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More Musings
In Search of the Abominable Snow Trout February 1999 By: Jim Melton, MD
This is the story of five mad men and their keeper,
of lust (for trout), of love (for liquor), and of the best laid plans going
awry. It is a story of success and failure, joy and pain. In short,
this is an account of one of my typical winter overnights.
Actually, this trip wasn't completely typical, as
it involved horses and mules. These huge, hairy beasts belong in a zoo,
even a museum. My two previous experiences with these prehistoric monsters
proved that no human can ride them, as both times I fell off.
But Mike Fitzgerald is not as observant as I
am. He naively thinks that people CAN ride these things, and that they can
even be made to carry the gear. So he designed a horsepacking trip.
Fool that I am, I agreed to go along. Fortunately,
Mike is a true master of horses and mules and pack trips. When he's not
extorting the public with outrageous prices for his trees, he acts as the head
guide for elk hunting at one of those expensive Wyoming operations. He is
a truly professional outdoorsman. This is a good thing because, as you'll
see, we needed every bit of his skill and knowledge to survive. True,
various parts of each of us died, but we did all return home.
Mike had gathered around him a group of lunatics,
the only people he can attract. These included his son Rube
(unfortunately, a chip off the old block), Sam Brown (for comic relief), Zane
Jackson (a demented highway patrolman), Dr. Jim Richardson (who, while on
temporary release from Broughton, heads up Western Piedmont Community College),
and me, as their keeper. The plan involved going to
Big Creek, on the eastern edge of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.
We would pack in for six miles, set up a cozy camp, catch bunches of wild trout,
and loll about in the warm winter sun, lazily frying the trout to a crisp
over the cheery fire. That was the plan. And
then the blizzard came. Remember the sleet storm of early January, when
you couldn't drive your car for five days? When the temperature plummeted
to zero? Well, it was a lot worse in the Smokies, with eight inches of
sleet and temperatures well below zero. But that didn't stop us.
Why, I will never know. Perhaps the lawsuits evolving from the trip will
make this clearer. I don't have any horsepacking
equipment, so all Mike asked me to provide was a sleeping bag, personal fishing
gear, and the LIQUOR. I carefully packed up all these items in one neat
bag. I delivered it to Mike's house two days before the trip. I
haven't seen it since. That's right, my bag, arguably the most important
bag of the expedition, was left behind. So off we
went, trudging through the eight inches of icy sleet, for six tortuous miles,
along the banks of Big Creek. Thanks to my intimate relationship to the
saddle horn, I only fell off once. Of course, it took both Jim and Zane to
get me back on the nefarious monster that was trying to kill me. Mike said
he was giving me his most gentle horse, but I should have known something when
he told me the horse's name: Widowmaker. It was
while setting up camp that I first noticed that my gear bag was missing.
Think about it...no sleeping bag, no fishing equipment, no liquor. If ever
a man needed a drink, I was that man. Then the wind
started blowing, the snow intensified, the sun set, and it got really
cold. The only saving grace was Mike's wonderful supper, all cooked
on the camp fire, of steaks and beans, with a salad on the side.
Incredibly, he only offered two choices of salad dressings.
Then it was bedtime. While the others cuddled
up in their goose down bags, I layered myself under horse blankets. Guess
what they smelled like. But they were warm, and if you overlook the
incredible variety of body sounds from my tent mates, it was a comfortable
night. Dawn was a different story. Though it
was still well below zero, we decided to go fishing. That is Sam and Rube
went fishing. I had no gear. But I didn't miss much. They
would break through the ice and try to drift a nymph, and after several hours,
managed to catch three fish, none larger than five inches. So much for the
crisply fried trout. But again, the day was saved
by Mike's wonderful meals, including an elaborate breakfast and a lunch of the
best chili I've ever had. Mike claims that his wife, Paula, “helped a
little” with the chili, but I know better. Paula, when your court date
comes up, be assured that I will testify in your behalf.
Then it was time to break camp and head for the
barn; home never sounded so good. The only problem was that this meant I
had to unwrap myself from all those horse blankets and give them back to the
horses. But we made it. You know, the odd truth is that this was a wonderful trip. We had a lot of laughs, a pile of wonderful food, and a trove of memories. And I learned some things, too. Firstly, never cancel an outing because of the weather. You might miss a wonderful adventure. Secondly, don't ever trust Mike Fitzgerald with your liquor. And thirdly, I need a new set of friends. This bunch is too tough for me.
Jim Melton
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