Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Cruelty Free Fishing

Raven is competent at most things and does have some genuine experience as a fisherwoman under her belt so when she offered to get me started with my angling career, I accepted with grace.

I’ve had all the gear for some months now; since the beginning of last winter in fact. However as I’ve explained, standing up to me goolies in ice water doesn’t appeal and I’ve been depressingly busy for the last few weekends so here we are at the end of May and I’ve yet to get the stuff wet. The traditional holiday weekend rain didn’t appear to be materializing and the lake was still open despite a brief-but-nasty local wildfire so after a quick lunch, I loaded rod, reel, tackle box, fishing vest, cooler and Wiley the dog into the car and set off for Raven’s house.

The first step was to load line onto reel and as I don’t recall experiencing any challenges loading line onto reel the last time I owned a fishing rod, some (clears throat) years ago; I suspect it was already on when I bought it. I assumed this would be easy but experienced my first pang of concern when Raven’s SO, ‘storm took one look and said.

"Oh, you’ve bought one of those reels."

By "one of those reels" I learned he meant "open faced reels" whereby the line is wound onto the spindle with the aid of a wee hinged bar called a bail. A manly reel, as opposed to a "closed faced reel" where everything is enclosed – the type favored by amateurs and 7-year old girls.

One of those reels or not, we pushed on, emboldened by the assistance of the instruction book.

"Attach line to reel" it said. Well there you go – can’t get much more straightforward than that. So, attach line to reel we did and in no time Raven was winding furiously while I unrolled yard after yard of nylon thread from the spool. Everything was going swimmingly until we made the mistake of stopping to check our progress and for no reason at all, the line decided to spring back off the reel at a speed much greater than it had gone on. In less time than it takes to type, Raven was holding an armful of tangled twine and looking bewildered.

No matter, this gave me the chance to try out another piece of new equipment; a rather nifty pair of folding scissors and before long we had the snarl trimmed off.

"Before you unwind the remaining line and start over, this might be a good time to practice casting." Suggested ‘storm helpfully.

Good idea that, so after fastening a weight to the business end, we all made our way down off the deck to the open driveway.

"Watch me get it stuck in a tree now." I said; joking of course. The nearest tree was 50 feet away and obviously out of range. So, it was with some surprise I saw the line soar into its highest branches and secure itself there forever. Or at least, until the tree falls over for no amount of pulling, yanking or twisting would free the damn thing. I suspect some squirrel is still massaging the back of its head and wondering "What the hell was that?"

The day was slipping away but eventually we had a good length of line on the reel, along with a new weight and a hook and were bowling up the road to the lake. Quite sensibly, ‘storm decided to avoid any further involvement so it was just me, Wiley, Raven and of course, the fish. And most of the population of Colorado. Not only was most of the shoreline occupied, these people looked like they knew what they were doing. Anxious to find a spot where we could screw up without anyone noticing, we selected a place between the family with toddlers (no competition there) and the group of old folks with tons of gear and professional looking hats (maybe they would take pity and show us how to get started).

My first cast was a beaut. Way, way out over the lake almost beaning a duck in the process. You would think after a cast like that the fish would have been climbing over themselves to jump on the hook, but no, reeling in the line revealed that all I had caught was some straggly looking weed, which I suspect stuck just near the shore. Not to worry, I drew back and cast again. And again. And again. No fish.

As it turned out, that was the least of our worries. This darn line was making it clear it had no intention of remaining on the reel any longer than it had to and whenever the bail was open, it would spiral off into a ball of confusion. I eventually learned the art of snapping the bail closed as soon as the cast was complete, but not before several yards of line had sprung off and made friends with the nearby bushes. What a royal pain in the patoot that turned out to be and I was grateful to have Raven there to help me untangle things. I was less grateful to have Wiley there because the moment she saw us distracted, she would jump up and hop into the lake. She doesn’t smell too good at the best of times and wet she’s insufferable so we spent a lot of time yelling and causing chaos while the other anglers attempted to ignore us.

After a while you begin to wonder if you really want to catch a fish anyway. Let’s face it; fish are rather ugly creatures. It’s one thing if you're scuba diving on some tropical reef where they’re all psychedelically colored and cool looking, but their cold water cousins tend to have expressions that are invariably sour or grumpy looking. That or just plain angry. Maybe somebody should check why that is.

So we cast, and reeled in, cast and reeled in, untangled, cursed at the dog, tripped over and dropped things for the rest of the afternoon in blissful contentment. Remember the toddlers and the old folks? They spent their time reeling in fish after fish, with the youngters holding the lead until the end. Us? Well, we caught a lot of weeds, lost a lot of bait, accidentally threw the rod in the water on one cast and snarled somebody else’s line on another. Not the most successful fishing trip ever.

But who cares. There was leftover shepherd’s pie for tea.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Damn you, Green Mountain!

Green Mountain, near Morrison Colorado isn’t one of the loftier peaks in the Rockies. The top is around 800 feet higher than the base and it’s only because the latter is a mile above sea level that it qualifies as a "mountain" at all. Sitting on the edge of the prairie it’s a mere wrinkle in the landscape before the foothills begin and the real Rocky Mountains get underway.

Even so, being handy for metro Denver it’s a popular haunt for local mountain bikers, the ranks of whom I’ve recently joined. My guide book describes the trail as "Ideal for beginners, as long as they don’t mind a bit of a climb." As it happens, I’ve been blessed with strings of spaghetti instead of legs, so am no great fan of climbing but I figured I could handle "a bit". After all, hadn’t I once made it to the top of Hardknott Pass in the English Lake District on my trusty 10-speed, an achievement that defeated most cars for the first few decades of motoring? Admittedly, that was a fair few years ago and I’m having more trouble than I care to admit getting back into shape but even so, how hard could it be?

Very hard as it turns out.

Not in a technical sense; the trail was smooth and manicured with none of the roots and rocks which have tormented me so while grinding uphill on my previous rides. However, the guide book had failed to impart an adequate sense of just how steep the climb was. Oh not for other people you understand, I was passed by several pedallers including one guy who looked like he’d died some time ago (and even he was breathing easily.) But me, I was in bottom gear before I was two hundred yards out of the parking lot and trying not to think about the sight of the trail winding up into the sky and the tiny dots that were my fellow bikers.

As part of the transition from road to mountain biking I’ve had to learn not to pull up on the handlebars while climbing; this having the effect of de-weighting the front wheel and lifting it off the ground. Instead the trick is to pull back on the bars, keeping the weight over the front wheel. But not too much weight, or the back wheel loses traction and spins in the dirt – see how hard this is? I was pulling back so fiercely I’m pretty sure I was dragging myself back down the hill. Still, on and on I ground despite receiving no help at all from my legs, who tend to be rather selfish at the best of times. They made their displeasure known by sending sheets of pain through every muscle to which they had access. Just when I thought the agony could get no worse, I made the mistake of glancing once more at the path ahead. A new curve had opened up showing the summit to be even further away than I’d originally thought.

My legs stopped turning of their own volition.

I sucked air for some time causing a concerned biker to stop and check on me.

"Are you OK?" he asked "Did you have a breakdown?"

"Nope, just can’t get up the hill." I told him.

He gave me an odd look, as well he might. Here I was astride a very expensive and well made mountain bike - a bike to make the most serious mountaineer drool. And yet I couldn’t make it up this beginner’s trail. What was up with that? Still, I’m plenty used to looking like an idiot so resisting the urge to invent a cover story about how I’m in rehab from some dramatic but crippling disease, I merely smiled weakly and watched him push on.

Once my breathing was back under control I made a half-hearted attempt to restart but it was obvious I wasn’t making it to the top today. Instead I contented myself with tootling around the base of the hill along with the kids on tricycles although even that had some challenging rises of 10 feet or more. Soon I was back at the car, munching on an energy bar and wishing I’d had the foresight to splatter my legs with mud so I’d blend in with the other hard cases standing around.

Still, I wasn’t beaten. This was an opportunity for a spot of character building and I vowed to return and tackle this hill again. I could come after work I reasoned, two or three times a week if necessary and push myself harder each time. If I could get a little bit further up the hill on every outing, I’d soon have it beat. Sure, it would be tough going but what a good exercise it would be. My leg muscles might be atrophied right now, but in time they’d develop and pretty soon I would laugh (ha, ha, ha, hah!) at such a trifling hill as this. You just watch. Why, I’ll start this very Tuesday!

Of course I didn’t. Two out of town conferences and a family visit to California got in the way, but I did make it back last Thursday for the rematch.

I’d eaten a solid breakfast of a bowl of oatmeal, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a banana. I had me headphones on with rock music a-blaring. I was wearing my favorite orange T-shirt and my lucky socks. Never mind this "a little bit further" crap; it was the top or nothing. I was invincible. This was to be my day.

Unfortunately, my legs didn’t get the memo.

"Sod off! Sod off! Sod off! We’re not doing this!" they yelled mutinously. Muscles I didn’t even know existed started to get into the act and my entire lower body was a riot of colorful pain. The PB&J started doing a polka with the oatmeal and banana and before long the bike too, started to rebel.

"Well if you’re not going to give me any support, I’m not going to do the work myself" it said and with a wobble, came to a halt. I doubt if I’d even made it half the distance I covered last time.

Oh the humiliation. At least there were fewer people to see me turn and head back down. But, once more I vowed to return and try again. And again, and again. And I’ll keep trying until I beat the bloody thing.

Perhaps if I wear my blue T-shirt…

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Motorcycle Diaries

"Do you have the brakes on?" I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the torrential rain.
"It doesn’t make any difference!" Michael shouted back. "Look, brakes on, brakes off!"

It was no surprise that the motorcycle’s brakes were ineffective. I harbored no doubts about their mechanical efficiency, you understand. It’s just that the tropical storm had turned the road surface into river of mud and rocks and whether the brakes were engaged or not, we were being swept down the hillside with only gravity as our guide.

The day had started off so well too.

Michael of "Oh Rats!" fame) and I were enjoying a few days R&R on an island in the middle of Indonesia’s Lake Taupo. At the time, I was recovering from a bout with a rather nasty intestinal parasite and while I won’t gross you out with the details, let’s just say I felt very homesick for western plumbing. Over the course of a week, I’d lost around 15 pounds from my already scrawny frame so wasn’t at my usual Olympian peak. However, a couple of days of sleeping, playing chess, reading, and enjoying the afternoon thunderstorms from the sanctuary of the palm frond roofed restaurant had done wonders for my constitution and I was now ready to get back out and explore.

Car ownership isn’t too common in rural Indonesia and motorcycles are far more ubiquitous. The law requires helmets to be worn by the driver but not passengers and it’s common to see a whole family on one bike; Dad piloting the craft with mum sitting sidesaddle behind; one or two kids behind her with baby lying on the gas tank holding the handlebars and sporting a huge grin. Many people, particularly the younger guys will offset the monthly payments by renting out their steeds to tourists like us.

Being a couple of manly biker outlaws we naturally planned to hire one each, but a late start to the day coupled with a leisurely breakfast meant that by the time we were ready to hit the highway, there was only one bike to be found. No matter, it was a new-ish looking machine and appeared powerful enough to handle us both. So, after a few minutes haggling, currency was exchanged and we wobbled off down the road, a latter day Hopper and Fonda in search of adventure. That came some 10 miles out when the back tire went flat.

The next town was some three miles away, which is quite a distance when you’re pushing a motorcycle. We took turns, but it wasn’t long before the ever present humidity had us sweating buckets and it was with some relief that we saw two guys in pick-up truck stop to offer us a ride. Except they weren’t offering, they were selling. For a sum equivalent to about a month’s wages for the average Indonesian and about 10 times the amount we were carrying. A full and frank exchange of views took place and we agreed on a more realistic sum. The four of us hoisted the bike into the bed and while Michael rode along (to make sure we saw the bike again), I completed the journey on foot. Even though the town consisted of about six buildings, one belonged to a mechanic who had the flat repaired by the time I arrived and we were soon back on the trail.

The next bit of fun came a few miles further when we came to a bridge. "Bridge" as in "two parallel lengths of wood about the width of railroad ties but three times as long, stretched across a ravine". Another reason not to own a car but as this was the only road around the island, we were going to have to cross it somehow. Fortunately, a group of young entrepreneurs sitting by the road had just the solution.

"We take you across, no problem!" they advised us, while quoting their price.

This was extortionate and as with the pick-up driver, I began some aggressive re-negotiation. While this was taking place, Michael took a few tentative steps out on the plank, before returning to suggest I reconsider their offer. Noticing for the first time just how narrow the wood was, and after checking out the drop below, I conceded he was right and with a sigh, handed over the cash. From the expression on the faces of our young friends, it was obvious this was how the procedure usually played out. I have to say though, any resentment I felt was quickly assuaged as I watched the skill with which this kid steered our bike over the chasm. I felt nervous simply walking over and am sure if I’d been attempting to push a motorcycle, a dunk in the river would have been inevitable.

The day was getting on and we were some distance from home when we first noticed the ominous thunder clouds which had been gathering to our rear. A soaking looked on the cards so we checked the map to determine our options. No shelter was apparent on this side of the island but a narrow line indicated a short cut we could take over the center and hopefully back to what passed for civilization by the time the storm hit. Of course, you know there’s no such thing as a short cut. The road we’d taken turned out to be a narrow, winding pass which took us up, up and further up into the clouds. We were just about at the summit when the rain began.

Growing up in the Northwest of England, I’m no stranger to rain but nothing truly prepares one for the force on an equatorial thunderstorm. In no time visibility was reduced to a few feet while the force of the deluge pushed our heads down into our t-shirts. There was nowhere to go but down although it was soon obvious Michael had very little control over the bike. Before long the road itself began to move beneath us and like any other piece of flotsam, we slid and slithered down the hillside. There comes a point where you simply can’t get any wetter and it was about that time we both began to giggle. Chuckles turned to laughter and soon we were hooting and roaring hysterically as we tumbled, bounced and fell in the slop.

Some time later we found ourselves a café and sloshed inside in search of a hot drink. There we sat and dripped mud onto the floor while a party of Dutch tourists looked down their noses in disgust.

I turned to Michael and remarked “Yep, now we know how the Hell’s Angels must feel.”