"Get Up!"

We discovered the unintended consequence of getting a late start as we left mid morning heading up I-80 toward Evanston, Lyman, then on up to Dutch John for an afternoon float down the “A” Section on the Green River. We had discovered, to our amazement, an unforeseen opportunity, somehow. By launching later in the day, avoiding the crushing mass of boats stacked up at the ramp waiting turns to launch, the river was ours for the taking.

I think that distant sound I heard was from a rip in the fabric of the Cosmos that day. We had stumbled onto a slot of time where we were the only boat on this fabled river. I felt like I was in a dream sequence in a Kurosawa film. Half way expected Rod Serling to step from behind a Ponderosa Pine and begin one of his classic monologues, “Here, we have, alone in space and time, two unsuspecting mortals, separated from the mindless herd, set on a journey they had never intended to take…”

She’s a real sport, willing, most times, to indulge my obsessions and antics and to reorder her life to make numerous accommodations. It was difficult to tell if this was the case today. She is Danish, and, therefore, it wasn’t always obvious what was on her mind. With the boat launched and fully loaded, we pushed into the current as the bow turned downstream. This was a proud moment, she standing, for the first time at the bow, rod in hand awaiting my insightful instruction, wit and wisdom.

She began to work out line as the sun glistened off the waters surface. The river bottom was visible in the cold clear water flowing from the lake, held back behind the dam. Her casting rhythm was improving with each cast. But, then as the rod advanced forward the fly hooked the rod tip.  The line hurled into a mass of tangle around the knee lock and over the bow. Pulling back toward the riverbank, I let her know that it happens to the best of us, dropped anchor, straightened things out and rowed back into the current.

It was one of those classic days, sunny, warm and no wind. As the rod pulled back to initiate the next cast, she rushed it a bit by casting forward before the line had fully extended behind her resulting in the floating line draping over the gunnells, half in the water surface the rest scattered around her. I rowed back to the bank, dropped anchor to not waist the good water near that foamy eddy at the first bend in the river. She had that look, “what the, hell, this was supposed to be easy, you said” (she never swears), as I assured her things were about to get very good, shortly.

Pushing, again, back into the current, there was the sense that frustration was building as she tried to work out more line for that first gorgeous cast into the foam line against the steep bank across the river. Things were looking great when a small gust redirected the line with a Cicadas pattern wrapping a #12 Mustad hook toward my forehead. The gust had sucked the line from her first clean arc and dumped it upstream. Line was everywhere, finally resting acrosss my shoulder. 

Beginning to row, again, toward the bank, and before I could open my mouth, she turned in my direction, took a big step toward me and shoved the rod in my hand and said emphatically, “Get Up”. I had no choice in the matter, rotating up and out of the seat as she took control of the oars, saying, “you fish, I’ll row”. Stunned, I did exactly as commanded. In an instant, everything changed. She was rowing and I was standing at the bow, rod in hand and a stupid look on my face wondering how my long held fantasy had vanished before my eyes, never to return.

Here, was I, a lone man, vanquished from the seat of power, rod in hand, line all over the place, with one irked Dane trying to figure out how to steer the boat around the first bend in the river. Looking upstream toward the ramp, a relatively short distance behind, yet light years ago in time, wondering what had just occurred. 

This is not exactly the way things should have played out. What had just happened was nothing like I had imagined. I could see it all in my mind. A beautiful blonde presenting a pattern with ease and grace into run as a hearty bow surfaces for the take. She quickly, but gently, sets the hook and plays the fish beautifully into the net as she looks adoringly toward me with gratitude for providing this most excellent experience. All the while other fly fishers looking up in our direction with envy and lust as I released her catch and pushed on to the next run

It's been said that with each and every disappointment, there often is a silver lining. To both our surprise, she actually was good at rowing. With a few prompts and a quick play of musical chairs in the more technical stuff, she rowed the entire reach with a certain exactness as she guided the boat in and out of runs that held great fish. It was a productive day after all.

All this is to illustrate that she is no shrinking violet. She has game.

So, while she was willing to camp and go rustic from time to time, in order to get full buy-in at the Ranch, I’d need to come up with a set up that didn’t include her sleeping in a tent on a thin pad on the ground, showering beneath a black bag hanging from a tree or peeing in a five gallon bucket with a toilet seat attached.

Since the belching motorized time capsule was a bust and I had ruled out the idea of buying a Yurt, due to the cost, the problem of “what” remained. We’re heading into September soon. There had to be an answer.