“Hell Yes”

“I will think of these extinct moments in time and wonder if I would trade every dollar I saved for just one more morning like this.”

The power was out on the east end of the yard again. About thirty or so times a winter something in the on-site grid would shit the bed and for all their huffing and puffing, the damned electricians couldn’t figure out what was causing it. They had long since given up trying to solve the root problem and instead had resorted to just resetting the system whenever it was needed. The truly witless part about it was that it wasn’t like flipping a breaker in your home. It was a bit more complex than that, being governed by an automated system which took anywhere from a half of an hour, up to two hours to reset some days. The obvious consequence being that there were no lights, whatsoever, in the bath house until it was “fixed”… if that’s what you want to call it. In reality, that’s what I’ve come to call a “mine repair.” It doesn’t have to work forever. Hell, it doesn’t even have to work correctly. It just has to simulate the results of it working from right now onto 10 minutes from now, when the boss’s exponentially short lived attention span is diverted by a squirrel or someone forgetting to chock the wheels after dismounting from a pickup. Knowing the inconvenience we would be walking into at the end of our shift, the lighthearted approach you learn to take towards the perpetually inconvenient misfortunes associated with working in a mine set upon the crew even before we made the trek over from the main shop. This phenomena is often referenced by the workforce with the common phrase you mention in passing; “if ya don’t laugh, you’ll cry.” 

It was about 15 minutes before the end of our 5 night hitch and everyone was excited to be gone, on “days off.” As we set into the cavernous darkness we could immediately hear the shower running, a familiar indication that Righty had checked out about 20 minutes early, as he was known to do when the conditions were right to get away with it. The seasoned electrician was an ornery, old bird. We called him “Righty” because he was missing his left eye; a poorly made prosthetic lingering crooked in its place. There was something particularly entertaining about the way Moser and Winters, two younger “green” electricians, made sport out of antagonizing him. Making our way from the dark hallway and dispersing into the even darker locker room, Moser made considerable effort to speak loud enough so that Righty could hear him over the cascading orchestra of the dilapidated shower system.

“Jesus Christ, Ole’ Righty must have wired up this side of the building.”

“Yea,” chastised Winters, “he must have been using his good eye to lead the office gals walking through that day.”

It was obvious they were trying to get one last, good rise out of the senior “sparky” before the weekend started and we all dispersed in separate directions. “Sparky” is what the workforce called their electricians. Like everyone else, they adopted a slang title and assimilated into the vernacular. Mechanics were referred to as “wrenches”. General laborers were “helpers”. Lube technicians were called “greasers” and, if you really want to get under the skin of a welder, call for a “grinder” over the radio next time you need them to come stick metal together for you. Anyone with any type of authority was a “boss” (at least to their face) and anyone, male or female, who worked in administration or human resources, was called an “office girl.” As I turned the corner to the row of lockers I reside in, I heard Righty’s response to the two hecklers outside his shower

“Hey! Why don’t you two little shits come in here and hold this flashlight for me.” It was hard to even feign taking him seriously while he was stark naked and shouting at two dudes half his age from inside a dingy, unsanitary shower.

“What?” Moser quipped, “We don’t have enough to laugh at out here in the dark?”

Winters let out the very beginning of what would have been a horrendously loud roar of laughter but was interrupted abruptly by the crude sound of a fast traveling bar of soap beaming him right between his eyes. He fell backwards and crashed to the floor while Righty let out a low, indignant “Cocksuckers,” from under the water as he went back to cleaning himself. With this profound experience now registered in the portion of our brains responsible for harboring memories we all learned in that moment that Righty, even in his old age, hadn’t outlived his post near the top of the social-dominance hierarchy there at the coal mine. 

Moser chuckled as he stepped over Winters and shuffled off to his own locker. I don’t know how long Winters laid there on the bath house floor. I wasn’t about to concern myself with the toll he had paid to the piper. I stepped over him along with half of our crew as we cautiously made our way through the dark, out to the parking lot. The dawn’s light was just barely beginning to crest the eastern horizon and I had to be quick if I was going to make it up river in time to catch that morning bite.

The resemblance of the tires mounted to the stock rims of my haggard pickup to balloons is truly uncanny. The big mud terrains look silly as they fill the entire wheel-well with black rubber. The three inch lift keeps them off the inner fenders but, it would be hard to assume it just by glancing at them in a parking lot. You won’t hurt my feelings by pointing this out though. I’ll be the first to tell you that the silver colored machine looks like whatever the opposite of a T-Rex would be, these gigantic balloon tires resembling larger arms attached to a sizeably underrated body. Though, for how silly the 4-door pickup looks, I was grateful for it that morning. The two-track heading in was an absolute nightmare. I broke contact with sanity for a short while as the 4-wheel drive cut ruts into the road for 1500 yards before finally grabbing a decently hard surface to crawl on. I made my way through the elements until I had slid into a corner nook where a small tributary confluence widens the main river channel. It’s because I love this river so much and value the associated solitude I find on it that I’ll leave all but those few details to your imagination.

When I arrived, the darkness of winter was still holding tight to the morning hour. I donned my wading gear, a few Hot-Hands, and a hoodie. Slowly and precisely, I made my wade into the pool. Beyond the ridgeline, a reminiscent glow indicated light was beginning to break over the huge Wyoming sky. My fingers began to feel the bite of the icy water carried through the obstructed guides as I stripped the working line back off the river seams and loaded my Five Weight against the breezy, thermal fog while it pushed the cold, still air up river. A sense of anticipation began to stir in my gut. An excited dance derived from deep in my stiff muscles as the thought of our sun, as glorious as it is in its main sequence, would soon be making its presence known to all; fish and critter alike. That anticipation, I thought at that moment felt… special. It felt unique, like it carried a specifically indiscernible value that, then and there I couldn’t explain. 

This thought was interrupted to my abrupt satisfaction. To the avail of my frozen bones, the sun had finally risen. It wasn’t only signified by the harsh glare refracting off the sedimentary opulent, glass surface but also, my guides had started to thaw. Mending the swing became easier with every cast, as the blocks of ice that once hindered the tail end of my line belly from traveling through each eyelet broke free and dropped into the wade. The sub surface warmed just a fraction of a degree and suddenly, without prejudice or assimilation, the glass shattered in every direction. It was as if the beaming star on the eastern horizon had brought these deep tailings to a boil and the once calm top water had vanished. Now, all around me, carnivorous cross-breeds were rising to dead drifting Chironomidae and unsuspecting subsurface transients. For twenty minutes, or maybe even less, the feed was on hard and I was excited to be there. Mornings like those are unpredictable and therefore even more precious. I have yet to find a forecast useful or an “anglers almanac” to be trustworthy. I have found that the only way to catch these short lived events with any type of consistency is to be there as often as possible. You never know when the next huge take will be. Many days are a bust but… every once in a while the conditions are just right and the mob wrath of these winter fish is unforgiving. As I picked large, veracious dinosaurs from out of the pool in sequential fashion, I remember formulating these thoughts.

Thoughts about value, and how I perceive it. Value, as a particular construct to our species, is hard to not only predict but to sustain. The things in our life that we attach value to are usually categorized in by market points. In one column of thought we elevate things that hold value to ourselves and in another column we elevate things that hold value to the world. For instance; imagine for a moment a trinket. Say, a 24K gold chain, linked harmoniously to form the anchor where a beautifully vibrant diamond is bezel set within a golden band, cameo formed to resemble elaborate angels wings. Just picturing it in my head has encouraged a fluttering of my heart. Now that you’ve got this imaginary piece of tangible art in your metaphorical palms, as you gaze upon its wonder and miraculousness I must ask: how did you come to pair with such an extraordinary keepsake? 

Did you purchase it from a jeweler? If so, its value is simple and easy to discern. The spot price of Gold plus the market value of the diamond, determined by its 4-C rating, and a small retention. Unfortunately, that value is slave to the merchant and the market. The diamond’s value is particularly manipulated by a demand that is predicated on falsities in regard to supply. As for the gold, its value waves like a tide, the ever inflating United States Dollar being the moon which dictates its float. At the time of this writing, it is sitting around $1800 an ounce. So you see? The world has already determined the value of that object. Today it is worth much more to the market than it was yesterday. That upward trend may continue, as current evidence would dictate however, that value could plummet tomorrow. The articulation points by which we grade world currencies could return to a shift in America’s favor and the value of tangible goods will return to their comfortable “fiscal-year-2019” position.

Then again, maybe you didn’t purchase that keepsake at all. Maybe it was the final gesture of love from a dying mother, as she placed it in your palm before exhausting the culminating breath which concluded her timeline. In this case, could something as inconsequential and irrelevant as a trade market ever truly operate in a space in which the value of that trinket could be standardized? Doubtful. The value of that trinket, in the eyes of the merchant, remains the same. However, to you, the value of it is indeterminable. You can’t even fathom a dollar amount to represent it accordingly.  

So then, there are things of value in this world which cannot be determined by systematic protocol, we might agree. My example above is related to a physical material but, could we not find that same nuance in those perfect, western mornings? For me, I would have to argue so. From the standpoint of the economist or accountant, my time’s worth plus the cost of fuel, plus a predetermined value for mileage, plus a predetermined value for materials and, boom! You’ve got a dollar amount fixed to the value of my adventure. 

Go ahead, though. Give me that dollar amount and ask me if I’d pay it again. You’ll find I would respond fervently with, “hell yes.” So then, to play merchant, ask me if I would pay more. The answer would be synonymous with the first. Ask me if I would pay double that. Triple that.  

The fact is that one day I will look back on a lifetime of mornings like these while I sit on an equally long lifetime of earnings. My broken, titanium impregnated bones will have outlived their OHSU certified life expectancy and my ability to wade will be as vintage as the method in which I earned my wealth. The world will be different and opportunities for amazing days on the water will be as equally vintage as the example just given. The world will be smaller, much less wild and old men like me will reminisce about the great days when we could leave the mine two hours before day-break and set our souls right in a truly natural fashion. I will think of these extinct moments in time and wonder if I would trade every dollar I saved for just one more morning like this. 

“Hell yes.”

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story and all the content associated with it. As an avid sportsman, I hope that this tale inspires you to get outside to enjoy the wild with the ones you love most. I write these stories as a supplement to my lifestyle as a sportsman and guide, and with them comes a certain accountability. The details of my stories are purely based on my recollection alone and in no particular way do they reflect a chronologically factual, indisputable timeline of events. They are in no way intended for official use or as a reference for official purposes. These are simply tall tales meant to entertain the tired mind; best served with a clear evening, a warm fire and, a strong whiskey.

All the photos and content featured in my tall tales are my own, unless expressly cited otherwise, and the unauthorized use or reproduction of them is strictly prohibited. 

That’s all for now, my friends. If you enjoyed this content and would like to see more like it, I can be found on Instagram by searching “Authentically Wild Out West” and on YouTube by searching the same phrase. Until the next campfire, stay safe out there and look after each other.

On another quick note: I’ve launched a new publication on Substack, specifically to showcase my serialized fiction and poetry! 

I hope you’ll join me there! Follow THIS LINK to have a look. 

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