What I did Last Summer
It was the best of times (for him, mostly), it was the worst of times. It was the season of exploration and the season of holding down the fort at home.
This summer, while I was dealing with minor distractions such as students, research, report-writing, and comforting two sixty-pound dogs during each day’s major downpour, the husband went on three “work” trips exploring different piscine regimes. The poor dear, all that work tearing him away from home—how ever did he cope?
Fascinatingly, I’ve come to learn during this experience that all trips require various preparative purchases, regardless of how many such trips have been undertaken in the past. Fishing gear must be among the most perishable items known to men—fresh shrimp and homemade mayonnaise have nothing on it. In addition, it appears, it is among the most specialized equipment in existence. Each season, date, time, and the phase of the moon evidently requires different gear. In short, it appears from observation, that fishermen find it safest to buy up the entire tackle store here so that they may pack bags only a forklift can maneuver for each trip and finally hit the local fly shops at their destination just to stock up on the most specialized items.
In preparation for Patagonia, for instance, the fishing nut was in dire need of flies—this despite the fact that our second bedroom is full of things I would describe as flies, but evidently it takes a more trained eye than mine to discern the correct flies from the entirely inappropriate. Luckily, my fishing nut can order some of his fishing gear at much reduced prices. Here again, I’ve come to learn that what he considers a bargain is not what I would consider a bargain. Be that as it may, my fishing nut threw himself feverishly behind his keyboard and began to shop for flies. Very proud of his extensive selection covering absolutely any fish-eventuality, he was just about to hit confirm when his eye happened to glance at the overall total, which seemed a tad high—$3,000 high, to be exact. Sagely, he chose not to submit his order at this time, perhaps he saw the potential headlines flashing before his eyes: “man brutally slain for ordering $3,000 worth of flies for a two-week trip—death ruled justifiable homicide.”
Instead of clicking to submit his order, my fishing nut commenced some investigations and came to learn that on this particular website all flies were sold in dozens. This minor detail clarified, my fishing nut recommenced his ordering with the original fervor and eventually came up with the oh so much more reasonable total of just under $300. For flies! Thingies used to attract fish so they can be pulled out of the water, photographed, and readmitted to the water from whence they had been drawn. Just think how much more useful stuff could have been bought like plants for my garden and shoes and… but I digress.
Purchases finally completed, it soon came time for my nut to take his flies and the other half ton of gear and fly with them to nearly the very end of the earth—the very end of cell-phone coverage at least. Naturally, this was exactly the time when pretty much everything around the house decided to remind me why it is useful to have my fishing nut around. Just a few examples include the fun discovery one morning as I was frantically trying to get ready for work that the cold water knob in our shower turned idly without inducing any cold water to dilute the scalding stream from above. Not particularly handy early in the morning, it took the assistance of my mother for me to ascertain how the knob might be removed from the faucet. Said victory was then followed by the adventure of taking a shower with the use of pliers.
Knob replacement was also an adventure in many stages. After a long day at work and completion of all the pet-related chores at home which, without the husband, I get to enjoy all by myself, mother and I set out to purchase a replacement knob. Cleverly, we took the old knob with us and found ourselves a specialist to indicate the appropriate replacement, which I bought and returned home, and inevitably discovered that the knob did not fit no matter how ardently we tried to persuade it.
Thus, following another long day at work and another set of chores completed, we set out once more and finally got lucky in a different store. A third trip saw the return of the first knob, at which point my car decided to join the fun and present us with a pretty colorful check engine light. Nothing makes a Sportsman’s Widow happier than learning she needs to devise a way to spend half a day sitting at a car dealership waiting to have her vehicle checked out.
In the middle of all this fun, my phone reported that my fishing nut had finally called. He hadn’t been any place where his phone had worked in many days and his last short e-mail, many days prior, had stated that he was terribly ill. Concerned wife that I am, I was worried sick about my poor baby ill in a foreign land, unable to enjoy his long-anticipated trip. Meanwhile, the poor baby was quite recovered and staying in lodges so close to a gorgeous body of water he could have dangled his line straight out of the window. That is when he was not roughing it on camping trips where an army of helpers rushed ahead to every stop setting up camp. In fact, the only hardship my poor fishing nut had to endure was that the cook put the bread on the fire before the bacon and thus he generally had to contend with cold toast by the time the bacon was nice and crispy—can you imagine? Such Draconian conditions!
At the time of the missed call, however, I was unaware of the depth of my man’s suffering with the cold toast and very much looking forward to a loving and reassuring message letting me know he was okay and missed me as much as I missed him. What I got was an ill-humored message from a man reportedly driven to thoughts of homicide because I had the audacity not to be hanging breathlessly by my phone every minute of every day just in case he might finally get to some place where his phone worked. The fact that said man is still alive is proof positive of my very forgiving and pacifistic nature—either that, or the fact that he was too far away to strangle at the time.
Eventually my man returned and our pets and I were too happy to see him for us to bear him a grudge. Also, we knew we had only a few days before he had to head back out to Colorado. His main panic in the intervening days was that he needed new waders. The ones he had taken to Patagonia had evidently suffered various claw-sized breaches and become “entirely unusable.” Sagely, he had given them to one of the guides in Patagonia, preempting my suggestions for resurrection (if they can turn a screen door into the bottom of a boat, they can mend waders—bring on the liquid rubber and the duct tape!). What I found somewhat intriguing was that his guide, who had been presented with these “entirely useless” waders, had reportedly been very happy to receive them—odd that. They must be keeping them for posterity, to remember my great fishing nut by, given that they were completely beyond repair and all.
Be that as it may, my fishing nut was now in dire straights trying to get new waders. Naturally, only the top model of only one brand would do. Can you imagine his despair when he tried to order them and they did not have his size available? Desperate phone calls to company headquarters followed. My nut was instructed to wait three days; his size should be available then. He waited. What an agonizing wait. Would there be enough time for the waders to get here before he had to leave? It would be cutting it close. Finally, the three days were over. First thing in the morning, my nut rushed to his keyboard—his size was still not available. A few more tries followed throughout the day—still not available! Another call. Sorry, no waders in his size. Finally, out of sheer desperation my nut measured himself to see if he could maybe make do with another size. Once he did that, he suddenly no longer had a problem. Odd that. He ordered his waders and we had a happy ending. They arrived just in time. Now, cynical wives might muse that maybe the good nut could have saved himself a lot of angst if he had measured his size earlier, but I am sure that was not it. The important thing is that man and waders were united so he could go to Colorado with them. I do think he used them there for five minutes here or there. I am sure it was worth all the fuss and the purchase price. The latter probably exceeds the net worth of my entire wardrobe combined, but who could put a price on the happiness of being able to stand in the middle of a stream without getting your toes or your knickers wet.
I gripe, but it is not as if I didn’t get anything out of my husband’s travels myself. From this trip, for instance, my sweet man was so kind as to bring me home a lovely virus—rare edition, he had me completely speechless for two days. How thoughtful. Thankfully, by the time he got ready to gear up for his next trip (South Florida this time), I was all mended so that I had the strength to put up with yet another mad rush to gear up. Purchases this time included line or backing, or both (I can’t keep these things straight), for all his regular lines. You know you are in trouble when you ask the clerk at a store to do something and he keeps shaking his head telling you “this is going to be expensive.” You know you are married to a fly-fishing nut when upon receipt of the final bill he smirks at the price because it is so ridiculously low compared to what he usually pays for his fly lines. Lucky me.
Another expenditure (and source of stress) for this trip encompassed the acquisition of a new fishing license. This trip was, of course, expertly timed to coincide with the expiration of last year’s. Somehow it became my duty to remind and later on nag my fishing nut to renew this license before he left. The things we do for love.
Finally, the license was purchased, the truck was loaded nearly to its breaking point, and the husband drove off once again. This time, he was not out of communication reach, so I did not have to miss out on reports of a badly injured left arm, which oddly felt good enough each morning to permit him to go fishing but routinely hurt again something fierce each night. I am sure that the days spent battling various oversized irate fish had nothing to do with it. My suggestion that he might take a day off and just spend it on the beach was received with some amusement. Even Mother Nature’s intervention with various rain storms was circumvented by taking a trip to the opposite coast.
He is back now. His arm hurting more than ever and his fishing gear is in the back of his truck liberally coated with the contents of an exploded bottle of maple syrup (something about men loading a truck early in the morning after having fished all night). Oddly enough he is getting very limited sympathy from me on both fronts. Instead, I am gearing up to leave him for approximately half the month of August. Not to fear, I will be sure to call regularly with updates on whether or not my pretzels are properly buttered and my beer adequately chilled as I go through the stress of choosing a different Biergarten each evening, while he gets to enjoy just hanging around the house by himself at home. Revenge is a dish best served while sipping on a nice glass of German ale.
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