thedrifter
09-10-08, 10:29 AM
The sweet, smell of freedom; why so gross is so good
Jeff Lund
Outdoors columnist
Clad in my bargain buy Cabela's camo, I headed east with my English department buddies Friday afternoon for a weekend of fly-fishing.
The two-day adventure doubled as a scouting trip for the upcoming deer season. My new seclusion wear enabled two deer to sneak up and startle me.
This happened both mornings, and though everyone knew the story I was compelled to re-tell it.
The fishing was a little slow. Most trout we caught were about the size of bait for halibut fishing, but if I was that big of a snob - and mere results meant that much to me - I'd have no business calling myself a fisherman.
The seven of us endured the heat and sat outside of our go-to burger place, because our post-camping fragrance was pretty foul.
You know the smell; it seeps through clothing, attaches to the breeze and becomes its own evil entity. It infiltrates not just the odor detecting organs, but the taste ones also.
It's four parts campfire, three parts dried sweat, two parts dirt, a pinch of trout slime, and varying intensities of left-out ground beef, even if you haven't eaten any.
We joked about the smell, but we were proud. Smells like that show you're alive, or at least, that you earned a shower.
Over the past couple years, I have become more attached to this odor.
My brother loves being outside, but he can't get out much, and it's not because he's married.
Seven years ago Thursday, my brother awoke to smoke rising from the Pentagon just a few miles from his George Washington University apartment. He went to the hospital to help.
Within three years, he was spending the first of his two half-year tours in Iraq. He spent the majority of his first tour stuck on base. Being an officer, and MD, he didn't get out much considering the volatile situation in and around Fallujah.
He treated Marines, and spent his down time lifting heavy equipment and running laps within the base walls to keep in shape.
His next deployment, he spent time in the homes of Iraqi's and visited marketplaces previously too dangerous for visitation.
While deployed, he and I talked like brothers. He asked what I was up to, and every time I told him I spent another weekend, or days off doing nothing, I felt guilty.
I knew my brother was focused on the task his country had for him, yet still would love to hear the simple sound of line stripped from a reel. If nothing else, I'm sure it would have been comforting to know his brother was at least enjoying the pleasures he was unable to.
Last June when he broke his wrist and was sent to Germany to have it re-built, the first two thoughts that twitched my heart were his future ability to shoot a jumper, and cast.
It was a horrible pair of thoughts ... a weak follow through and an awkward lure fling thanks to the metal and screws inhibiting the natural motions.
I decided to never complain of casters wrist again, and smell like fish as frequently as I could.
The worst part of this recent illumination is that it took guilt to motivate me to do something that I have always loved.
It's easy to cite logistics, a marquee college football matchup or work as reasons to defy the pull toward something that seems utopian on a Tuesday morning.
Thursday's anniversary should be enough to avoid such neglect of opportunities.
Who am I to stay clean and at home during a perfectly FREE weekend?
Ellie
Jeff Lund
Outdoors columnist
Clad in my bargain buy Cabela's camo, I headed east with my English department buddies Friday afternoon for a weekend of fly-fishing.
The two-day adventure doubled as a scouting trip for the upcoming deer season. My new seclusion wear enabled two deer to sneak up and startle me.
This happened both mornings, and though everyone knew the story I was compelled to re-tell it.
The fishing was a little slow. Most trout we caught were about the size of bait for halibut fishing, but if I was that big of a snob - and mere results meant that much to me - I'd have no business calling myself a fisherman.
The seven of us endured the heat and sat outside of our go-to burger place, because our post-camping fragrance was pretty foul.
You know the smell; it seeps through clothing, attaches to the breeze and becomes its own evil entity. It infiltrates not just the odor detecting organs, but the taste ones also.
It's four parts campfire, three parts dried sweat, two parts dirt, a pinch of trout slime, and varying intensities of left-out ground beef, even if you haven't eaten any.
We joked about the smell, but we were proud. Smells like that show you're alive, or at least, that you earned a shower.
Over the past couple years, I have become more attached to this odor.
My brother loves being outside, but he can't get out much, and it's not because he's married.
Seven years ago Thursday, my brother awoke to smoke rising from the Pentagon just a few miles from his George Washington University apartment. He went to the hospital to help.
Within three years, he was spending the first of his two half-year tours in Iraq. He spent the majority of his first tour stuck on base. Being an officer, and MD, he didn't get out much considering the volatile situation in and around Fallujah.
He treated Marines, and spent his down time lifting heavy equipment and running laps within the base walls to keep in shape.
His next deployment, he spent time in the homes of Iraqi's and visited marketplaces previously too dangerous for visitation.
While deployed, he and I talked like brothers. He asked what I was up to, and every time I told him I spent another weekend, or days off doing nothing, I felt guilty.
I knew my brother was focused on the task his country had for him, yet still would love to hear the simple sound of line stripped from a reel. If nothing else, I'm sure it would have been comforting to know his brother was at least enjoying the pleasures he was unable to.
Last June when he broke his wrist and was sent to Germany to have it re-built, the first two thoughts that twitched my heart were his future ability to shoot a jumper, and cast.
It was a horrible pair of thoughts ... a weak follow through and an awkward lure fling thanks to the metal and screws inhibiting the natural motions.
I decided to never complain of casters wrist again, and smell like fish as frequently as I could.
The worst part of this recent illumination is that it took guilt to motivate me to do something that I have always loved.
It's easy to cite logistics, a marquee college football matchup or work as reasons to defy the pull toward something that seems utopian on a Tuesday morning.
Thursday's anniversary should be enough to avoid such neglect of opportunities.
Who am I to stay clean and at home during a perfectly FREE weekend?
Ellie