Mud fish trucking

"Where's a good place?"

"Well," I think out loud. "Maybe we can go for trout."

"Yeah, but where to?" he persists.

I am thinking about a place I have heard of which is decent in the early season. I have never actually been there and so don't really know the way personally. Anyway, maps are cheap. Let's try.

"What about the lake they talked about at the last meeting in the rod & gun club?"

Howie gets cold feet. "Isn't that the one where the taxidermist flipped his Ford on the way in?"

Was it? I can't remember. "No, I don't think so. That was up north somewhere moose hunting." I am talking fast on my feet here, don't admit to seeing any obstacles. The trout is looking better all the time. I want to go catch some. Howie relents.

"Well, we can always turn back if it gets too rough."

Sure, sure. We make the arrangements. Eventually we are off.

High range

The map shows the way. It's not that far, really, but it is quite high up. Pretty soon we begin hitting the inclines. Time to get out and do the hubs. Lock 'em in good. We turn the hubs and check and double check. Yep, all locked in.

Still in high range, we amble on. It is a really nice day, sunny and warm. The windows are all rolled down and we can hear the tires crunch the gravel. Howie is feeling no pain. New truck!

"Great truck, eh?" he says, grinning from ear to ear.

"Yeah." I am just a little envious, but happy for him.

We still have a ways to go. The inclines are getting steeper and the road is deteriorating and switching back on itself a lot. It's been a while since they were logging back here and the road is starting to wash out.

Low range

We stop, get into low range and move on. The ruts make us concentrate more on the route. Howie is picking his way. Straddling here, going through it there. No problems, this is just fun. We enjoy the bouncy ride for awhile.

As we crest a small hill, we see that the road ahead is changing character. The cut is narrower and the embankments are crumbling. Howie is feeling cocky. "Nothing's gonna stop us now!" Gunning it, he moves us up the cut.

The first bend shows different picture still. The road looks a near complete washout, now. There are rocks and boulders strewn along with plenty of ruts, some of them several feet deep. Maybe the trout will have to pass.

"Want to go take look and walk through it?" I ask.

"Sure" he says, glad of the delay.

Things look a bit different up close. With experience one becomes bolder, of course. Still, with a new truck it is different. Before the first scratch is in. That kind if thing.

Old trucks

After a closer look we see there is a way. We move a few rocks aside and get back into the truck. We talk ourselves through it. Once or twice I am ordered out to check clearance over rocks or distance to ruts.

The road bed is dry and hard with good traction so far. If we fall into a rut, though, we'll be in trouble because we are not really prepared; no winch or come-along, no shovel or axe and no rope. Hm. Old trucks have more stuff.

Don't disturb the driver

The going is just tough enough to need real concentration, but no more. Howie is doing fine, even though his knuckles look a little pale on the wheel now and again. I rib him a little about owner-operators and suicide rides, but not too much. He gives me the finger.

"Wanna walk home, bud?" he asks with a meaningful look on his face.

Good point. I take it right away, smart guy that I am.

According to the map we must be getting close to the lake, just about now. I am beginning to pay closer attention to this part of the map. I see something that worries me. The last, rough going has been in a narrow cut with no place to turn. Up ahead the map shows the terrain to get steeper. A lot steeper. With a tight switch back. Just as I figure all this out, Howie spots the trouble.

"Whoa! Lookit!" he says, and stops the truck.

The real deal

I look where he is pointing. A real deucer. The road is making a sharp, steep left hand turn. The embankment has collapsed onto the road and the road itself has split right down the middle showing a jagged, big crack.

No rocks or boulders to speak of, though. But, man, we don't have a lot to work with here. Our only choice seems to be to get through it or face backing the truck for a couple of miles. What to do?

"Let's walk it," Howie says and climbs out. I follow.

"No matter what, we got to be pretty close to the lake. Let's find it and have lunch while we decide how to handle this," I say.

"OK," he agrees. I lead the way through the washout, cooler in hand. We don't get far. We forget about the lake almost right away and get totally preoccupied with the road problem. We test the road sides along the crack and measure axle widths and turning radiuses.

There is one serious show stopper half way up, but the rest is actually beginning to look doable. At least to me. But then again, it is not my truck. There is a difference, I know, but don't say it out loud. Why worry Howie unnecessarily?.

"Well, it's not your truck," Howie says, calling me on it. "There is a difference."

Since sneaky don't seem to work around here anymore, I change tactics. I put down the cooler and break out two beers. We sit down and have a gander letting the suds do their work. We sum up the situation.

What we have here is a rut wide enough to just fit a pair of tires on each side. On one side is a crumbled wall of dirt, on the other is a drop-off straight onto the road below.

The whole road is just kind of hanging off the mountain side. We figure next year it will be gone, for sure.

The real problem is a serious rock which, even if we could get the front wheel up it, would get the truck hung up on the rocker panels coming off it. On top of this, throw in steep. Steep enough to make us worry about basic traction.

The way out

"Just a minute," Howie says and gets up. He has seen something. "See here, the crack makes a slight turn. If I get my left front wheel up on the rock about here and turn left, the rock doesn't drop off as much. If we throw in a few rocks and some gravel in front, maybe I have enough clearance." He looks at me expectantly, willing me to approve.

"Maybe," I say, noncommittally.

I really want this to work, though. We get down to it and do some quick measurements and sightings. Throw in a few rocks, kick some gravel. Sight some more. Adjust a little. Pop another beer; this is hot, dusty work.

"Yeah, if you can get the wheel up, I think it could work," I say. All I see is his back, though. Howie is already moving towards the truck.

Small beginnings

I move down hill and sit in the crack. Howie lines up the truck and I step him through it inch by inch with hand signals. I move back up the ditch, but eventually have to get clear out as he nears the rock.

Howie is getting the hang of things and the last stretch to the rock is straight enough for him to manage on his own. He keeps moving, starts to slip, fiddles with the clutch and then stalls out when he runs up against the rock.

"What, you tired?" I quip.

"Watch this," he answers and makes walking movements with his fingers. Then he fires her up again. I make a suggestion.

"Ease back down gently and when you come forward, don't touch the clutch. Build a little speed ahead and juice her a touch just before you hit the rock and let the momentum carry you up and over."

"OK," he responds, "Watch my tires as I roll back".

Try, try again

We get him positioned. He has his tire tracks to guide him. We do a thumbs up to each other and he starts forward. Things are going fine. He is not gaining much speed on the gravel with this much incline, but he is getting there. We think. He makes it halfway up the rock and then stalls out.

Close, though. This will work. Thing is not to get too cocky as one of the rear tires was getting a little too close to the edge this time.

We set up again. Howie is really going for it this time. The tires kick up a lot of dust on start-up, but traction is holding just exactly enough. This time he climbs the rock like in slow motion.

Unknowingly, I hold my breath as I watch. The motor is giving off near stalling like sounds and I think "Don't touch the clutch". He doesn't and then he is on top.

He gives the wheel a yank and the truck and rocker panel goes left with a smidgen to spare over the rock. The rear wheel fairly bounces up and over and the truck stops. Howie hangs out the door.

"Piece of cake, eh. Are you coming or what?" he yells.

Grinning, I grab the cooler and catch up.

The rest is a breeze. In a minute we see the lake below us through the trees. Howie parks the truck in the shade and we grab the cooler and tackle. The hike down is easy and we set up on a nice sandy little beach.

My deal

Howie is only marginally interested in the fishing which was really more my idea in the first place. He is gabbing about the ride up. I gab along while setting up my little spinning rod.

I put a little Meps spinner-jobbie on the line, stick a sandwich in my mouth, shove a beer in my pocket and walk to the water. Howie pulls the cooler along and sits down on it so he won't have talk so loud to me. His concern is for his voice box, not for my fish.

I don't quite know what to expect from the fish here today. It is early in the year. We are not far from the snow line and it is in the middle of the day. But I don't care. I start casting while I munch my lunch and scan the water.

Howie gabs on. I cast some more. Then I move down the beach. Howie is annoyed. He has to move the cooler again. If I'm not going to catch any trout, would I mind not catching it in one spot?

There is no wind. The water is quiet. A whistler is fishing a ways down the lake. Other than that, nothing moves. Even Howie is softening his voice as he speaks.

Movements

I cast and make rings. Pretty. As I reel in, I sort of catch a movement just about when I spot the spinner through the water. It happens so quickly that I almost doubt if there was really anything there at all. But it makes me pay attention.

I cast again and try to remember how I worked the spinner. My eyes are on the water, mentally tracking the spinner down there. Then I spot the movement again. Something is definitely following the spinner. Now I am getting excited. Howie notices.

"What's happening? They biting, or what?" he asks, looking around.

"Almost," I answer and chuck the spinner back in.

Strike

I vary the speed a little and just when I am losing faith again thinking nothing will happen, I get a strike. I yank back to seat the hook and feel a quick, definite response although not a real big one. No lunker this, but what the heck. The rod is bending, the hands are shaking and my pulse is racing. All systems are go. This baby is coming ashore!

"You need a net?" Howie asks, looking around. "Where is your net? You forgot your net! Some fisherman you are." He' shaking his head.

"Don't worry," I say and swing my catch onto the beach right before his feet. We look down on a nice bouncing little pan size rainbow trout. I free the hook and go at it again. But there is no more action and I tire rather quickly in the hot sun.

Besides, Howie is carrying on about what a pity it is that we don't have anything to cook the fish in. Howie likes fish. So do I. I look at him. An idea has just come to me.

Beach side cooking

"Have you ever cooked fish in mud?" I ask.

"No," he says. "But I have read about it." I can tell this is intriguing him.

"How do you do that?" he wonders.

I start explaining as I move about looking for the right stuff. We need leaves and mud to wrap the fish. Leaves are easy. Mud we find by a little creek.

Then for some dry sticks for a fire. Plenty of those. For once it is a good thing Howie is a smoker. He always carries a lighter so fire starting won't be a problem.

Pretty quick we have a fire going by the water and I am wrapping up the fish. We let the fire burn a little to get going well. Then we put the fish in and build more fire on top of it.

The best thing is to wait for a good bed of hot glowing coals and bury the fish in that, but we are too impatient. Then we kick back, bullshit and mind the fire.

Slow good

"How long will it take," asks Hop. "I don't know", I answer truthfully. "It's just a small fish, so probably isn't very long."

I haven't done this before, either, and can't tell how hot the fire really is. I have cooked things in paper bags and plastic bags over an open fire, just to prove to myself that it can be done.

As long as the flames don't get above the water line, you'll be fine. But mud like this, no. In the end, we give it exactly as long as our patience can stand. Then we break out the fish.

And it is not bad. Could have done with a little salt and pepper. But hey, close enough. Complainers walk home. We're driving and licking our fingers all the way!

An old devil

Howie is feeling pretty good and breaks out his smokes.

"Here have a ziggy", he says, offering me one.

I gave up the damn things years ago, but as the air is thick with camaraderie that day, I take one sort of not to break the mood. We light up and bullshit some more.

I taste the smoke and play with it. Mostly it just burns up in my hand. I feel no loss and no longing, I am done with smoking forever. The realisation feels good.

Sic Transit Gloria Mud Fish

Lazily we look around. The sun has moved around the sky some, by now. We slowly get off the ground and start moving collecting gear. We douse the fire, do a once around for trash and stuff and head back towards the truck. When we get there, Howie pats the roof.

"Good truck", he says.

"Yeah," I say and dump the cooler in the back. "Perfect for when I wanna go trucking for mud fish. I'll take you anytime."

"OK, great."

Sure. We make a deal and keep it, too. But somehow we never catch any more true mud fish. I get to thinking maybe it takes a new truck.

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