Fishing Lies

FISHING LIES

             With the warmth of another spring now approaching, I often find myself daydreaming during my full work schedule… longing to have a rod and reel in my hands and to be surrounded by the churning sound of river currents instead of the monotony of the daily grind.

            I learned to love fishing as a young boy.  My early childhood was spent in the rural town of Bishop, California, which was nestled up in the base of the rugged Sierra Nevada Mountains.  My father worked as a milk delivery man and ran his route up in the beautiful resort towns and shops which dotted the surrounding highlands. I often rode with him on summer days when out of school to load and deliver the milk, cheese and ice creams to the various locals.

            Because his job started early in the morning, it also meant he was done in the early afternoon.  Many a weekend saw us loading up our gear on a Friday afternoon, piling the family and our dog into the van or pickup truck, throwing our camping and fishing gear in the back, and venturing out into the wild for a weekend of drowning worms, spinning lures and chatting the nights away around a campfire.

            Oh, those were days to be remembered, and such was the humble birth of my love for fishing.  Since those days, I’ve waded many a stream and river in search of that intoxicating and addictive sensation of a pole vibrating in my hands by the force of an unseen quarry beneath the ripples.

     In addition to those early California waters, my lines have danced the depths of the San Juan, Provo, Green, Madison and Kenai rivers just to name a very few scattered among Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado and Alaska.

     I’ve even had the pleasure of hoisting some delicious Halibut off the Ocean floor (along with a 300 lb. tangle of red sea kelp – but that’s another story altogether).

            But despite these many adventures and memorable catches, it is something altogether different I would like to reminisce about today.

            Now I will admit that a strange phenomenon often occurs between the time a guy pulls a fish from the water and when he has an opportunity to tell somebody else about it.  A magical force takes a hold of the specimen and somehow turns the smallest of pan fish into lardy lunkers that test the limits of a man and his equipment.  This power of piscatorial pettifoggery will often make an otherwise honest man tell a little white lie now and again.

            But the type of fishing deception I want to share today has nothing at all to do with the size of the catch, but rather the cloak and dagger ingenuity that was implemented to bring the bulging trout into our possession.

            It was in those early days of Bishop, California and I couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8 years old at the time.  It was a hot, lazy summer day and my older brother, Dirk, and I had our slightly older early teenage cousin, Todd, staying with us for a few days.  Bishop was a great town to grow up in.  It was a carefree time in history when even young kids could roam a town from end to end without a worry in the world.

            Where we lived, at 352 May Street, there was a great city park only a few blocks and a short cut through a small field away.  In the middle of that park was calm, relaxing lake, which just happened to be stocked with rather large trout.  A boardwalk extended out into the middle of the lake where a large Gazebo allowed visitors to enjoy the water’s beauty and toss food to the large rainbows which swarmed below the surface.  Of course it was completely illegal to fish in the city park, so the trout grew huge, uninhibited and accustomed to human presence, which they associated with food.  For three bored boys who loved to catch fish, they mockingly glided beneath the surface, taunting us with twitching tails.

            For our young cognitive processes, it wasn’t a matter of whether we would break the rules to try and catch the illegal fish; it was how to do it without getting caught that was our moral dilemma.  You couldn’t exactly carry a 5’ pole out onto a public pond in the middle of broad daylight, cast, and reel a splashing fish up over the rail of a gazebo without being noticed.

            Our trio of mental powers combined for some time over how the task could be accomplished. A few orange sodas and ice cream bars later, we hatched a brilliantly devious “get-away-with-it” plan that would have made Houdini scratch his head and wonder how we’d done it.

            We scrambled home to grab our supplies and make the necessary preparations, our boredom now extinguished in the adrenaline rush that such vile, juvenile criminals as ourselves were now experiencing. Returning to the park to perform the dirty deed, we had to contain our enthusiasm for some time as other townsfolk lounged about the gazebo, taking in the relaxing view, as our impatient eyes drilled holes into their backs in attempt to make them leave.

            Finally, when we found ourselves alone on the gazebo, we unleashed our dastardly surprise.  Lifting our pant legs, we removed the rolled up fishing line tucked inside our socks, applied a small amount of bait to the hooks and dropped the line between the rungs of the gazebo and into the water below.  The fishing line ran all the way up the inside or our pant legs and came out the top of the waist where it was tied off securely on our belts.  Therefore, standing as nonchalantly as fishing delinquent boys can do, we appeared to be doing nothing more than casually watching the fish below.

            The real excitement started as soon as the first of us actually hooked a fish.  Then the process truly began!  Grabbing the fishing line at your belt, you had to haul the line upward, somehow getting the rather startled and never-before-been-hooked fish up out of the water, between the rungs of the gazebo and right on up into the now slithering and slimy inside of your pant leg!  Then it was a simple process of pulling your sock up over the fish’s tail and you were ready to go.

            Because the fish were used to being harmlessly fed, it was only a matter of a few minutes before the three of us had our catch and were walking homeward.  I’m sure it must have been a rather curious sight for any passersby who might have seen us; three young limping kids, each with one severely swollen lower leg that suffered periodic writhing muscle spasms and oozed a fishy smelling fluid.  We were lucky no one called an ambulance for us before we made it back home!

            When we safely secured ourselves in our fenced back yard on May Street, we extracted the now partially rigor-mortise fish from our pants and began our jubilant celebration of success, by finding a knife to begin the gutting and cleaning process.  Our victory was complete.  We had broken the rules of the stupid city adults, who had obviously only put them in place to prevent young boys from having fun… and we had gotten away with it!  No one had ever planned a heist so stealthy and sophisticated!

            “And just where exactly did you three boy get those fish?” Our mother’s voice of judgment called from behind us.

            We nearly jumped out of our skins!  BUSTED!!!  How could we have been so foolish and blind?  In our attempt to conceal our secret sins from others, we had failed to consider those who watched over us the most, our own parents.

            Mom was upset, but luckily, she was also forgiving.  She didn’t call the fish cops on us, but she did make us throw the fish into the garbage.  Despite our protests that we wanted to eat them, she didn’t let us have enjoyment in our misbehavior, and reminded us that the poor fish had regularly spent their lives dining on not only bread and fish food, but also all the cigarette butts, aluminum can tops, and any other garbage people threw into the water at them.  Not to mention that they had become half dried and covered with sweat from our legs in the summer heat on the journey home.  Instead, she made us wash up and provided some sandwiches for lunch.  It didn’t seem as exciting as frying up our fish, but it was probably the more healthy option.  The rest of the day included some chores as punishment, but also time to play games and enjoy some good, honest fun.

            And such it is with life.  For some reason, we often feel compelled, like stupid children without the foresight to see the consequences of our actions, to think we can somehow violate the laws and commandments put in place for our well-being, and get away with it.  But no matter how much we try to conceal our deviant actions from the probing eyes of others, our Heavenly Parent always knows of our indiscretions.

            Luckily for us, He is also very patient, loving and forgiving.  And while He doesn’t let us find lasting enjoyment in our sins, and sometimes makes us work our way back into His grace, He is quick to bless us and show a better way to true happiness and joy.

            After all these years, the addiction of having a rod in hand and a fish on the end of my line is still there.  But thanks to the lesson learned long ago in my youth, I have learned to find much more enjoyment in the process of fishing within the rules and regulations.

            Life teaches us many lessons… if only we were smart enough so we didn’t have to learn them the hard way!

            HAPPY FISHING!!!

Crazy Carnival Rides

CRAZY CARNIVAL RIDES

            To say that I don’t like going to amusement parks would be totally incorrect.  In my younger days I loved a good Topsy-turvy, world-spinning, near-vomit-inducing string of carnival rides as well as any kid who likes an exhilarating, gut-wrenching thrill.  I’ll admit that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve encountered a few problems with amusement park rides… mainly that they’ve lost most of their amusement.

            Physically, I don’t really fit well into rides which are designed to hold more “Average” sized people.  You know how they have the little signs at the entrance to the rides which read, “You must be at least this tall to go on this ride”.  Well, they should probably have one that also shows, “If your legs are longer than this point, you will suffer knee cap dislocation on the first turn,” or “If your torso is this Girthy you will suffer rib fractures & collapsed lungs in the first corkscrew,” or “If your waist size is bigger than this, the lap bar will crush your pelvis at the first drop off” and so forth.  But I’m sure some fear of lawsuit or discrimination prevents such warnings, which I feel would actually be quite beneficial for a guy of my… ample body build. 

            I remember being with my kids on what I think was called the “California Screamer” at one of the Disneyland locations.  Crammed into the average seat and harness with my knees already forming dents in the front of the seat well, I knew there might be trouble before the ride even started.  But I was trying to show my kids what a fun Dad I was, so you know, I was taking it for the team in order to create the memories.  When the ride suddenly went from a full stop to about a bazillion miles per hour and straight into two consecutive upside down loop-d-loops, my spine literally compressed and I felt my legs go numb!  I then knew where the “California Screamer” screams were coming from!

            When the ride came to a much welcomed stop, I ran through a quick physical assessment and was pleased to find that I could still feel and move my legs and was able to walk (albeit awkwardly) without having to call Mickey for an ambulance ride.  My “Common Sense” personality cried out to the “Cool Dad” personality and jolted into a memory a long ago carnival ride, which should have taught me my carnival ride lesson many years before.

            I was probably around 14 years old on that fateful day, and a youth group from our church had taken a trip from our Idaho home to a neighboring state to visit and amusement park for the day.  We arrived early as the gates were just opening, and rushed inside so as to not miss out on any fun, only to realize that many of the rides wouldn’t be open for riding until another hour or so.  With only a few of the smaller rides operating at the early hours, my friend Brad and I scoured of the map of the park, and finally decided to head towards a ride in which its early victims were emitting what sounded like screams of delight.

            It was a Ferris wheel design with about 7-8 egg-shaped metal cages which not only went up and down with the spinning of the wheel, but also contained a lever bar inside, which if you pulled would lock your cart in position and allow you to make the revolutions upside down.  If you were a real thrill seeker, you could both push and pull on the lever during the rotations and engage in a fully brain-rattling series of forward and backward spins as you attempted to defy the laws of gravity.  Being just 14, and with they day just starting, of course we fell into the “real thrill seeker” category.

            We eagerly and willingly submitted to allowing ourselves to be strapped and locked into the cage.  I remember the carnival worker slamming down a metal bar on the door, which meant it could only be opened from the outside when the ride was over.  Of course at the time, I wasn’t thinking about anything but the thrill of the next few moments.  Nothing else in the future or past seemed to matter.  All consciousness was focused on the present exhilaration as the wheel began to quickly pick up speed.  Our shouts of excitement mingled with the riders of the other cages as we spun willy-nilly through the air.  UNTIL….. a great shuddering brought the revolving metal wheel to an abrupt and unexpected stop!

            The thrill was instantly gone, as my friend and I found ourselves near the top of the ride… our cage inverted… fully upside down.  Our cries of joy quickly turned into shouts for help as the blood rushed to our hanging heads and the harness straps strained uncomfortably against the weight of our bodies.

            The carnival worker who had so eagerly invited us onto the terrible trap was helpless to provide aid, as he flipped the switches and pulled on the levers without result.  Our pleas for assistance fell on deaf ears.

            My head pounded from the strain as we hung for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably a matter of only ten to fifteen agonizing minutes.  The lever bar was locked in position and despite our straining; we could not release it to flip ourselves upright.  Even if we could have removed the restrictive harness, we were still helplessly trapped in a cage which could only be opened from the outside and which hung suspended at a height which would have caused significant, life changing injuries.  We were completely helpless and unable to change our condition.

            Finally, a concerned park manager heard our cries came running to the scene. With expert precision he inspected the motor box and mechanisms, and within a matter of minutes flipped some switches and returned us and the other riders safely to ground level.  I had never seen a more welcome sight or concerned face as he personally unlocked us from our temporary prison.  My pain and anger was superseded by the gratitude I felt for this savior who had come to our rescue.

            At the time, I failed to realize the great lesson these events would teach me.  But as I reflect on what happened, I cannot help but recognize the parallels to this mortal life we live and experience each day.

            The world about us is filled with enticements of momentary thrill, excitement, exhilaration and pleasure.  All we have to do is give up our freedom and allow ourselves to be restricted and bound to the actions.  Addictive drugs, alcoholism, pornography, and a host of other lures promise a temporary release from reality and a false sense of satisfaction and fulfillment.  But what we fail to realize is that we cannot control the results of these choices.

            The false and temporary thrill is soon gone and we find that we cannot control the consequences.  Broken hearts and homes, financial ruin, loss of employment and health are some of the unexpected results we do not think about or foresee when we are focused on the satisfaction of the moment.  Then, whether we would admit it or not, our lives are turned upside down, and we are trapped in a prison of our sin and behavior from which we cannot escape without help.

            Luckily for us, we have an expert who always hears our cries, and is willing and ready to answer our sincere, heartfelt calls for relief.  He is our Savior, Jesus Christ.

            Only He can fix what our errant choices have broken, turn upright what is upside down in our lives, and restore us to solid ground and offer release from the prison which can only be unlocked from His outside help.

            As previously mentioned, despite the difficulties of that day and what I suffered, I returned to other carnival rides throughout my life, and as I explained, they brought physical distress and emotional suffering. 

           

           Similarly in my life, at times, some of the choices I have made have not been wise.  Despite our attempts at perfection, all of us repeatedly fall prey to errant choices and mistakes to one degree or another.

 

           I am grateful for the One who has the compassion, understanding and love to come to our assistance when we realize our error and call to him for help.  And I know from experience that no matter what our condition or state of distress, He will always come if we turn to him.  That is why we call Him our Savior!

The Night I Shot Bigfoot

The Night I Shot Bigfoot

            After a long, hard day’s work, I was really looking forward to a good, quiet night’s sleep.  It was the perfect night for just such a sleep.  The calm summer evening was neither too warm nor too cool, it was just right.  Several windows were open, allowing the clean, fresh evening air in through the screens.  It was moments like this that I really enjoyed having moved back to my home roots in Idaho, after several hectic years in the choking pollution, noise and crowds of Utah.

            When we’d moved back to Idaho, now a little over four years ago, my wife and I had made it a point to try and find a house outside of the city if possible. My new job was in Rexburg, which is a nice and relatively small city compared to many, but with construction and new college apartments going up in every direction.  Such signs of rapid growth, made even little old Rexburg unappealing.  Looking around the area, we could quickly see that anything between Rexburg and Idaho Falls would eventually grow and fill in with housing and development.  So we turned our gaze northward.

            When we discovered the quiet little town of Newdale, we thought our prayers had been answered.  Located about 15 minutes outside of Rexburg, the little community has a population of only about 350 salt of the earth, country folk.  In fact, the only reason I think it’s actually considered a city at all is because it has its own post office and a single building with a plow, used to clear snow from the five or so city blocks in the wintertime.  Life here is quiet and easy going.  There are no traffic signals or even stop signs that I’m aware of.  It’s just one of those great small towns located on only the most detailed of maps; a literal cozy blip in the road wherein everybody knows everyone else and is comfortable with it.

            As I lay in my bed, drifting off to sleep, I couldn’t help but smile.  The soundless night was just the kind I knew I could get the deepest sleep and most pleasant of dreams in.  As my thoughts melted into wistful oblivion, my aged dog suddenly awoke me with his yodeling, hound-dog bark of alarm.

            I’m pretty used to getting up, at least a few nights a week, to let the groaning arthritic little beagle out to relieve himself.  After all, he’s nearly seventy in dog years and his weakened bladder just can’t hold it through an entire night much anymore.  But then, neither can mine, so generally the timing works out to the benefit for both of us.  But on the night in mention, his waking call was not the usual whine for relief, but that of a hound dog, hot in alarm and eager to get on the trail of some unseen prey out in the night.

            I looked at the clock and begrudgingly drug myself out of bed.  I’d only been asleep about forty minutes and my bladder wasn’t even in need yet.  I tried to calm him down so that he wouldn’t wake up everyone else in the house, but he was not to be contained.  Standing eagerly by the front door, he twitched in anticipation to get after whatever foul creature was out in the yard, having dared to cross into his urine marked territory.

            I opened the door, gave him a gentle nudge in the rear, and sent him scuttling outside.  Peering intently into the darkness, I could neither see nor hear a thing.  I watched sleepily as the brave little watch dog tracked back and forth across the yard, desperately searching for a trail of what he’d either heard or smelled from within the house. 

            Frustrated, I plopped tiredly down in a nearby recliner and watched him through the front blinds as he zigzagged back and forth across his precious turf.

At first I was irate about the disturbance, but then I started to feel a little sorry for him.  He’d become a part of our family while we still lived down in Utah, and had been forcibly raised into the mold of a city dog.  Already past his prime when we’d moved back to Idaho, he’d never really got a chance to use his inherent beagle instincts to their full intent.  Now, as I watched him hobbling, nose to the ground, I realized sadly that his eyesight and olfactory senses were probably incapable of even noticing any natural quarry, even if he walked right over it.  In fact, he’d probably been awakened by some imaginary specter from a senile dog dream and was unable to distinguish it from reality.

I tiredly let him back in a few minutes later and stumbled back to bed.  My wife awoke and asked what he’d been barking at, and I told her it was nothing.  Finally drifting off to sleep again, I was awakened, not twenty minutes later by the same urgent barking.

This time, it was my wife who got up to let him out.  But as she put on her robe and headed for the doorway, she froze at the foot of our bed, next to the open screen window. “What is that?”

“What’s what?” I mumbled in fatigue.

“That breathing sound.”

I drug myself out of bed and moved to her side.  Together, we cracked open the blind and peered into the night.  We couldn’t see anything, but could definitely hear the deep, heavy, ragged breathing of something, just out of sight, along the front of our house.

“What is that?” she whispered nervously.  “I’ve never heard anything breathe like that before.”

“It’s probably Bigfoot!” I teased boyishly.  “I’ll get my gun!  You just go back to sleep.”

I grabbed in the closet, bypassing my rifle, and pulled out my air pump BB gun, the perfect weapon for chasing off a stray dog trying to take a dump in my yard in the middle of the night and ruining my sleep.  I put my dog into a back room and closed the door, not wanting to accidentally shoot him if he ran in front of the invader.

I came back to the front room and peaked through the blinds, looking for the annoyance.  It was too dark to see anything, but I could still hear the persistent, deep panting breaths of something in the front yard… something much bigger than the usual local invader.  Now awake, I had to admit that it didn’t sound like any type of dog I’d ever heard before.  It was far too large and beastly for any of the strays I’d normally seen around town.

I tiptoed over to the front door, flung it open and flipped on the outside light, instantly illuminating the front yard.  Standing in the doorway, I swung the barrel of the small gun back and forth as my eyes tried to adjust to the sudden brightness of the flood lights.

I couldn’t see a thing.  But then I heard it… the same low, rumbling exchange of air, from larger than average lungs, through an open salivating mouth.  Whatever it was, it was hidden behind the row of huge lilac bushes on the front corner of my yard.

“Go on, get out of here!” I hollered out into the darkness.  But the beast gave no sign of movement and the breathing continued.

Not daring to run outside in my underwear, I stood in the doorway for nearly a minute, listening to the breathing, my nerves getting the best of me as to what might actually be out there in the dark or night.  Finally the panting breathes faded away and I could hear them no more.

“It’s just a stupid dog!” I thought, trying to reassure and calm myself, as I came back inside and plopped down into the chair beside the window overlooking the front lawn.  “I’ll just wait here a minute.  If he comes back I’ll plink him and end this crazy business, so I can get some sleep.”

Sitting in the recliner, with the BB gun along my side, I accidentally drifted off.  I’m not exactly sure how long it’d been, but the next thing I knew, I was again awakened by my bawling beagle, which was still locked in the back room.  Coming partially into consciousness, I again heard the deep breathing, just on the other side of the screen window, not more than two feet from my face!

I jumped in startled alarm, my half-asleep senses still mingling with my jumbled dream as the words, “BIGFOOT” jumped into my brain.  With the BB gun still in my hand, I accidentally squeezed the trigger.  Having forgotten to put the safety on before drifting off to sleep, the gun discharged.  The small round projectile ricocheted off of the top of my foot with a searing sting.

Jumping around in agony, I let out a guttural yell and dropped the small gun to the floor.  Soon, everyone in the house was awake, wondering what the ruckus was about.

“He’s just old, probably having some crazy, senile dream!” my teen-aged son muttered before he and his brothers headed back to bed.

After I explained, my wife shook her head, chuckled at me and said, “Just come to bed and leave Bigfoot alone.”

I took one last angry peek out into the night, but whatever had been hanging around, was now long gone; no doubt scared off by my own monstrous cry.  Hobbling in shame, I followed my wife back to bed.

The next morning, as I was preparing to leave for work, I saw one of the neighbor’s dogs from down the road, walking by, dragging a long broken chain behind him.  He was a huge, hairy Husky with only three legs (having lost one to a shooting accident several years before.  Overweight and struggling on his limited limbs, he struggled for home with familiar, raspy, heavy, panting breaths.

Limping to my car, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.  Here in the quiet little Southeast Idaho country town of Newdale, I’d actually shot Bigfoot.  Never you mind that it was actually my own big foot.

“You gotta love Idaho!” I thought to myself.  “You can’t get excitement like that in the big city!"