”Tales From The Underbrush” documents, with occasional hyperbole, the experiences of the artist over a lifetime of interaction with what used to be called nature, now reinvented as the environment for reasons apparently best known by just about everyone in the world excepting the artist-writer. These wilderness interactions have come mainly while working as a geologist, briefly as a forester, but sometimes as just a guy whose principal happiness in life has been derived from being outdoors. Not that life in the wilderness, be it at work or at play has been without pain, discomfort, deprivation and even danger. Fortunately, the passage of time more often then not artfully blots out or at least dims the recollections that wound, substituting instead a recall that if perhaps not substantiating the aging athlete’s jest of “the older I get, the better I was”, at least allows tales to unfold that warm the memory and give substance to the life that experienced them.
The artist proposes to post monthly herein a chapter from his book “Tales From The Underbrush” in the hope that his adventures may be shared and enjoyed by those who might stumble onto this blog. This month’s entry continues the tale.
Casting For Catharsis
“He was so boring I cannot remember why he was so boring.”
anonymous
It was early in my investment career, my refuge after suffering a bad fall in South America resulting in a serious back injury that essentially precluded full time field work thereafter. I had become employed as a mining investment analyst at a prominent eastern Canada stock broking firm that had been one of the first in Canada to establish a research department where original research and evaluation of Canadian public companies was carried out as a service to the company’s clients. As a stock broker, the company acted as an intermediary between people or financial institutions wishing to buy the securities of public companies and those who wished to sell such securities. It was on joining the firm that I met Brien, several years my junior but already established as the oil and gas analyst for the firm. Gusher, as he became known to many, went on to become one of my closest friends. It is with him that the experience that is described herein was shared.
Taking place some forty years ago, some of the details of the fishing trip remain a little hazy. Principal among these is why a pair of youngish, allegedly smart research analysts with a pointed aversion to lazy, incompetent, ingratiating brokers who would knife their grandmother in the back for a nickel, had agreed to accompany an individual, who if he did not completely fit that description in reality, was perceived to by said two analysts. Maybe it was because we both loved fishing, particularly bass fishing which was purported to abound where we were going. Perhaps it was the financial aspect of the trip which if I recall was to be largely gratis. Perhaps, sadly, it was because we were not quite as smart as we thought we were. But I think in truth it was because that although we assumed that the pomposity, vanity and ingratiation that we encountered in relatively brief, escapable doses during the course of everyday business might continue to prevail, it would nonetheless be but a mild irritant to the pleasures of the weekend. That this assumption was to be seriously flawed became quickly, if belatedly apparent, a lesson learned that defective foresight leads only to rueful hindsight.
Let us call him Jay, a pleasant “hail fellow well met” type, not unusual for any salesman, be he selling shares or cars. Webster’s dictionary defines the phrase “hail fellow well met” as someone “very sociable or friendly to everyone, especially in a superficial manner.” Very accurate that dictionary! In any event Brien and I were invited to spend what I recall to be an extended weekend at a cabin Jay owned alongside a prominent river an hour or so by car west of the city. Equipped with a small outboard motor boat suitable for roaming the river in search of the wily bass or other fish, the prospect of three or four days under civilized circumstances in the semi wild was apparently too tempting for us to refuse.
Assured that we need bring nothing but our fishing gear we set off with high hopes and anticipation in Jay’s vehicle, not realizing that was our first mistake, it becoming a form of entrapment. Things went sufficiently well the first day although I do recall that by nightfall a certain amount of trepidation had begun to set in. It is curious how dictionaries can so vividly provide us with absolutely precise and complete descriptions or definitions of certain words while failing to satisfactorily do so for others. Take both the Oxford and Webster definitions of “boring” to be merely “dull, tiresome, etc.” Not only does this fall wide of the mark when it came to that weekend in the company of Jay but I am personally offended by the use of “etc.” in the definitions. If the dictionary itself cannot supply a sufficient number of definitions of boring, why ask me to provide my own through the use of “etc?” I would be remiss and less than honest if I did not confess to employing the term myself when my inadequacies of vocabulary, thought, or knowledge have precluded my own intelligent pursuit to the full extent of whatever it was I was expressing or thinking. But that does not mean that I am comfortable with the tactic being foisted on me by world famous reference sources! Fortunately, I have at hand my old, now somewhat threadbare but ever reliable copy of Roget’s Thesaurus.
I know that my dear old Mom told me that if I could not say something nice about someone I should say nothing at all. I have tried my best to follow that philosophy over the years but my efforts will fall short in this essay, as the memory of that trip becomes more formidable with each word set down. “Dull” and “tiresome” just do not cut it when the company of our host is to be described. Only by turning to my friend Roget for synonyms to “boring” can a description of that weekend, the exception to be forthcoming, be adequately treated with any accuracy and feeling. “Tedious, uninteresting, monotonous, dull, prosaic, vapid, plebeian, colourless, characterless, humdrum, insipid, hackneyed, stodgy, stuffy, trite, platitudinous, wearisome, interminable”, and my favourite, “bromidic”…………ahh, that feels better!
By the third day Brien and I felt that incarceration in an isolation cell in a hard core penal institution might be preferable to another day in a cabin with Jay. Inclement weather since our arrival had precluded any meaningful fishing being carried out, being that Jay, and perhaps ourselves in fairness, were disinclined to become outdoor heroes for the sake of a few possible fish. It was the only aspect of vanity I recall Jay not wanting to display. He being determined to maintain the full duration of the trip and with our having all journeyed to the cabin together in Jay’s vehicle precluding any independent return to the city, Brien and I could only grit our teeth and steel ourselves for another twenty-four hours of misery. Besides, we both realized that come the return to work, we would need to maintain a civilized and professional working relationship with Jay for both the good of the company and ourselves. Our hopes rested in surviving with some sanity the fourth and final day before returning to the city.
That day dawned in a fashion that the made meaning of the word “dawn” merely symbolic. Somewhere behind the grey of the morning there was certainly a dawn but none to be seen by us. Sheets of rain spawned from laden, leaden clouds lashed the cabin and raced across the river blurring sky, land and water in a dimensionless unity devoid of boundaries. An ugly chill lay overall reminding us that summer was but a memory. In was in short the most miserable of days, but one perfectly suited for the ideal travelogue promotion depicting a cozy day in the cabin before a flickering fireplace that hosted the comfort and well-being of good friends in warm proximity. Aaargh! No! No! Not another such day!
Brien and I in hurried, whispered consultation decided that drastic measures were required. Knowing that the weather would deter Jay from joining us, Brien and I determined to go fishing, explaining to Jay that the potential for fishing success was just so great in this fantastic setting that, weather notwithstanding, to not pursue the opportunity would not only be an extreme disappointment for us, but a sign of disrespect for the opportunity Jay had afforded us. Yes, yes, I do feel slightly uncomfortable with the content of that bombast, but I knew that it would appeal to the vanity of the recipient, and at that time at least, the end was determined to justify the means.
Off we went on this grey day with our grey gear in a grey boat with a grey engine, a grey anchor and grey emergency oars. Even Brien looked grey as so too I imagine did I. The rain had not abated and within moments we became increasingly wet, notwithstanding our rain gear. Nonetheless, it was like being released from life imprisonment as we chugged up river toward some small bays and coves on the opposite side and out of the current where fish might be holding. It really made no difference where we were going however. We were out in the admittedly fresher and wetter air than would normally be preferred, but free and in our own comfortable company. In addition we were faced with the not undesirable prospect of possibly hooking and playing some small mouth bass, the most formidable fighting fish in eastern Canada outside of the Atlantic salmon. As if to reward, however temporarily, our presence in this miserable weather, the rain began to slacken to a gentle drizzle although banks of low fog and cloud continued to scud across our view.
The morning passed as such, as did noon and early afternoon. Fortified with some food, beer and in those days, cigarettes, the thrill of it all managed to maintain itself for most of the day. We had had absolutely no success in our fishing endeavours despite numerous location changes and repeated efforts using every lure at our disposal. Being more fisherman than hunters however, this lack of reward for our efforts did nothing to dispel the pleasure of being released from the confines of the cabin and our host.
Mid afternoon came and now being out of food, beer and devoid of fishing success, it might normally have been decided that a good day had been had and that a return to our base might be in order. Besides, the rain had started to increase again and rain gear notwithstanding, we had both become thoroughly wet, chilled, clammy and with growing hunger pains and a general discomfort trending towards outright misery. We had after all now been out on the water in very lousy weather for over six hours. Colder than we were however was the even colder realization what a return to the cabin would mean. Jay had told us that he had not planned on leaving for town until night fell, determined apparently to squeeze the maximum pleasure out of the weekend. Heading back in the boat to the cabin now meant that Brien and I would have to face another five or six hours in the confines of his company.
Thus having considered our options and chosen the lesser of two evils, we turned once more to our tackle boxes with a renewed determination to pursue the wily bass no matter what our increasing discomfort. During this trip and for whatever reason I have forgotten, instead of fly fishing gear we had both brought spin casting rods, reels, and lures. Perhaps it was because while Brien was an experienced and accomplished fly fisher, my experience was limited and my expertise suspect. Unlike fly casting lures which are normally very light weight artificial flies of the “dry” floating or “wet” sinking variety, spin casting lures where normally made of spoon-like metal pieces, sometimes in combination with wiggling artificial flies or bright plastic baubles. The principal object of such lures was to replicate in the eyes of a prey fish such as bass in this case, the appearance and action of minnows or other fish that might represent delectable prey for the bass. Depending on the size of the target fish, metal lures could be of gigantic proportions of more than a foot in length when trolling for fish in the ocean. Such lures are often collectively referred to as “kitchenware” in reference to their utensil-like appearance.
Turning to the task I reached into my tackle box to retrieve a lure known as the Daredevil. A bright silver and white oblong lure about two inches long with a red “s-shaped” pattern on its back, the lure’s success had made it a favourite of spin casting fishers everywhere in eastern Canada. With one of us standing at the bow and the other at the stern, Brien and I made renewed efforts to wake the fish from their apparent lethargy insofar as our efforts were concerned. Frequently changing lures rather than moving the boat inshore, heavier and heavier lures were placed on the wire leaders at the end of our poly filament lines, so as to enable the bait to achieve farther and farther distances with our casts.
Suddenly, in a seemingly surreal and unspoken fashion we had transitioned from the sublime to the ridiculous and found ourselves not fishing anymore but engaged in a casting contest. As the rain continued to beat down and the clouds descended to river level, lures cast shoreward to where fish might lie in the shallows, promptly disappeared from view, their entrance into the water barely discerned by a faint splash in the stillness, giving a signal to retrieve them. There were no sounds of birds, or frogs or insects, all sensible refugees from the inclement weather, leaving only two bumbling humans to fill the void.
Now giggling like two schoolboys, more and heavier lures were placed on the leaders, enabling their casts to travel farther and farther into the fog before splashing into the water and retrieving them. All pretense of fishing had disappeared and in any event the commotion created by the lures crashing into the water would have stampeded any fish to distant parts unknown. Because we could not see the lures landing in the water, and in order to compare our efforts in this competition, it remained but to measure the length of the cast by its duration from the moment the lure was cast to the sound of its splash on entry. This was accomplished not using our watches but instead employing the old “one steamboat, two steamboat” cadence to duplicate seconds of time, a tradition borrowed from our touch football league. Pausing at times to breathe, boast and bullshit each other, considerable time somehow passed in this silly endeavour and perhaps for the first time in the weekend, we felt loose and relaxed. Finally, I loaded what seemed like half the contents of my tackle box onto the end of my line, the weight nearly doubling the rod in two. With a mighty two-handed heave I hurled the load of metal into the ether like some satellite, nearly toppling falling overboard with the effort. As Brien commenced the count cadence we breathlessly waited for the sound of splashdown. It never came! Incredulous and giddy with silliness we gazed at each other in wide-eyed astonishment. Suddenly, we looked at my line in its slack and coiling condition. It was then we realized I had launched a “Sputnik” that was never to return. Whether caught in mid flight by some tree branch or having severed itself from the end of my line and continued its flight to ultimately land onshore, we were to never know. What I do know is that, doubled over like our laden rods, we both nearly fell overboard howling with laughter until it hurt.
No winner of this ridiculous endeavour was declared but as we headed back to the cabin in the diminishing light and still driving rain, we chortled and giggled at the silly but funny ending to the day, secure in our knowledge that we had been casting for catharsis.
“The common practice of keeping up appearances with society is a mere selfish struggle of the vain with the vain.”
John Ruskin
Copyright © 2009 Ian de W. Semple
