On our first trip to Yellowstone we exited the park to the west following the Madison River down and into the town of West Yellowstone, MT. This is the largest town nearest the park and apparently is most noted for being the largest town next to the park. Our primary reason for stopping in West Yellowstone was that we needed a Laundromat. This is not one of my favorite things to do on a trip but Judy changes her socks, panties, and shirts on a daily basis and insists that I do also. Sometimes I can get away with wearing pants for two days in a row, but any coffee stain or cigar ash on them and I get caught. Even with these excessive clothes changing we still have plenty of clothes for the rest of the trip as every drawer, cubby, and shelf is crammed with more. And getting to the clean stuff at this point in a trip is easier as we have extracted some clothes and worn them. I can actually get my sweats out without the aid of a pick axe. That some of this stuff is a bit out of style does not concern me. What is wrong with polyester plaid bell bottoms? What’s polyester? I even found my “I’m with stupid” tee shirt. Still, Judy insists that we need to do laundry as we are going to run out of clothes. I suppose she is right as there is a slight chance that Armageddon may occur while we are on vacation and it would be embarrassing to be judged by our maker while wearing dirty underwear.
We soon found a Laundromat on the main drag in West Yellowstone and I began carrying in the black garbage bags full of lightly soiled clothing. Judy gets $20 in quarters and begins stuffing the super duty machines adding detergent, bleach, fabric softener and large volumes of change. After about half an hour of steady labor, all laundry is being washed. During this time the only other person in the Laundromat is a stocking capped guy with a scruffy beard who we take to be the “maintenance man”. He has the front panels off a couple of washers inspecting them with a flashlight. After a bit of poking and pulling on the wires he slowly shuffles across the room to peer at what I take to be a “maintenance manual.” After a bit he gets bored with fiddling with the non-operating machines and to our amazement takes the bottom panel off of one of the super duty machines that we are using while it is in the spin cycle. He starts poking and pulling at the wires, then shuffles off to look at the manual again. He repeats this procedure a few times with Judy and I passing knowing glances between us; we have seen this sort of behavior before; we grew up in the sixties.
Suddenly with an audible pop, the power goes off. This does not seem to affect the “maintenance man” one iota. I am not sure he was even aware of it in his mildly anesthetized state. As it slowly dawns on him that something is amiss, he just stands there, with his eyes glazed, unmoving.
Finally, Judy spoils the moment, “The powers off”.
He looks over at her with a blank expression.
“Shouldn’t you check the circuit breakers?” she says in a slightly louder voice.
Her meaning slowly sinks in and passes his mismatched neurons to what is left of his higher cognitive centers: this woman thinks that he might be responsible for the power going out. This is probably the first deductive thought this guy has had for years. With a frown he ambles off and into another room to check.
Within a couple of minutes he comes back with a relieved smile and says “It’s not me, man”.
To which Judy answers, “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure”, he responds.
Not quite believing him, I go outside to check. There are no lights on in any of the businesses around us and even the stop light is not working down the street. For a split second I wonder how this guy managed to take out the whole grid.
Regardless of the cause of the outage, we are marooned in West Yellowstone with a pothead and a ton of wet laundry. After waiting for an hour for the power to come back, we wring out the clothes as best we can and head down the road into Idaho, hoping to find a working coin op in the wilderness. By the time we eventually find one, rewash the clothes, dry, fold and wedge them back in and over the bell bottoms, the day is pretty much over. A whole day lost that we could have been fishing with my oldest son, Wes, at Henry’s Lake, where the great lunkers dwell.
Fishing is Wes’s religion. He has tried other faiths, football then boxing, but over the years two blown knees, a shoulder that requires occasional cortisone shots, and a few too many “I just escaped from the fat farm dinners” have reduced his foot and hand speed, making him vulnerable to the overhand right. Also there was something about a fight that went badly in Pocatello where he tried to surf the bull in the cowboy bar wearing Birkenstocks and a Hawaiian flowerdy shirt.
For a while he was lost in sports purgatory, but fishing saved him. He is obsessed with it. He has a dozen rods, several tackle boxes, a vest with attached flies, a float tube, waders, a 4X4 pickup to get him to the inaccessible spots, and he reads fishing magazines on the shitter. He tried to name his daughters Brook and Rainbow, but his second wife, Gail, would have none of it although he did get her to agree to name the dog Trout. His obsession with fishing might have contributed to the break up of his first marriage, had his first wife been normal and not the crazed-bitch-from-hell. On this trip he was in-between wives as she had recently left him for a drunken cowboy who wears proper attire when riding the bar bull. We tried to get Wes to go to Yellowstone with us. Although he had been living only a couple of hours away for several years he had never been there as he did not consider the fishing in the park to be of the best quality compared to the streams and lakes in the potato state. But he did agree to meet us at Henry’s Lake, which is near the west entrance to the park.
According to Wes, Henry’s Lake is the best trout fishing place in the world and he personally has caught trophy class monsters there. This should have generated some excitement on my part, but as I have been fishing the “perfect spot” many times with him, I have come to accept the tenant that in his religion lying is not a sin. Until Henry’s Lake, I had never seen him catch anything, nor had I been able to catch anything in his presence.
Arriving at the primitive campground that he led us to above the lake did not bode well for a miraculous improvement in his honesty. It was not level as advertised. It was not even close and we needed to be level. The MSP had one of those old refrigerators which required extreme care in leveling unless you wanted to replace it at $800 a pop. Judy and I have become quite adept at this using various combinations of wooden 2X6’s under the tires and a specialized lingo of verbal commands gleaned from watching old WWII submarine movies.
“Up half a bubble to port” I would bellow out the window.
To which my mate would nod knowingly and yell “back slow”, then taking a block from the starboard aft yell “ahead dead slow…..all stop!”
We had it down to the point where with three or four such adjustments we achieved DBL (dead balls level) in only a matter of minutes. At the Henry’s Lake site it soon became apparent that this was not going to be achieved with any combination of blocks we had. We soon resorted to using fire wood, tree branches, and digging out under the tires. Our only real option was to blast but all we had were the fireworks I had bought in Wyoming which we were illegally going to fire off back in Oregon on the Fourth of July. Finally conceding defeat, I turned the refer off and exhaustedly crawled into the bunk with the MSP listing 10 degrees to port.
The next morning we somehow managed to get the MSP down off the pile of branches without tipping it over and drove a mile or so through a cattle pasture to where Wes said the best fishing was. We had to damn near repel our way down a grassy cliff. I went first having to hang on to cottonwood saplings with one hand, with our rods and tackle box in my other hand which was dangling over the precipice. Somehow we made it down to the shore without having to call rescue 911, although Judy had to grab me by the back of my pants on one occasion to save me from certain death. Thank God I had convinced her to let me carry her fishing gear down so that she had both hands free or I would have been a goner.
The lake itself was green-murky and there was a major caddis fly hatch in progress. So lets’ review: a lake green with algae from the excess nutrients being washed into it from the surrounding ag land, an insect hatch of biblical proportions, and Wes’s track record of taking me to perfect spots where he has never caught a fish when a witness was present.
Wes tossed me a jar of power bait and not being able to contain his excitement said “Great spot! Bait up!”
Fuming at being conned again, I slop half the damn jar on the hook as the sooner I run out, the sooner I can go back to camp and have a cigar and a double scotch. I sat down and got as comfortable as I could on the rocks, pulling my fishing hat down over my eyes and tried to take a nap. Napping, however, was not an option as every non-moving object was covered in caddisflies which were crawling out of the water to dry their wings so they could fly off to produce more caddis flies. With this insect buffet, why in the world would a fish, especially a trophy one, eat power bait even if they could even find it in the murky green of this oversized waste treatment pond? I could just hear the fish laughing at us with their caddis fly filled bellies jiggling.
Fifteen minutes later I was getting bored watching the caddis flies drying their wing on my pants. What excuse could I make up this time to make the escape back to camp, as Wes could do this for hours? Unlike a true believer, I only enjoy fishing when I am catching fish or have the illusion that I am going to catch fish.
Just then the end of my pole moved almost imperceptivity. I ever so gently picked it up from the rocks I had wedged it into in the hope that my aging eyes were not playing tricks. The second nibble was more felt than seen. I scarcely breathed waiting for the next slight tug which came a few seconds later. With cat-like reflexes honed from years of practice I snapped the pole back to set the hook.
“Fish on” I yelled, trying to exude an aura of professionalism, which might have worked if I had not preceded that comment by “Holy Shit!
And then the epic struggle commenced. Me coolly playing the fish while gloatingly ignoring all advice from my son. Somehow after about 10 minutes I landed the biggest trout I ever caught and will likely ever catch. Weighed in at seven and a half pounds! Who cares if it was a mottled green and probably in-bred stupid as it went for the power bait over the yummy insects. Who cares if the only way these fish are going to be edible is to smoke them as they have been living in green slime. A minute later I was baited up with the rest of the jar of power bait. It had worked once, and I could always beg Wes for more. Five minutes later boom! Number two was on. Although not as big, I was flying high. Not only was I catching monster trout, I was the only one catching fish. This was great. Out fishing my son! Out fishing my wife! Oops! Forgot about that one. Judy loves to catch fish. Judy almost always out fishes me. Judy is competitive. If she did not catch a fish soon I would be in deep shit. At that moment the third fish hit my bait. I instinctively set the hook and thinking quickly yelled at Judy to take the pole telling her that I, according to Idaho out-of-stater fishing regulations and being an Oregonian on a three day license was only allowed to catch two monster fish from the Henry’s Lake recreation area. Although I thought I was making this up, it turned out to be true. Judy with a bit of reluctance took the pole. Although this was the smallest fish caught that day, it was still 19 inches and fought like hell as it was a real rainbow not one of the mottled green rainbow cut-throat in-breeds like most of the fish in the lake.
Soon after that I climbed the hill back to where the MSP was parked. I did not dare show up the rest of the fishing party anymore. Judy came up an hour or so later never getting a bite. Wes did not show up till the sun was going down. He had finally caught one, once again without witnesses being present. But after checking it for signs of cellophane and Styrofoam, I had to reluctantly come to the conclusion that he had probably caught it. He was right about Henry’s Lake. Although it was not pretty and the primitive camping sucked, it did contain monster fish that even I could catch. I highly recommend it. Just make sure to bring barn boots and rappelling rope.
After Henry’s Lake we spent the better part of a day in Lava Hot Springs. This is a little tourist trap town on the Portneuf River. We floated down the river through the town on rafting tubes which we rented from a local tourist trap shop. It was a lot of fun except for the walk back into town to drop off the rafts. We thought about going for an afternoon swim at one of the local spas, but as it was a hot day and we were running a little low on funds, we decided to find a swimming hole upstream from the town where Wes thought there might be a good spot. We stopped on a grassy slope just above the river. Wes went ahead to check for swimming holes. He confided to me later that he had actually gone ahead to make sure that the rattlesnakes were not out in force, for this spot was noted for snakes. I found out much later that Wes had been bitten at this very spot the year before. It was probably a good idea that he had kept this a secret, as Judy would have been reluctant to get off pavement at any spot within 10 miles of a real rattlesnake attack. Wes soon reported back that while the water was deep enough, the bottom was soft and muddy.
But rather than just go home, Wes suggested we try a little fishing, as trout were rising everywhere he looked. I might have been suspicious that Wes had intentionally lured us out here to go fishing rather than swimming except that he had left all of his fishing tackle at home. In retrospect this may have been a diversion as he probably assumed that we had plenty stashed somewhere in the MSP as we had just come down from Henry’s Lake. Unfortunately his assumptions were wrong. We were totally out of weights, had no bait, and our licenses had expired. All we really had left was our rods, a few hooks, and some bobbers. While I doubted that we would get caught by the game warden, having no weight or bait did pose a dilemma. We resorted to throwing out our line using the bobber as a weight, and baited the hook with whatever we had that might be similar to fish bait. Lets see, canned garbanzo beans sort of look like salmon eggs. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had heard that fish like cheese. We debated whether to use some sharp cheddar but thought that as it was Idaho, Velveta might work better. We even tried a little raw bacon just for the hell of it. We soon found that it did not seem to matter what kind of food we used. These fish were both stupid and hungry and unlike their human counterparts in this neck of the woods might have even had a taste for brie if we had any. After a while we had easily caught about a dozen foot-long rainbows, and unlike their Henry’s Lake counterparts they tasted mighty good for dinner that night. But best of all, for the second time in less than a week I had been with my son when he caught a fish and for the first time ever I had actually seen him catch one. Maybe there was something to his religion after all.
I can’t remember most of the trip home. Although it had started badly with evil omens and MSP breakdowns, we had the best and longest vacation in our lives. I had seen Yellowstone, rafted the Snake, and caught monster trout. Judy and I could have had more sex, but what we did have was great.
Somewhere on I84 in western Idaho Judy heard a noise. One of those noises that only women can hear when their husbands are driving.
“There! You must have heard it that time. Tic Tic Tic” .
“Don’t worry dear that is just a little suspension noise” which is my typical response to one of her imagined, “the engine is about to blow up” scenarios.
“Don’t you think you had better stop and check, I think there is something wrong with the pistons”. Like she even knows what a piston is.
“Ah, it’s just a little fan belt noise, nothing to worry about” is my next level mechanical sounding ploy to try and placate her. I also turn on the radio hoping that this might distract her.
However, another hundred miles closer to home and I hear it as well. I stop and check the belts. They are all tight and look to be in reasonably good shape. I crawl underneath and look at the engine. Why I do this I haven’t a clue. It is just something guys do and being a guy I feel obligated. Everything looks OK, but then again, what do I know.
We cross the Oregon Cascades and most of the Willamette Valley. It is getting dark and the noise is now evolved from a tic tic to a tic-a-wack, tic-a-wack. I am a bit concerned but am still pretty sure that there is nothing wrong as the noise seems to have stabilized at the same level two hundred miles ago. Just outside of the small town of Philomath, the noise stops. Judy, to my exasperation, is now worried that the noise she has been bugging me about for 500 miles has suddenly stopped.
I’ve had it, “What is wrong with you woman! You’ve nagged me all day about that damn noise and when it finally stopped, you start nagging me to stop and see why”.
If I had looked at my temperature gauge a split second sooner it probably would have saved me about 10 years of the “you never listen to me-s”. But it was too late. I had said it and the heat gauge was pegged. Lucky for me we were in a town and managed to coast right up to the door of an automotive shop which the gas station owner next door assured me had a competent mechanic and that the shop would be open the next morning. Turned out that the housing that attached the fan to the engine block had broken. The water pump replacement mechanic way back in Baker City probably had not tightened the bolts down hard enough and it had been slowly working back and forth over that last 1500 miles of the trip till it finally broke. The young kid mechanic was able to find one in a local junkyard the next day and we went home that next afternoon.
Judy, knowing my embarrassment at her being right and me being wrong at something mechanical, waited a few weeks to remind me of my error while we were showing off pictures of our trip to some friends over dinner.
To which I replied, “You were right once that something was wrong out of how many times it was nothing”?
To which she responded, “Yes but that time I was right, we broke down, and you said that I should keep my mouth shut”.
Sometimes it is best to admit that you cannot win an argument with your wife. I just nodded my head and said “yes dear” to which my buddy who had been married even longer than I nodded ever so slightly in agreement. This is the kind of thing that drives men to drink. Since I was already there anyway, I might as well have another and enjoy the rest of the evening. As she was always providing me with so much new material to tease her about, graciously accepting a few jabs in my direction is only fair and one of the secrets of having a long and happy marriage. Besides, I could always send her to the lumber yard to pick up a half a dozen 4 X 2’s.
