The main problem with democracy is that crowd-pleasers are generally brainless swine who can go out on a stage and whup their supporters into an orgiastic frenzy — then go back to the office and sell every one of the poor (expletive deleted) down the tube for a nickel apiece.
— Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
Though sometimes she may get angry
Break a dish, shake a tree, crack the road
It’s a small price to pay for heaven on Earth
San Andreas
San Andreas Fault Line
— Sugar Cane Jane from “San Andreas”
Just a quick public service announcement before we get into the column proper. Vote, people. VOTE. The soul of American democracy is at stake. This is not gonzo hyperbole like I’ve been known to employ, I’m deadly serious. I’m going to remind you every week until the election .
Unless that is, you were planning on voting for one of our nation’s growing crop of fascists. If you think that could happen, we’d all be grateful if you’d stay home watching “Naked and Afraid” or attending a monster truck rally.
Thus endeth the lesson.
The good doctor’s words that open my screed today, reflect my opinion of the criminally insane Donald John Trump and his poor deluded base. On the other hand, I’ve also opened with lyrics from a Sugarcane Jane song, because I just discovered them yesterday and I was reminded that Debbie and I lived on a ranch exactly 65 miles from and the next county east of San Andreas, an historic village settled by Mexican gold miners in 1848.
Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco but a big piece of mine lingers in Tuolumne County.
The tie-in, people, is that the morality tale I’m about to narrate, takes place in Northern California, so northernly in fact, that it’s partly Oregon.
It pains me to admit that although I’ve spent large portions of my life in Michigan (like now) and that I’ve fished for trout since I toddled, I’ve only gone after big Steelhead twice, once, here on the Manistee and once, on the mighty Rogue where this tale takes place.
Located in southwestern Oregon and extending into California, the Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest ranges from the crest of the Cascades Range, west into the Siskiyou Mountains, and includes southern portions of the Coastal Range, extending nearly to the Pacific Ocean. The legendary Rogue River has an extensive history, and is well-known for its nationally-recognized steelhead and salmon fishing.
I’d done a lot of fly fishing in California, mostly on the North Fork of the Tuolumne River, which ran in the steep canyon below our ranch and occasionally in its tributary, the Clavey and always on light tackle
One day in early spring, I received a call from my friend, Lowell. Lowell had hooked up (no pun intended) with a four-man float trip way up north on the Rogue, the intention being to haul in some very large steelhead. The participants were two brothers, friends of his I didn’t know, the siblings’ father and Lowell.
It was explained to me that the patriarch had taken ill and they wanted me to fill out the foursome and, of course, cover a quarter of the expenses.
“All I have are a couple light fly rods,” I told Lowell.
“Not a problem,” he explained, “All the gear will be provided by the guides. We’re doing two nights in a very cool lodge and one day on the river.”
“Count me in,” I replied.
Morrison’s Rogue Wilderness Adventures turned out to be a top-notch fishing resort with low-key cottages and rooms plus a pool, putting green and posh restaurant.
The brothers had done this trip before and had engaged the same guide they’d had the last time. As it turned out, their guide had done something that required he take his wife to Hawaii.
The brothers were not happy. There were two substitute guides, one for each of our two boats. The brothers grudgingly chose the one who didn’t have waist-length hair. He’d be Lowell’s and mine.
Our guide appeared at our cottage door that evening.
“Do you boys want to eat breakfast tomorrow morning . . . or fish?”
“FISH!” we answered in unison.
CONTINUED
And so it went.
Don Negus writes a weekly column for the Morning Sun.
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