeared
among the sagebrush and home. For them,
their problems just hid among the greenery
of the creek, too scared to sense
they were now orphans
somewhere in the Pershimeri.
Somehow, my dad found out about the fish,
drove us there in the old white station wagon,
for miles, it seemed, on a tired dirt road.
At last, we arrived, the car too dusty to tell.
And there they were, swimming pretty
in the warm water, thinking perhaps
that we were their saviors.
We yanked out our sieves and cheese cloth
from the back of the wagon
and headed to the creek.
These fish were tricky.
They knew the intricacies
of the moss and stuff.
My mother was the best netter of the day.
We just watched as she ran pell mell
down the creek bank, yelling something
like, “I see a Black Mollie…ah, she’s beautiful!”
Laughing, we trotted downstream with our gallon pickle jars,
long since cleaned and modified for fish.
She scooped up a few of each species,
placed them gently in the jars, now full of creek water.
Tiring of the netting, we donned swimming togs,
swam in the pond, enclosed in what used to be a log cabin,
now sunken with no roof or two of the sides.
The water was warm, almost too warm, like a bath.
Soon, the dust washed off, we trudged back
to the car, climbed in, tired and then slept until home.
Once home, we stowed our new catch
into their new home, a gorgeous fish tank,
complete with filters and rocks and fish things.
As they swam, we pressed our noses to the tank,
wondered if they knew they were
no longer in the desert, now
just sitting our the wood table
in the kitchen; wondered if any of them
remembered their beginnings
before they homesteaded in the Pershimeri.
flows a quaint creek, just warm enough
for Black Mollies, Swordtails, Goldfish, Guppies,
swimming in and out of tangled moss
and creek stuff.How they all got there
is still a mystery.Someone said that people
who got tired of feeding them, cleaning the tank,
clandestinely sneaked up the dirt road,
dumped fish and all into the warm creek,
thinking their problems solved,and disappeared
among the sagebrush and home. For them,
their problems just hid among the greenery
of the creek, too scared to sense
they were now orphans
somewhere in the Pershimeri.
Somehow, my dad found out about the fish,
drove us there in the old white station wagon,
for miles, it seemed, on a tired dirt road.
At last, we arrived, the car too dusty to tell.
And there they were, swimming pretty
in the warm water, thinking perhaps
that we were their saviors.
We yanked out our sieves and cheese cloth
from the back of the wagon
and headed to the creek.
These fish were tricky.
They knew the intricacies
of the moss and stuff.
My mother was the best netter of the day.
We just watched as she ran pell mell
down the creek bank, yelling something
like, “I see a Black Mollie…ah, she’s beautiful!”
Laughing, we trotted downstream with our gallon pickle jars,
long since cleaned and modified for fish.
She scooped up a few of each species,
placed them gently in the jars, now full of creek water.
Tiring of the netting, we donned swimming togs,
swam in the pond, enclosed in what used to be a log cabin,
now sunken with no roof or two of the sides.
The water was warm, almost too warm, like a bath.
Soon, the dust washed off, we trudged back
to the car, climbed in, tired and then slept until home.
Once home, we stowed our new catch
into their new home, a gorgeous fish tank,
complete with filters and rocks and fish things.
As they swam, we pressed our noses to the tank,
wondered if they knew they were
no longer in the desert, now
just sitting our the wood table
in the kitchen; wondered if any of them
remembered their beginnings
before they homesteaded in the Pershimeri.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Holding Your Mouth Just Right
This is the "poem" version of catching my first fish. Enjoy!
Holding Your Mouth Just Right
At six, I still hadn’t caught a fish,
not even one. But I was determined
my drought would turn to rainbows,
sometime in July on Birch Creek.
As spring slipped into summer,
we headed out late one night,
stuffed ourselves in sleeping bags,
cramped in tents,
and waited for sunrise.
Next morning, while others sat
on army-green camp stools,
poking the fire with green willows,
waiting breakfast, I stuffed
my band-aid box full
of night crawlers, headed downstream,
but not too far from camp.
Dad had said once that to catch fish
you had to hold your mouth just right.
I couldn’t figure out what that meant;
so just out of sight of camp,
I kneeled behind a big sage
brush, let the words tumble out,
and prayed to God
that he might let me
catch a fish. I didn’t want to be
the only first grader
without a fish story
when I enrolled in the fall.
Words cast to Heaven, I sneaked
from behind the sage,
pretending I had lost something,
threaded ½ of the worm on a #6 hook,
and tossed it upstream in the swirling water,
let it carry to the big hole.
For a moment it caught–
probably some snag at the bottom.
But then the jerking started,
and I yanked, hard, the line flying
behind me, hook and all,
and a trout, landing smack dab
just beyond the sage
where I had prayed.
Dropping the pole like a weight,
I rushed back, grabbed the fish
with both hands, headed for camp,
yelling that I finally caught a fish.
They all greeted me, gathered around,
like I’d been a way a decade or two,
a prodigal son returned,
but now with fish in hands,
my mouth held just right.
Holding Your Mouth Just Right
At six, I still hadn’t caught a fish,
not even one. But I was determined
my drought would turn to rainbows,
sometime in July on Birch Creek.
As spring slipped into summer,
we headed out late one night,
stuffed ourselves in sleeping bags,
cramped in tents,
and waited for sunrise.
Next morning, while others sat
on army-green camp stools,
poking the fire with green willows,
waiting breakfast, I stuffed
my band-aid box full
of night crawlers, headed downstream,
but not too far from camp.
Dad had said once that to catch fish
you had to hold your mouth just right.
I couldn’t figure out what that meant;
so just out of sight of camp,
I kneeled behind a big sage
brush, let the words tumble out,
and prayed to God
that he might let me
catch a fish. I didn’t want to be
the only first grader
without a fish story
when I enrolled in the fall.
Words cast to Heaven, I sneaked
from behind the sage,
pretending I had lost something,
threaded ½ of the worm on a #6 hook,
and tossed it upstream in the swirling water,
let it carry to the big hole.
For a moment it caught–
probably some snag at the bottom.
But then the jerking started,
and I yanked, hard, the line flying
behind me, hook and all,
and a trout, landing smack dab
just beyond the sage
where I had prayed.
Dropping the pole like a weight,
I rushed back, grabbed the fish
with both hands, headed for camp,
yelling that I finally caught a fish.
They all greeted me, gathered around,
like I’d been a way a decade or two,
a prodigal son returned,
but now with fish in hands,
my mouth held just right.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Kneeling first behind sage brush is the best way to catch fish
Springtime in the west goes without saying. One day it is beautiful--the trees sway in the wind while the sun gently beats down on the tender shoots of wheat in the fields. But the next minute, the huge gray purplish clouds gather in the east and soon send pounding rain and hail to the ground. Water gushes down the gutters to the tiny drains at the end of each road. In reality, spring means only one thing: Fishing season is just around the corner.
When I was younger, one of my most favorite places to go was Birch Creek, mainly because the Fish and Game stocked it with fish just like one of the Mart stores stocks its shelves--full. We used to ramble up there in one of our station wagons packed to the gills with stuff. Initially, we set up tents, but it wasn’t too long before my mother talked my dad into buying a small camp trailer. It made life more pleasant, especially during those late snows that often came around July 4th in the mountains.
One particular family reunion/camping trip to Birch Creek, I was determined to catch my own fish. I was probably five or six at the time and had caught fish with my dad. Up until that time, catching fish meant I reeled in the fish after dad hooked them. I don’t know when I finally figured it out, but I knew that wasn’t real fishing. I’m sure for the first five or six years of my life that was all right, but I wanted to become a real fisherman which meant I had to catch a fish all by myself with my own pole and me baiting my own hook.
I trotted downstream to a huge hole in the bend of the creek, not too far from camp. Becoming a fisherman didn’t necessarily mean I had to cut all ties. I still wanted to hear the laughing and the faint voices of my parents. I just felt more comfortable with knowing they were within sight.
When I arrived at the hole, I climbed down the bank and stood just away from the water. My dad had taught me to sneak up, real quiet like, so as not to spook the fish. I stood behind a small sage brush and baited my hook.
According to my dad, baiting a hook was the key to catching fish, and it had to be done just right. If you didn’t thread the worm just so on the hook, then the fish would look at it and say to the rest, “Look at this shoddy job. This kid can’t even bait a hook.” Then they would all laugh, steal the worm, and swim away, leaving the fisherman with an empty hook and shattered hopes.
I was determined to have one of them pay the price for laughing at a young boy’s feeble attempt at baiting a hook; so I was extremely careful about threading the worm. When I finished, it looked good to me. Only a few bits of flesh hung off the hook.
Just like my dad had shown me, I tossed in the line at the top of the hole and let it float in. It sat for awhile then swirled downstream. Nothing. I tried the drill again. This time, it sat for a longer period of time. Then the tugging started. My heart pounded, I hesitated once, and then I yanked too hard because the line came flying out of the water and onto the bank behind me. I scrambled to see what had happened.
My worm was gone. I figured I hadn’t threaded the worm just right because the fish that struck my line pulled it off like some worm bandit. It dawned on me this was one smart fish. It knew the drill better than I did. But I was determined to catch this fish.
I reached into my bait can, really nothing more than an old Band Aid box, and pulled out a juicy worm. I carefully threaded it on, making sure every bit of it fit on my number six hook. Then I cast it upstream and let it float into the hole.
Sure enough. That worm bandit was waiting for me. But I wasn’t quite fast enough for it. When I reeled in the line, the worm was gone again. I pulled another worm, a bigger one this time, from my box, and threaded it better than the other two.
This time I did something different. I knelt behind a sage brush and said a little prayer. I figured if God could help Peter catch a huge net full of fish, He could surely make one little fish jump on my hook.
After I finished, I sneaked back to the bank and confidently tossed in my hook. When the line got to the place where my last bite had been, I was ready. I didn’t have the same tug as before. It was bigger and stronger. It must have been the bandit’s bigger brother or sister. When he tugged, I pulled, in fact pulled so hard I yanked the fish clear out of the water, and it went sailing off into the sage brush somewhere behind me.
I was so excited. I dropped my pole and started looking for my fish. I could hear it flopping around. I knew I had to find it because fish have this uncanny sense of flopping about until they can find water. And I surely didn’t want that to happen.
Within seconds, I found it. I grabbed it between both hands, scrambled up the bank, and headed for camp, yelling all the way, holding my fish high above my head. The whole camp must have thought something was definitely wrong because when I arrived, everyone had gathered to see what the commotion was.
By the time I had run that short distance, the fish was dead. I had squeezed the life out of him. Everyone congratulated me, and my dad lined it up with the rest of the fish caught so we could measure the size. Mine was the biggest one of the bunch.
I guess this catch made me a true fisherman.
Since then, I have caught a lot of fish on my own, many of them much bigger than that first fish. Somehow, though, one’s first catch is always the biggest and the best.
Some say fishing is an art, and it is all in the way you hold your mouth. I always thought it was how long you need to kneel behind a sagebrush.
When I was younger, one of my most favorite places to go was Birch Creek, mainly because the Fish and Game stocked it with fish just like one of the Mart stores stocks its shelves--full. We used to ramble up there in one of our station wagons packed to the gills with stuff. Initially, we set up tents, but it wasn’t too long before my mother talked my dad into buying a small camp trailer. It made life more pleasant, especially during those late snows that often came around July 4th in the mountains.
One particular family reunion/camping trip to Birch Creek, I was determined to catch my own fish. I was probably five or six at the time and had caught fish with my dad. Up until that time, catching fish meant I reeled in the fish after dad hooked them. I don’t know when I finally figured it out, but I knew that wasn’t real fishing. I’m sure for the first five or six years of my life that was all right, but I wanted to become a real fisherman which meant I had to catch a fish all by myself with my own pole and me baiting my own hook.
I trotted downstream to a huge hole in the bend of the creek, not too far from camp. Becoming a fisherman didn’t necessarily mean I had to cut all ties. I still wanted to hear the laughing and the faint voices of my parents. I just felt more comfortable with knowing they were within sight.
When I arrived at the hole, I climbed down the bank and stood just away from the water. My dad had taught me to sneak up, real quiet like, so as not to spook the fish. I stood behind a small sage brush and baited my hook.
According to my dad, baiting a hook was the key to catching fish, and it had to be done just right. If you didn’t thread the worm just so on the hook, then the fish would look at it and say to the rest, “Look at this shoddy job. This kid can’t even bait a hook.” Then they would all laugh, steal the worm, and swim away, leaving the fisherman with an empty hook and shattered hopes.
I was determined to have one of them pay the price for laughing at a young boy’s feeble attempt at baiting a hook; so I was extremely careful about threading the worm. When I finished, it looked good to me. Only a few bits of flesh hung off the hook.
Just like my dad had shown me, I tossed in the line at the top of the hole and let it float in. It sat for awhile then swirled downstream. Nothing. I tried the drill again. This time, it sat for a longer period of time. Then the tugging started. My heart pounded, I hesitated once, and then I yanked too hard because the line came flying out of the water and onto the bank behind me. I scrambled to see what had happened.
My worm was gone. I figured I hadn’t threaded the worm just right because the fish that struck my line pulled it off like some worm bandit. It dawned on me this was one smart fish. It knew the drill better than I did. But I was determined to catch this fish.
I reached into my bait can, really nothing more than an old Band Aid box, and pulled out a juicy worm. I carefully threaded it on, making sure every bit of it fit on my number six hook. Then I cast it upstream and let it float into the hole.
Sure enough. That worm bandit was waiting for me. But I wasn’t quite fast enough for it. When I reeled in the line, the worm was gone again. I pulled another worm, a bigger one this time, from my box, and threaded it better than the other two.
This time I did something different. I knelt behind a sage brush and said a little prayer. I figured if God could help Peter catch a huge net full of fish, He could surely make one little fish jump on my hook.
After I finished, I sneaked back to the bank and confidently tossed in my hook. When the line got to the place where my last bite had been, I was ready. I didn’t have the same tug as before. It was bigger and stronger. It must have been the bandit’s bigger brother or sister. When he tugged, I pulled, in fact pulled so hard I yanked the fish clear out of the water, and it went sailing off into the sage brush somewhere behind me.
I was so excited. I dropped my pole and started looking for my fish. I could hear it flopping around. I knew I had to find it because fish have this uncanny sense of flopping about until they can find water. And I surely didn’t want that to happen.
Within seconds, I found it. I grabbed it between both hands, scrambled up the bank, and headed for camp, yelling all the way, holding my fish high above my head. The whole camp must have thought something was definitely wrong because when I arrived, everyone had gathered to see what the commotion was.
By the time I had run that short distance, the fish was dead. I had squeezed the life out of him. Everyone congratulated me, and my dad lined it up with the rest of the fish caught so we could measure the size. Mine was the biggest one of the bunch.
I guess this catch made me a true fisherman.
Since then, I have caught a lot of fish on my own, many of them much bigger than that first fish. Somehow, though, one’s first catch is always the biggest and the best.
Some say fishing is an art, and it is all in the way you hold your mouth. I always thought it was how long you need to kneel behind a sagebrush.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Happy Birthday, Boy Scouts. Here is My Tale
Winter campouts are for scouts. Some years ago, I went on one at Headquarters, an old fire service outpost, northeast of Orofino, Idaho. I had always thought winter camp out meant snow and below zero weather. Little did I know that sometimes winter campouts in north-central Idaho meant rain and slush and a slow, sure drizzle. Perhaps the next one will have trappings of campouts I used to go on—if there is one.
I remember my first winter campout as a scout. We loaded up with what we thought were the necessities of winter camping and followed the Snake River down into what everyone in Menan, Idaho, called the “Deer Parks,” appropriately named, I supposed, for all the deer who parked there periodically, looking out from behind the trees, trying to stay hidden from hunters and young boys like our Boy Scout troop.
It was one of those typical eastern Idaho winter days— freezing cold, with a touch of wind. We set up camp and then played games in the deep snow. Keeping the blood flowing kept us alive. Had we just stood around, we would have frozen to death. I suspect they would have renamed the Deer Parks, “Scout Park” and engraven the following words on our frozen statutes: “Here stands a group of scouts who through their stupidity stood in the cold and frozen snow, chatting about life and basketball, although a fire was stoked some thirty feet away.”
But we kept moving, returning often to the campfire to warm up. Finally, we began one of the natural and habitual scout cooking procedures: We cooked our tin foil dinners. Before we arrived, we—with some help from our mothers—cut up carrots, potatoes, and onions, pounded out a hamburger patty, and carefully wrapped all of it in tin foil, thus the celebrated tin foil dinner.
After the fire had some good hot coals, we each strategically placed ours in the coals, timed them carefully, and then turned them over at the appropriate time. Then, keeping careful watch, we played some more, hearing periodically the sage words of our scoutmaster: “Hey, guys, I think your dinners might be burning.” Within a reasonable time, we scuttled back to camp where we dined on tin foil cuisine. Now that I think back on the whole affair, I cannot remember eating one tin foil dinner where the carrots and the potatoes were actually cooked through or weren’t burned around the edges. Since we didn’t die, I guess we were nourished sufficiently. Of course, having red licorice around didn’t allow for starvation.
After our delicious dinner, we headed out into the dark to play “steal the flag.” Around 11:00 or so, maybe even later, we gathered around the campfire to perform another scout ritual: staring into the fire while absently stirring the fire with a long stick. Actually, the entertainment was always stirring until sparks flew up into the dark, cold night and disappeared somewhere out there, hopefully not on our tents.
While we stirred the fire, a couple of rifle shots rang out, not far away. Our first thoughts hinged on “Who would be out this time at night, shooting?” Our answer was swift: “Somebody’s out poaching deer. Let’s go catch them.”
We grabbed our flashlights and headed through the woods. We hadn’t gone far when we broke on to an open field. We could see the spotlight ahead of us, and I’m sure the poachers saw us. Who could have missed a dozen or so 12-13-year olds with bouncing flashlights running pell mell across an open field. It must have looked like hoards of large fire flies at ground zero.
The poachers quickly threw something into the back of their truck and spun out of there. We didn’t even get a close look at the license plate. What we did find was a pile of intestines, still steaming in the snow, and boot prints of the poachers. To this day, I don’t know what would have happened had we caught them red handed. We were a bunch of kids, all bundled up in snow gear, and Eveready flashlights in our hands, surely a formidable force against a couple of 30-06's.
Even today, though, I think about how “unsmart” we were by pounding across that open field, a bunch of crazy kids yelling and screaming at the top of our lungs, flashlights bouncing up and down, with a couple of poachers with their rifles, probably safety off. We were open targets—literally. They could have picked us off like bobbing ducks on an opened pond. Yet we did it anyway. We were very lucky.
After some inspection, we trudged back to camp. As we warmed by the fire, we chatted about the night’s event until it became late enough to actually turn in. I always figured if you were tired enough, you could ultimately fall asleep. But that was before my first winter campout. The biting cold on the banks of the Snake tended to seep through the thickest sleeping bag and wooliest blanket, at least mine, anyway. I froze the entire night. I think we finally learned to pray during that campout—we prayed hard for morning to come and a hot fire to warm us up.
Our prayers were answered; morning came; and we had survived. I guess could have scored it: Scouts 1, frigid winter. Once the bacon and eggs and hot chocolate slipped down our throats and landed in our stomachs, we felt much better. Food always has been a Scout’s best friend.
So after we packed up this last time while the rain drizzled steadily and then changed into dry clothes in the warm restrooms, we climbed in the van and headed out of there and home to Lewiston. As I sipped my hot chocolate with one hand and steered with the other, I chalked another one up for the scouts.
I remember my first winter campout as a scout. We loaded up with what we thought were the necessities of winter camping and followed the Snake River down into what everyone in Menan, Idaho, called the “Deer Parks,” appropriately named, I supposed, for all the deer who parked there periodically, looking out from behind the trees, trying to stay hidden from hunters and young boys like our Boy Scout troop.
It was one of those typical eastern Idaho winter days— freezing cold, with a touch of wind. We set up camp and then played games in the deep snow. Keeping the blood flowing kept us alive. Had we just stood around, we would have frozen to death. I suspect they would have renamed the Deer Parks, “Scout Park” and engraven the following words on our frozen statutes: “Here stands a group of scouts who through their stupidity stood in the cold and frozen snow, chatting about life and basketball, although a fire was stoked some thirty feet away.”
But we kept moving, returning often to the campfire to warm up. Finally, we began one of the natural and habitual scout cooking procedures: We cooked our tin foil dinners. Before we arrived, we—with some help from our mothers—cut up carrots, potatoes, and onions, pounded out a hamburger patty, and carefully wrapped all of it in tin foil, thus the celebrated tin foil dinner.
After the fire had some good hot coals, we each strategically placed ours in the coals, timed them carefully, and then turned them over at the appropriate time. Then, keeping careful watch, we played some more, hearing periodically the sage words of our scoutmaster: “Hey, guys, I think your dinners might be burning.” Within a reasonable time, we scuttled back to camp where we dined on tin foil cuisine. Now that I think back on the whole affair, I cannot remember eating one tin foil dinner where the carrots and the potatoes were actually cooked through or weren’t burned around the edges. Since we didn’t die, I guess we were nourished sufficiently. Of course, having red licorice around didn’t allow for starvation.
After our delicious dinner, we headed out into the dark to play “steal the flag.” Around 11:00 or so, maybe even later, we gathered around the campfire to perform another scout ritual: staring into the fire while absently stirring the fire with a long stick. Actually, the entertainment was always stirring until sparks flew up into the dark, cold night and disappeared somewhere out there, hopefully not on our tents.
While we stirred the fire, a couple of rifle shots rang out, not far away. Our first thoughts hinged on “Who would be out this time at night, shooting?” Our answer was swift: “Somebody’s out poaching deer. Let’s go catch them.”
We grabbed our flashlights and headed through the woods. We hadn’t gone far when we broke on to an open field. We could see the spotlight ahead of us, and I’m sure the poachers saw us. Who could have missed a dozen or so 12-13-year olds with bouncing flashlights running pell mell across an open field. It must have looked like hoards of large fire flies at ground zero.
The poachers quickly threw something into the back of their truck and spun out of there. We didn’t even get a close look at the license plate. What we did find was a pile of intestines, still steaming in the snow, and boot prints of the poachers. To this day, I don’t know what would have happened had we caught them red handed. We were a bunch of kids, all bundled up in snow gear, and Eveready flashlights in our hands, surely a formidable force against a couple of 30-06's.
Even today, though, I think about how “unsmart” we were by pounding across that open field, a bunch of crazy kids yelling and screaming at the top of our lungs, flashlights bouncing up and down, with a couple of poachers with their rifles, probably safety off. We were open targets—literally. They could have picked us off like bobbing ducks on an opened pond. Yet we did it anyway. We were very lucky.
After some inspection, we trudged back to camp. As we warmed by the fire, we chatted about the night’s event until it became late enough to actually turn in. I always figured if you were tired enough, you could ultimately fall asleep. But that was before my first winter campout. The biting cold on the banks of the Snake tended to seep through the thickest sleeping bag and wooliest blanket, at least mine, anyway. I froze the entire night. I think we finally learned to pray during that campout—we prayed hard for morning to come and a hot fire to warm us up.
Our prayers were answered; morning came; and we had survived. I guess could have scored it: Scouts 1, frigid winter. Once the bacon and eggs and hot chocolate slipped down our throats and landed in our stomachs, we felt much better. Food always has been a Scout’s best friend.
So after we packed up this last time while the rain drizzled steadily and then changed into dry clothes in the warm restrooms, we climbed in the van and headed out of there and home to Lewiston. As I sipped my hot chocolate with one hand and steered with the other, I chalked another one up for the scouts.
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