Four Days and Nights

Gonk. Gonk Gonk.  Gonk Gonk Gonk. Gonks overlapping gonks until the sounds where a mishmash of  confusion, the loudness of which, made me stick my head out through the constricted opening of my bag, leaning upward on my elbows.  The noise hung there for some time, till the crescendo directly overhead devolved back to a few distant gonks fading into the morning sky. I laid back down rubbing my face and eyes with the full palm of both hands and fingers, then staring at thin light beginning to pass through the rain fly and mesh of the tent opening.

The bag unzipped, then rolling over and opening the tent, pulled on shorts, slipped into a pair of Keen’s kept between the rain fly and the tent, then crawled out of the opening with a T-shirt in one hand, while the other hand pushed this stiff body from the ground to stand unsteadily in the cool morning air.

Big, round leaves hung from the old Cottonwood tree as the Tetons traced a dark silhouette  on the morning horizon. The cloudless sky had yet to take on the deep blue to come later in the day, but the rays of sunlight became intense as the sun began to crest over the snaggle toothed peaks. Stretching to work out the effects of sleeping night after night on a thin pad on the ground, I felt rested, surprisingly, must be getting used to this.  

The air was cool enough to need another layer until things warmed a bit. Walked several steps into the tall yellow grass to take care of business, then just stood there surveying my kingdom. Damn, I thought, this is cool. How much longer could I do this. Indefinitely, was the reply inside my head. Why not spend the Summer or Fall or perhaps hang here till the snow flies. All thoughts to be entertained and considered in the days to come.

Trekking to the car  perched on the dike road, the Keens filled with sand and stickers from clusters of tumbleweeds. Not sure what the half-life of those prickly things are, but they seemed indestructible and a permanent fixture on the Ranch.

Popped open the back hatch to find all worldly possessions piled together in an incredible heap of waders, opened and zipped bags of gear and clothing, water bottles, tool box, trailer hitch,  back pack, one glove, two hats, a blue cooler, garbage bags, fly boxes, loose monofilament, empty Balance Bar wrappers, battery cables, flashlight, engine coolant and a couple of fly rods extending from the hatch floor, with rod tips pushing against the windshield.

Dropped the short tail gate and began the daily effort of rifling through the pile to grab the cooler and water jug. Slid off the cooler top and foraged deep for the last remaining morsels of cooked oatmeal, chicken, an apple and a finger full of All Natural Peanut Butter, and  thankfully, a half full 20 oz. Diet Coke . The ice was gone, leaving a couple of inches of water sloshing around soaking the last remaining items in the bottom of the cooler. Surprised, a bit, at how long it all lasted.

Four days and nights and food is just running out. Wonder if it’s possible to live off the land. Better think about making a trip to St. Anthony later. The thing is, I have next to no appetite up here. Never think about food, except in the morning and sometimes in the evening. There is always something to do, whether it’s constantly reorganizing the back of the vehicle, retying a new pattern, searching for firewood, fishing, pruning the river bank of noxious plants obscuring entry to the riverbank, walking the ranch to understand it’s character during various times of the day, fishing, entertaining visitors, meeting with farmers, wheel line repairman, real estate agents, fishing, you name it, there is always something to do.  I love it. It’s different than the life I live away from the Ranch. It’s more physical and , for lack of a better word, organic. All processes are directed to meeting the essentials of getting through the day. Simple, yet demanding one’s full attention.

With the cooler in hand, I walked down the road to the camp chair facing the dark water protected by the willow overhang on the far bank and sat there reading a chapter or  two and occasionally looking up to contemplate the big fish holding beneath the overhanging willows, with a certain knowledge that they are definitely in there, just have to find a way to get there. Air temp was rising. Trico’s will be coming off soon, hoppers later. It’s time to fish…