Bunny and the Fishermen
As maiden voyages go, Bunny’s first camping trip was a good one. My close friend and old adventure pal Jess came to visit, hungry for adventure and a break from the bone-soaking grey sog inherent to Seattle, where he and his family live. The contrast between Vashon Island, Washington and Cerro, New Mexico is stark: our decay in the Southwest is of the bleached-out, wind-whipped and collapsed variety where theirs is overgrown, fungal and aqueous.
We steered north from Albuquerque, intentionally zagging and zigging through the scenery. Algodones to Golden, Madrid to Santa Fe then onto the High Road to Taos via Pojaque and Truchas, exercising Bunny’s newly broken-in Cummins, flexing her power band and torqueing our way up the myriad grades of the Enchanted Circle. Taos Mesa Brewing Company for lunch and serenaded by the most devoutly sincere acoustic guitarist in my memory — a beautiful woman, singing of human harmony and understanding, Jess and I became increasingly bemused with her message and later agreed that her aura emitted strong vibes that cautioned us: Here Be Crazy. Chuckling about her, we strained to follow the loogies we launched as they fell away, hundreds of feet off the Rio Grande Gorge bridge, an impressive chasm we’d soon climb down. 8 year olds, Dude. Put men on anything on top of any span, any tall structure, and we’re forever 8 years old, spitting and daring each other to see who can pee the furthest.
Up into the Rio Grande Del Norte Wild and Scenic Rivers section we clattered, and to absolutely no surprise whatsoever, we found ourselves comprehensively alone atop the vast plateau, marveling at the determination with which the Red and the Rio cut through all those eons of geology. The long goodbye of what truly ought to be described as a marginal sunset — we get so many psychedelic ones that a bluebird day’s sunset feels like a letdown — yielded to a properly cold night, forecast to be just below zero. Jess constructed a roaring campfire while I strung up fly rods and tied on my best guess at what all those trout would want for tomorrow’s breakfast, and we were treated to a moonless night’s stars in the high desert, hundreds of miles from any light pollution and under crystal clear atmospheric conditions. First Sirius, then Taurus and Orion popped into view and an old tradition — the origins of which I had forgotten — returned. Looking overhead, Jess observed, “Oh, the Pleiades…”
“The Seven Sisters,” I returned quietly.
Quieter yet, Jess said “Subaru!” and we both had a chuckle. Since college, I guess, when I was first stretching my adventure legs and exploring Montana with Jess, every time I see the Pleiades, that little cluster that’s so identifiable, that’s how the vocalization goes: “Pleiades! Seven Sisters! Subaru!” Funny how old habits become so ingrained, their genesis long-forgotten. I’d been missing my friend, and in that moment it occurred to me that he’s one of those rare people with whom the passage of years does nothing to alter the course of our relationship. We hadn’t adventured together in more than 10 years, the births of his children and the divergent courses of our lives separating us, but just like the spring-fed Red River, it’s been there all the time, just buried deep and waiting to surface when the moment’s right.
Nestled incredibly comfortably in the warmth of a rooftop tent, zero degree bags, down comforters and sack cloths, we drifted to sleep to the sound of coyotes yowling and woke to an owl hooting, pink stripes lit up in the sunrise over the top of Bull Mountain and the high country above Taos. My nerve-damaged right hand tingling angrily in the cold, we made thick coffee, geared up and walked stiffly to the trailhead, then switchbacked our way off the mesa down to the junction of the Rio and the Red, me frothing like an overstimulated grom at the prospect of tying into a 20-inch trout. Jess takes his time in the woods, observing and marveling everywhere, and the Rio Grande canyon inspires even more of that. I tried to remind myself that part of my role that day was to guide him, to reacquaint him with fly-fishing technique and then I remembered just how dumbstruck I was my first time in this canyon. That day being both a Sunday and Super Bowl Sunday at to boot, I welcomed him to the only church I feel has any true meaning and we both smirked, feeling smug that we’d opted out of the crass, bloated and most sacrosanct of American high holidays. New Mexico is Bronco country, and we knew we’d be the only humans in that canyon that day. And we were right.
We baptized ourselves by dunking our heads in the Rio Grande, our way of giving thanks to the greater and lesser river spirits. I let out a whoop after scrubbing my fledgling beard in those continental waters and became increasingly impatient with Jess’ marveling at the Place-ness of it all. Let’s go fishing!
Our day in the river was tough, but productive. Fishing, not catching, as the trope goes. I’ve developed skill and technique over the years with fly-fishing, and not without a little ego. I’m good at it — not great at it yet — and every single day on the water reminds me to stay humble, always be willing to listen to what the river and the wind and the bugs and the trees are telling me. Unafraid to change flies repeatedly, searching the pockets, pools, riffles and swirls, up and down the water column, streamers and nymphs and jigs and dries, I had a two-fish day, but another great old tradition was re-established: we each woohoo’ed loudly when we hooked into fish, to spur a little jealousy and engage in friendly competition. The baseline of a productive day on the river can be discerned by a casual sniffing of one’s palm; if it smells fishy at the end of the day, there’s only one explanation. No faking that smell.
Hiking up and out, we watched the sun light up the western flanks of the range beyond the canyon rim, and having got firmly sucked into “one more cast” mode, we left it a little late, gaining our camp after the sun had set. Beers polishing any rough spots off our moods, then whiskey and burgers warming us, we built a fire and settled in to mindlessly lose ourselves in the Milky Way. And again: “Pleiades! Seven Sisters! Subaru!”
Monday dawned warmer, we grumbled like old men (that we’re becoming) climbing into our stiffly-frozen waders and boots, decided on a more upper stretch of river for the day, and hiked down a snow-covered trail to the river bottom. Given the recent clear weather, I started to froth anew when it occurred to me we were hiking through days-old fresh snow, and no boot prints had come before us. We’d be all alone in well-rested water. Things were looking up. Coming to a relatively flat stretch of river, we looked greedily into the riffles, knowing that the day’s fishing had serious potential.
Again I slipped into my searching and experimenting routine: just a streamer? Blue wing olives? A hopper-dropper? I struck it right eventually: a rubber legged stimulator up top, pheasant-tail nymph below, and had a very satisfactory moment. Watching Jess struggle a little in one spot, I offered to demonstrate in the hole he’d picked out, and when he graciously stepped aside, I coaxed a nice little brown out of its cranny on the first cast, tight-lining the dry around the edges of the swirl. Few things are as satisfying as paying off a “here, watch this…” with a fish to hand. When there’s an audience, your fish tales become codified as reality. When it’s on the first cast, well shit, that’s fishing nirvana.
I’ve reached the point in my skill level with fishing that it’s equally satisfying to instruct someone into catching as it is to catch them myself, so I was proudly aware when Jess started tight-lining skillfully and the woohoos spilled out of him frequently as we burned through the sweet stretch of the day. Time is most certainly relative, never more so than the fishing’s good and suddenly you’re cognizant of the lowering angle of the sun and the chill in the air. Facing another long hike up and out, we high-fived, satisfied with ourselves, and made camp in time to watch what I can objectively say was a 6.3 out of 10 for a sunset.
We drove south the next day, in time to watch the incredible wintertime landscape wake up and thaw out, and stopped for one of the more delectable baked goods in recent memory at a locals’ spot in Taos. Attractive, crunchy, enthusiastic baristas serving us seasonal danishes and something called a bittersweet mocha and the buzz of a really fun adventure compensated for the slight dread that I always feel lurking over the horizon when coming off a camping trip. Through the piñon haze hanging over Taos we followed the warmth toward Albuquerque, Jess gawking at how big the Rio gets through Pilar, en route home having written another chapter together.
I’m glad for my friend’s presence in my life, am now plotting a Northwestern trip heavy on salmon and surfing, and guessing that I’ll be just as dumbstruck by the old growth in the Olympics as he was in our ancient, rocky canyon.
