I have this camp way up in the forests of northern Pennsylvania. My Grandpap and some of his cousins bought it in 1929. Even by today’s standards, it remains half way from nowhere.
It was a deer camp way back when, but now I mostly fly-fish the creeks and rivers.
From as early as I could remember, beer and bourbon have been a tradition. I’ve also seen pictures that bear testament that this tradition is way older than me. For years, I had done my level best to maintain that tradition; I always had beer and bourbon in camp, but that changed one spring day. . .
I got into Camp late Friday with the plan of fly-fishing sunrise to sunset on Saturday. I brought all of my gear in. I had a bourbon with a beer chaser. Then, I sipped on another beer after a second bourbon. Then, another round or two later, Greg finally arrives. Then, we’re each having bourbons followed by beers.
At one point, I got my beers and bourbons out of sync (uh, see, there’s the unwritten Camp rule that beers and bourbons have to be 1 to 1, because if they get out of sync the world may stop rotating on its axis.
So, I tried to remember whether the bourbon or the beer was behind. So, I chose one. Then, I had second thoughts and tried to even up the other side.
Anyway, about 2:30 AM, I peed off of the balcony fell into bed.
The alarm goes off at 5 AM. I swing my feet over the side of the bed. I realize that I have a dull ache behind my eyes and hat I have a case of cotton mouth so bad that I’m unable to talk or swallow.,
My sorry ass dragged itself to the kitchen. I chugged water, took an aspirin, and headed out to the streams.
Over the years, I’ve (regretfully) became used to fly-fishing with a mild hangover. But this wasn’t a mild hangover. It was the grand-pappy of hangovers.
I got my split shots set and my drifts were fine – even though the sun had closed my eyes to squinted slits. About 10:30 I figured I could use a break. I waded to the side of the stream and sat down on the raised bank. The water was flowing around my feet.
The next thing I know, I can hear a strange man yelling from the distance. I begin to realize that my feet are still in the water, but the rest of me is laying flat on my back on the bank. My sorry ass had fell asleep. I jolted awake when I realized that some animal was licking my face.
That strange animal turned out to be a Golden Retriever. The man yelling from the distance was the owner of the dog.
The Man said, “I’m just happy you’re not dead”.
I said, “Uh, yeah. I am too”.
Greg, who had been fishing a ways up stream comes walking back and said, “What was all the screaming about?”
I thought to myself, “I don’t recall screaming”.
I said, “I didn’t hear anything”.
Anyway, that’s why I don’t bring bourbon to camp anymore, but I do worry about the Earth not spinning on it axis.