A reminder to always dress your best, even when fishing
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was like the clouds of heaven had parted, with cascading mountains in every direction.
It was a beautiful 30 C mid-summer day and the mountain creeks were calling to me, begging to have a fly line serpentine through the humid air and be gently laid on the bubbling, crystal lake.
I grabbed my fishing gear and was off. Some of my fishing escapades have seen me in some pretty precarious situations including climbing rock walls above whitewater rapids and being washed downriver and out to the ocean. This particular spot included a rock-cliff descent and a few deep creek crossings accompanied by a bear den within 100 feet of the fishing site.
Half an hour later, I arrived at my destination. I locked up my truck and started the dangerous trek, hyperventilating from the anticipation of surfacing big silver-bluish lake graylings that were hungry for my fly. I managed down the rock cliff, as I have hundreds of times before, and as I approached the first creek crossing, it was evident from the high water levels that I was going to get a bit wet. Normally I would never get my feet wet in the wilderness, but I wasn’t far from my truck, so I slogged through the creek with my hikers and sweatpants, waterlogging them. I couldn’t care less as it was extremely hot that day and I needed to cool off anyway. It was soon evident that wet sweatpants were a huge pain to hike in as they got heavier and kept slipping down over my hips, no matter how tight I tied them.
As I approached the rocky point where the bubbling creek poured into the shimmering lake, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was like the clouds of heaven had parted, with cascading mountains in every direction. I took in every site, smell and sound and just immersed myself in the moment. It’s always the most amazing, humble experience when you have been granted this gift of being the only soul around for miles.
I quickly assembled my fly rod, picked the sassiest-looking black gnat in the fly box and realized I was going to have to do something about these 50-pound sweatpants that were falling to my ankles.
Most who know me well will tell you how much I despise pink. I am not talking about those pretty pale-pastel pinks. I am talking about that hot-Barbie pink that has haunted me since I was a little girl (and was my only option growing up as a tomboy). Whether it was a hard hat, a sweater, women’s work gloves, dirtbike gear or a fishing rod, Barbie pink and baby blue were the options back then. Not a happy camper.
As I kicked off the heavy wet sweatpants, I threw my head back in disbelief and yelled “Seriously?!” To my disgust, on the day I wanted to stay camouflaged, which was the majority of my wardrobe, I had worn the hot-Barbie-pink panties that day. I knew the only reason I would have bought them is because they were the last colour on the shelf (and for good reason). I brushed off my hurt dignity and slipped into my hip waiters, knowing that my only witnesses that day were some laughing wildlife.
There I was, about 200 feet from the treeline on the rocky point, casting away and landing a few nice lake-grayling dandies. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply with every cast, letting the current take my fly while listening to nothing but gurgling creek water.
I cocked an eyebrow as my peace and tranquillity was disrupted by a low drone in the distance. It sounded quite far away and possibly like a plane, which obviously was of no concern to me. As the noise grew louder, I started looking around and trying to figure out the noise that was bouncing off of mountains in every direction. Another two minutes went by, with the low drone growing, and I almost pissed my panties when a 20-foot Thunder Jet boat came roaring around the corner, taking the corner wide right around me, about 200 feet away. I was a far distance from the treeline and I couldn’t squat, as I would fill my waders with water. I decided to grin and “bare” it, hoping they wouldn’t see me. Thanks to Barbie pink, that was not the case.
Just at that moment, the boat did an abrupt U-turn and headed right towards me. My peaceful tranquility was disrupted by my profanity. I could hear the catcalling of a few fishermen on board, with music playing in the background, and it seemed they were there to troll in that bay. (The younger generation today will never know a day where you didn’t have to worry about snapshots with phones. They did not exist back then, but you did have to worry about binoculars and the likely fact that you knew each other.)
The worry of being a victim rarely crosses my mind. As my older brother used to say, “I feel bad for the guy that ever tries to kidnap you.” This came from years of growing up together and being involved in karate, boxing, wrestling, judo, taekwondo, and using each other as sparring partners. And I normally have an arsenal of weapons with me, ranging from two- to six-inch blades, to shotguns; and yes, I know how to use them all, so it’s best to stay on the water and leave the “honey badger” alone.
Rest assured, my peace had been disrupted … so I packed up my gear, slapped my wet sweatpants back on and decided next time to maybe pack some shorts. Lesson learned. Screw you, Barbie.I was pretty certain I heard the grayling laughing at me as they were spared for another day. Knowing my luck, after this story is published, Mattel will get wind of it and there will be a Barbie Goes Fishing edition on the shelf.
