Jeff, the hunting guide, and me.
Don’t get the wrong idea — I really do go out west to fish — but along the way, I make friends, sometimes for life. These meaningful connections outlast the memories of even the best day on the water. My best friends have a lot in common with me, such as Paul and Phelan, whom I met in Bristol Bay, Alaska, in the early 2000s. The conversation always starts the same: “How is the fishing?” But soon, it leads to something more — who we are, where we come from, and why we are there.
The lodge where I made camp and fished the Snake River in Idaho offered many opportunities to make “new-old” friends: Susan, the chef at the lodge, a single parent who gets up at 6:30 AM to watch the sun rise over the Tetons; the camp manager, Steve, who puts the coffee on before sunup; Jeff, the hunting guide, ex-military, who lives with his pointer Dixie in his camper while working the pheasant shoot for several weeks; the fishing guides, Colin and Jeff (a different Jeff), who row their way down river slowing against the current, allowing me to cast toward the shore. Doug, an 85-year-old fly tyer, has been fashioning flies for Orvis and Three Rivers Ranch for years. I feel a connection with all of these folks. I marvel at the chemistry — it is not about our backgrounds — none, like me, are from the East Coast; all are local. But we connect through nature and in our shared wonder at the mountains and the waters running through them, in the simplicity of life along the Snake, through the exchange of w/f/c stories (waiting, fishing, and finally catching), and in the excitement of engaging a wild fish — the tug and the fight to the boat. We all agree the food on the boat tastes best after a hard-fought catch. Being from New York, I find the silence after a rush of crashing water is like coming up to a quiet streetscape from the subway with all its noisy tunnel traffic.
Many moments stand out: feet fixed in the boat while twisting and turning to cast to shore without hooking the nymph fly on the anchor; the occasional eagle soaring above looking for a quick bite to eat. Splashing water over my head to cool down. Chapped lips from all the sun. With cells turned off, there are no disturbances from the modern world in the air. Total peace of mind with only your new-old friends talking throughout the day on the water. The next day, ex-military Jeff accompanied me for the pheasant hunt. Halfway through our trek, he looked back at me, struggling up an incline with my 20-gauge shotgun. “Lenny-can I carry that a bit?” he asked. Without hesitation, I handed my shotgun over to him. I felt a bit like Dixie, who had been flushing out the pheasants all morning. “Perhaps we should give her a rest,” I suggest. Jeff cuddles his dog with the fondness of a father. “She is fine,” he said. He is caring and respectful of his dog.
Back on the water, Jeff, the fishing guide, complains of a headache —probably too much sun. He has guided 80 times this year so far. Even for a 23-year-old, that’s a heavy load. I ask him to pull into a shady spot on the river so we can both cool down. New-old friends care about each other. On the last day, I wish Susan, the chef, and Steve, the manager, good health as I walk down the stairs of the lodge. “Take another cup of coffee for the road,” Susan gestures with a plastic cup.