Up To Our Axles

 I remember that trip to Rock Cliff the year the dam was completed. The State considered it the crown jewel of the State Park system. The Provo River flows into the reservoir on the east side and just before it begins to back up and with the river still in its historical course, they built a rather magnificent campground. It’s a beauty. The latest thinking in campsite design, at the time. One unique feature was the way they constructed elevated tent sites, the surface of which was constructed with manufactured decking. It was clean to look at and it stood about eighteen inches above grade. We set up the Kelty and enjoyed a couple of days playing with the kids and hooking nice fish on the river.

I’m pulling out of Kirkham’s with a 10 X 12 white canvas duck bag containing the new Wall Tent, delighted in the discovery of the thing and the prospect of providing a more civilized place to live out the rest of the season.

An imagination in overdrive is a beautiful thing. Passing beneath the I-80 overpass on State Street just a few minutes after leaving Kirkham’s, the image of the white canvas tent sitting atop an elevated deck had taken full form inside my head. That’s it. We’ll build a deck and fasten the tent on top. It will be clean, comfy, sophisticated and as cool as the pic in the ad that spawned the whole idea to begin with. Rock Cliff redux, except, this scheme included an oversize deck that would extend well beyond the tent footprint; we’d build a double sized deck, half to accommodate the Wall Tent, the other half to stage all of our adventures, lounge on or just to stand atop and admire our kingdom. This was going to be very cool.

Mikey had a garage full of tools. The only problem, we’d need to sort through piles of stuff to find the right ones. Drills, table saw, walls full of hammers, wrenches, saws, blades of all kinds of implements, gadgets and tools hanging from one of those brown peg boards’ handy guys hang things from. Box after box of electrical cords, carpenter belts, paint cans and bungee cords. It was a mass of confusion piled over years of accumulation. I told him, “Somewhere in there we might find your BMW R1100RT bike that you no longer ride”. “He took offense”. Some things just aren’t that funny.

But best of all, he had a trailer. After a couple of hours sorting and sifting though it all, we loaded it with boxes of tools and equipment and headed to the ranch. En route an order for lumber and nails was placed at the big lumber store in Rexburg with delivery scheduled for the following morning. If the trailer didn’t blow a tire on the way, we were set to construct the deck and mount the tent in the morning.

Mikey’s great, I love the guy. We share the same set of parents. Generous to a fault, he’ll give you the shirt off his back, if he can find it. Thing is, he’s occasionally forgetful. He’ll stop at the store to buy a diet coke, only to discover there is a nearly full cup of the same sitting in the cup holder in his car. He’ll go into a fly shop, quietly search and find the things he needs, pay at the register, then turn around and walk out. At Jimmy’s one day, the sales guy came running out of the shop with a bag in hand as Mikey’s backing the Four Runner into the street. It happens on a regular basis. All the same, Mikey is a real pal and always a kick to hang with.

The morning sun came early as we rolled out of our bags. Even that early you could tell it was going to be a hot one. At about mid morning, I ran up the dike road to open the gate as the lumber truck approached. I hopped in the cab and told the driver to cut through the pasture and drive to the north end just past the big cottonwood tree. Once past the tree the rear wheels began to spin. Instinctively, he gave her more gas as the rear of the truck settled axle deep into the softer sand just beyond the pasture.

 

We took turns shoveling and laying old fence posts under the wheels, too much weight for the sandy conditions. The driver jumped into the cab, started the engine, yelling over the loud rev to us to get out of the way, then lifted the loaded truck bed to dump the load. Ten and twelve foot 2 X 6’s slid off the back onto the soft sand. We dug all four wheels, fore and aft, placed more old fence posts in each trench hoping there would be enough traction for the truck to climb out of the hole it was in. With great anticipation the truck slowly began to roll forward onto the old fence posts as it gently lifted up and out of the trenches. I yelled to the drive to keep going and don’t look back. He flipped a U-turn then took off stopping about a hundred yards into the pasture. We did a little paper work and he was out of there.

After lugging 2 by’s forty yards to the new site, we realized we had spent nearly two hours of extra fun in the sun we had not intended to spend. All the same, as we began to lay things out, things were beginning to take shape.

It went faster if we didn’t screw every board to the joists on the first pass. We had a couple of days to work finish that task later. It was important that we roll a coat of clear natural stain over the top to ensure some level of protection for the decking. The sun had set and we just rolled the last gallon of stain when we’d had enough for one day. Tomorrow we’d finish the job.

"I'm ready to buy, you ready to sell..."

That night I spent half an evening scrolling through images of tents that could provide shelter and a certain comfort for a larger array of guests at the Ranch. It was a tough crowd to please. Few appreciated the solitary simplicity of tenting beneath low hanging branches of the big Cottonwood Tree, sleeping on the ground on a thin mat in a one-man shelter for any extended period of time, or any time for that matter. Where I found peace and solitude, detaching from the outside world for a time, others only imagined sleepless uncomfortable nights where the uneven ground gave rise to aches and pains, tossing and turning, bugs and stickers, dirt and unruly hair. The perceived experience was draining and hard, possessing no redeeming value, comforts, nor pleasure. So, it was important, if I wanted her and others close to us to experience the place, to provide the proper balance between sleeping on a mat to staying at the Marriott.

Image after image of every possible configuration of tent scrolled past, made of incredible material that could weather the gales of Everest to the humble pup model we used as kids. Some tents featuring separate rooms containing massive footprints, while others were simple in design. And, some were brand spanking new, while others had seen better days.

At about the four hundredth image, an old fashioned, not technical, simple looking white canvas wall tent appeared. Set in a meadow, with a stove stack jutting out of a hole in the slanting roof with ropes extending to the sides staked to the ground to hold it up. “That’s kind of cool”, I mumble under my breath. The front canvas opened by a slit down the middle as each side was rolled diagonally and fastened with canvas ties, leaving a large pie shaped opening. Set up in a small clearing in a forested setting, it had simple nobility to it, much less than a cabin or permanent dwelling, and way cooler than an RV, by a mile. The lines were clean and straight, the apex of the ridgeline at the front elevation was tall, the wall rose above the ground vertically to what looked to be about five feet or so, roomy, to boot, rustic, masculine, sturdy, portraying a sense of permanence, yet expressing a certain freedom and independence. I really dig this.

My mind raced, heart rate increased as a flood of ideas swirled inside my head. This could work. She would dig it, I know her, as I recalled the many summer sojourns with the kids to dwell for a week at Colter Bay on the other side of the Tetons. She will get this and so will Lauren and Logan and the little ones. This is the real deal.

The purveyor of this tent was out of Denver. Mr. Davis answered the call, but it was sadly learned that his shop was back logged for months. If the idea was to squeeze out the remains of the summer and part of fall that schedule would never work. Impatient and with a certain zeal for this new found solution to the “gimme shelter” dilemma, the search was on. It was a shock to find the same lead time problem everywhere I turned to satisfy this urge to set up camp on the Ranch.

At this point the decision to go this way was now solidified in my psyche. Fixed permanently as the only “true” solution, to finding that nexus of perfection between the stoic’s life and the indulgence of comfort so many of us are drawn to.

In my experience, most of us, in our quest to break out of the routine of life, tend to not fully commit to the task of shedding, for a time, the creature comforts that we believe make our lives more complete. The acceptance and assimilation of these accoutrement's of living in affluence and comfort separate us from the natural world. This tends to nurture a certain complacency toward the way we live. If we never test ourselves against the relative crudeness of a stripped down life for a time we don’t allow ourselves to appreciate those comforts to which we have grown so accustomed. Without the backdrop of simplicity or austerity to compare against modern living, we tend to devalue our common existence by not fully comprehending the high level of comfort we all share. I'm probably making too much of this. In the end it’s just a tent, but it’s a very cool tent.

To hell with the internet. I’m off to find it locally. REI had nothing. Cabella’s was too far to go. But, Kirkham’s may just have it. Climbing the stairs to the second level, there it sat  in its entire white cotton duck splendor. Perfect. 10 X 12. One side-wall rolled up, bay window on the other side and a triangular zipped window on the end. Nice set up. The sales guy was a young kid possessing little knowledge of the ins and outs of this type of tent. I kindly asked him to find his manager so I could talk to the “Man”.

Mr. Big came up, he was knowledgeable, we discussed the relative merits of this model, then he disclosed that they were out of stock and a new one could be take six weeks to build. Damn. I asked, “what about this one”. He replied, “It’s the floor model”. “Well, how much do you want for it”? He scratched his hairless head for a minute, paced about a bit and said. “It’s the only one I have”. I replied, “I’m ready to buy, are you ready to sell?” He looked troubled. I could tell this was a big deal. He stood there as if the weight of the decision was nearly too much to bear, then he looked up and said, “sure, I’ve never been too keen on this model, anyway’, he disclosed. We haggled over the price and a deal was struck.

Oh, the possibilities.

"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. 

Gim' Me Shelter

At the Rigby exit, at least a hundred or more RV’s and trailers are parked in a huge lot next to Highway 20. That’s it, I thought. I’ll pick up a used trailer, haul it to the Ranch, buy a generator and bingo, problem solved.

After describing the plan to the sales guy, we hopped into a golf cart and dashed out into a sea of recreational vehicles parked parallel in rows that taper off in the distance. The price point had to be low, say south of three grand, but it had to be clean and serviceable.

As it turned out the low end trailer he had in mind could not be found, yet there was a better model next to the empty space that he was certain would be the one. We walked around it while a number of fine features were identified by my guide. “The price?” I asked. He replied, “I think I can get it for you for about $5,000”. “What else do you have”, I asked. We hopped back on to the golf cart and sped across the lot. On the way over he asked. “Do you care if it’s an RV”, I thought a trailer was an RV.  

The cart pulled up to a fifty foot behemoth with faded paint and a massive windshield, a steering wheel and big velvet like captains chairs with threadbare retractable arm rests. He opened the door as a musty smell signifying better days and many miles filled my head as I entered this time capsule of early seventies motel upholstery and fake wood cabinetry hung over matted shag carpeting. Must have been the real deal in its day, I thought. At his point, my guy, sensing this was his last best chance to reel me in, became rather animated as he began describing the real benefits of this beauty. He jumped into the driver’s seat then turned the ignition key as the engine rumbled to a start. At least it ran. Must admit, for a split second the image of driving this beast onto the Ranch and parking it under the big Cottonwood tree did cross my mind, only to brush it aside as I imagined Her innate sense of cleanliness as it may relate to the condition of this most interesting specimen. She would never go for it and therefore the plan was doomed.

We shook hands and a promise to give it some thought was uttered as I drove off toward the Ranch thinking things over. Somehow, the old girl may have met the intent of providing shelter and a reasonable level of comfort, but it didn’t seen right. I’d spent a number of pristine days and nights sleeping in a one man tent, eating out of the bottom of a cooler and bathing in the river. This was a solitary, fairly natural way to live. A way that suited me in a somewhat primitive way. I felt a part of the scheme of things, in harmony with the elements, a part of a total system where most all of its part fit together. Driving this lumbering belching behemoth on to a place that had grown a part of me seemed an intrusion onto the landscape. I would wake in the morning to the sounds of rushing water, birds greeting the day, sun rising over the "Grand" and the occasional farmer beginning the day’s work as he fires up the John Deere to plow his fields or irrigate his crops. During the darkness of night all that separated me from  this was a thin sheet of nylon and some mesh. I could feel the cool air. Smell the sandy soil and the dusty leaves rustling in the arid breeze, and it could hear me breathe its clean clear atmosphere as I lay on a thin mat inside a tent beneath the old Cottonwood tree.

How could one separate one’s self from the elements by stepping into a barrier of glass and metal? A capsule insulating one from the sensory inputs that heightened the senses and brought simple pleasures to the soul. A turn of a key, the rumble of the generator, all seemed out of synch with the vibe of the place. The RV was not the solution. The riddle needed to be resolved. What was learned by stopping in Rigby that day was that a fifty foot RV was not the answer.

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…

"Alaska Style"

Tim "Henry" Woodard Photo - West Corner Studio

The boats leap frog one another along the bank or one will occasionally cross over to the opposite side as two boats holding five guys and two mutts push on down the South Fork. Both Taylor and Henry guide this reach regularly, and as a result know most if it’s intimate parts. The banks are, by far, the most productive, but there are those sections that fashion a “barb” where quitter water holds on the inside of the shank, extending to the gravelly bank that often holds nice fish. The seam between this water and the faster flowing part at the top of the run tails out as it settles down a bit, this is where many a fly fisher experience the  fruits of a good cast, the appropriate imitation and a timely set of the hook.

While camaraderie and friendship abound, all the same, that does not preclude certain competition between pals. Fly fishing prowess aside, the advantage goes to the X-13, with Taylor at the helm. The smaller profile skiff, with only Taylor and me, a cooler and gear was agile and lithe against Henry’s full load consisting of three bodies, two dogs, a couple of coolers and his fully pimped out Clacka beauty, full to the hilt with all the options. Having made that comparison, Henry was blessed with large stature, guns like Arnold and a certain finesse that belies his prominent silhouette.

It’s later in the morning and traffic on this fabled river is noticeable as we progress further down stream. There are several launch sites along the way. Boats streamed into the river like cars merging onto I-15 from the Spaghetti Bowl at I-80. A bit of an overstatement, perhaps, but suffice it to say, there were a lot of boats. All thoughts of casually drifting down river to fish multiple runs later in the day at the lower section, where the most productive runs are, were dashed. Every experienced fly fisher knows that evening is prime time down there, as various hatches came off during the season in these prized runs that braid through the channels just above the take-out at the bridge.

Looking across river, Tanner's rod shot high into the air, rod tip arching toward the bank, left hand also reaching high to strip line in a down and back motion, in an effort to control the pissed off splashing tireless trout. As Taylor rowed us closer, they had just netted the thing and by the time we came along side Tanner thumped the fish in the head with an object that did the trick. In his typical fashion he stood there with a 22” + Rainbow hanging from two fingers inserted behind the gill slits, “Alaska Style”.

An Awesome Photo by Tim Woodard

Impressive as the fish was, I have to say, I don’t generally hang with those who kill fish. Not to be too high fallutin, but the catch and release ethic goes way back with me. For better or worse, Fish and Game are attempting a heroic effort to manage the South Fork for the benefit of native Yellowstone Cutthroat, therefore, Bows and Hybrids are to be taken.

As expected, the mad dash to the channels was on and it was evident that we were not part of the vanguard, although there was a nice rifflely run close to the falls where Taylor hooked a couple of nice fish and, in the end, was broken off by another South Fork Rainbow.

A Crime Against Humanity...

With a sandwich in the cooler, we dashed over the pass and dropped into Swan Valley, past the old Commissary, then on to Irwin, zipping past the Husky put-in, as we bolted to Palisades Dam. Turning right off the highway that runs along the majestic South Fork of the Snake River into the parking area at the top of the ramp, just below the Palisades dam. Taylor unstrapped the skiff then transferred the contents of the back seat of the truck into the boat and we began to set up three rods. The sun had yet to crest the steep hillside to the east as a cold morning wind came pouring down over the steep concrete face of the dam. With fleece zipped to the chin and ski hat pulled firmly over ears, we spied another imposing Ford Pickup with a drift boat in tow rolled up to us as we were just about to back the scow down the ramp.

Truck doors flew open as Lola made her entrance, tail wagging, and nose sniffing everything in site. Three late twenty something manly specimen’s piled out stretching and yawning, then feeling the penetrating chill of that cold blast of wind from the dam, each quickly reached back into the truck for another layer to fend off the elements.

The dress code was simple; they all got the memo…T-shirt, flip-flops and shorts, in one configuration or another. The three amigos included Tanner, the possessed cutthroat slayer, and two guys I had yet to have the pleasure of meeting, Tim or, as he is affectionately referred to from time to time as “Henry” and Spence, a buddy from Colorado, who popped into town to commune with mother earth and reconnect with his mates.

After the usual exchange of insults, Taylor backed the skiff down the ramp and I stood there watching.

In an effort to be useful, most uninitiated non-drift boat fishermen make the rookie mistake, when launching or retrieving a pal’s boat into or from the launch, of trying to assist in the process. From years of observation and owning and operating drift boats, the lesson has been learned, it’s just better to stand back and watch. There seems to be an irrevocable law written somewhere that dictates, with exacting precision, the order, sequence and process that each and every boat owner goes through to prepare for and place or remove their respective boats to and from the river. The ultimate test of any friendship and a sign of total acceptance into the trust of your boat owning buddy is for him to allow you to assist in the process.

It will truly mess things up if you place the boat straps that secure the boat to the trailer on the right side of the bed of the truck when the ritual dictates they belong in the yellow bucket behind the drivers seat. Or it may be common knowledge to anyone that the oar blades are to be placed inside the boat facing toward the stern outside and against the rear knee locks. And poor pity the guy who fails to secure the anchor to the carabiner after the boat is launched.

Just watch the owner unclip a strap, reposition a bucket, stow a pack or jacket beneath the main compartment to the right or left of the oarsman’s seat or position the cooler to the right or the left of the foot rest on the bottom deck of the boat. It’s often elegant and graceful as he moves seamlessly from one task to the other without a thought to the process, quick as a cat and with little effort. 

Many a crime against humanity has been committed by overeager boat mates who, while standing like a doofus at the ramp, helplessly holding a bunch of rods in one hand and a jacket or three in the other that your buddy threw at you to hold, while he runs through this intricate choreography embedded in his psyche from countless iterations of the dance over hundreds of launches and retrieves performed through the years. Just stand there shamelessly and wait to be invited to the party, if it comes lend a hand, if not, so what. It’s his boat.