Years ago, I interrupted a harried road trip. I stopped by a beautiful river, grabbed my lunch, and boulder hopped out into the stream. I perched on a rock beneath the shade of a pine and basked in the scenery. The air was clear, the temperature was perfect, the birds were singing; it was one of those times when the world is heartrendingly gorgeous.
I live as well as I can. I did well stopping to rest on that rock. I rarely have regrets. I regret cutting my time on that rock short.
As I was enjoying my sandwich, a fairly old, but well-maintained, truck stopped. It had a fairly old, but well-maintained, slide in camper. The driver backed between some trees; driving as only an experienced driver can. He shifted forward and backward a few seconds to get level and shut down.
A guy hopped out of the truck. He was fairly old, but well-maintained; just like his truck. He gave me a pleasant nod and disappeared into his camper. A minute later he emerged completely outfitted for fly-fishing. He’d changed faster than Superman in a phone booth!
Without the slightest hesitation he strode from the truck and splashed into the river. He started casting. I have a fly rod but never use it. My “go to” fishing method is a cheap open face spinner reel on whatever rod was on sale last winter.
Despite our different approaches, it’s always a delight to watch a fly fisherman casting. He was graceful and unhurried. He looked nothing like Brad Pitt but was definitely channeling that damn movie from the same river. (I haven’t watched it. The only movie about fishing I’ll tolerate is Jaws.) On reflection, I think I misspoke. He wasn’t channeling anything. He was the spirit that fiction wanted to capture.
In no time he landed a trout. I expected him to release it or keep it in his creel bag for dinner. Instead, he assessed the fish, nodded to himself and waded straight back to his truck.
Then he performed another miracle. In less time than it takes me to make a bologna sandwich he’d hung his waders from a tree, setup a little table in the shade, fired up a camp stove, filleted the fish, cracked a beer, and was halfway through cooking.
I can do everything he’d done, but I can’t do anything so smoothly. I’d trounce around dropping shit on the dirt, misplacing things, and generally looking clueless. I’m always a little chaotic. I’d take more time checking six pockets to remember where I left my matches than he did to setup a whole kitchen. If I had a little table it would invariably wind up stashed in the camper somewhere inconvenient and blocked by a half ton of other stuff. For that matter, I don’t own a camper.
Awestruck, I thought “this old guy has it together. I dearly wish that someday I’ll be as cool as him.
Soon I’d finished my sandwich. Time to go. I would’ve loved to strike up a conversation but it was not to be. Presumably he was retired and had time to kill but I’m not and I don’t. I was behind schedule just from eating a sandwich. He was of the river and I was just visiting. It was a moment in time I didn’t seize. My loss.
…
Continuing reluctantly down the road I observed several more pull off at various points on the river. Some were empty, others had people like me taking brief breaks, a few had millennials with mountain bikes, and so forth. However, several spots had fairly old, but well-maintained, truck and camper combos. Now that I was paying attention, I’d discovered a secret society!
I’d seen the heretofore unknown world of supercool retired dudes who camp and fish like a boss! I was jealous. I want to be like them when I grow up.
…
Back home, I explained my discovery to Mrs. Curmudgeon. Awesomely (as always), she didn’t laugh at my blissful vision. She let me ramble about the difference between “cool” and “workin’ on it”. She smiled as I enthused about the magic old dude who set up camp in less time than it takes me to dig my backpack from the jumble in the backseat of my truck. I think anyone who is “doing their own thing” is cool and I do plenty of nifty things myself, but now I had a vision of style. I’d been in the presence of a master. I was determined to learn from it.
This spring I made a first step. I treated myself to new camping gear. I’m adapting from my usual setup (small light gear hauled ounce by ounce in a canoe) to the more domestic world of camping near my truck. I leaned on my imagination about the retired fellow. He seemed to have his shit together. I’d be like that! None of his stuff was expensive, it was just ideally suited to his environment and not stored in disarray.
Mrs. Curmudgeon coined the term “operation old guy” for my vague notions. She’s quite supportive. My first step was a tent swap. My old and trusted (but finicky and unforgiving) 4 season backpacking tent has been retired. Using a hard-core expedition tent had been forcing me to make concessions to the gear instead of the gear serving me. Who wants to burn 20 minutes to setup a small rugged tent suitable for summiting Everest when you’re on flat level ground and the load had been carried there by diesel instead of the sweat of your brow? Fortunately, a new tent is pocket change compared to buying a slide in camper. It has already earned it’s keep dissuading me from the hotels I was starting to default to.
For my second “walkabout” of 2019 would “operation old guy” thought experiments continue tobear fruit?
More to come…