The Horse in My Garage and Other Stories (11 page)

The beaver-hole drop can be one of the most exciting of angling events, particularly to observers and any beavers in the area. Usually, the event takes the angler completely by surprise. There are two kinds of beaver-hole drops, the one-legger and the two-legger. The two-legger is rather neat and might be graded on style alone, depending on the vocalization of the droppee. The one-legger is by far the most difficult. One leg is inserted up to the confluence of the body, while the other leg runs around on the surface. The expression of concern on the droppee's face can be amusing to the observer, but there is a serious side to the one-legger, depending on whether the beaver is home at the bottom of the hole.

A couple of years ago, I participated in the fisherman's version of the decathlon, including the dash, low and high hurdles, and a concluding broad jump to the finish line or, two be more precise, the door of my car. It's tough holding the lead over a swarm of yellow jackets, but I managed to come in first in a field of 500. There was at least one cheater in the event, a small but cheeky fellow who apparently hitchhiked on my hat. I rewarded his ingenuity with a swat from a rolled-up newspaper. He made the front page, but I didn't even get a mention in the sports section.

The McManus Principles

I

' m often accused of being without principle, but that accusation is unfounded. Not only do I have numerous principles, but I have devoted a considerable amount of time to the perfection of each. Consider, for example, my application of one such principle to a particularly exasperating situation.

My friend Rupert and I were fishing Deep Creek, a very slippery stream, when a large trout rose next to the far bank and made a tentative pass at my fly. He had shown a good deal of enthusiasm in the attempt, and I was sure he would make another try in a matter of seconds. At that very moment, Rupert, having detected the trout himself, pushed past me and was just about to cast when he slipped and went down with a crash and a loud yelp, the yelp apparently the result of his tailbone connecting with a rock. Even though the yelp was made underwater and was somewhat difficult to decipher, I assumed it was some complaint about his tailbone. It later turned out that the bone was not broken or injured in any way, but you would not have known so from the expression on Rupert's face as he stared up at me from beneath the water. He showed not the slightest concern that he might have frightened off my fish. Even though I was certain the monster trout had fled downstream, I made a couple of futile casts over the top of Rupert, ignoring his expression of accusation, distorted somewhat by the depth of water. You would think his slip had been my fault!

The McManus Principle, now in play, raised the question of whether I should immediately criticize Rupert for frightening off my fish or wait until he emerged from his watery retreat. In any case, when he at last resurfaced his whole concern was for his tailbone. I have a tailbone myself, but it has never been of much service to me, and even if it were the finest tailbone in the whole world, I would never have carried on like Rupert. He apparently prized his a great deal and went on and on about it, but at such a high pitch I couldn't detect any particular details about its grandeur.

Being a person of principle, I did not utter even a small criticism of his outburst nor of the fact that he had frightened off the largest trout I had ever seen in Deep Creek. Some people are simply insensitive to the misfortunes of others, and it does no good to recite principles to them. In this case, the McManus Principle is: Never immediately criticize a person whose clumsiness possibly caused you to lose a monster trout because you might seem overly cross at that moment. Simply cast over the top of him, just in case another huge trout might be against the far bank. Remember, always save your criticism of the villain until later, when you will be much less irritated.

Modesty is yet another of my principles. I make a point of concealing my various talents from those persons accompanying me on various sporting ventures. For example, I deliberately miss easy shots, simply to make my companions feel better about their own inept marksmanship. As a result, I am often invited to accompany other sportsmen on adventures all over the world, with the possible exception of lion hunting.

People whose primary exercise consists of making money often have avoided more athletic pursuits, and, therefore cannot be expected to have acquired the skills I myself possess. So I go to great trouble to appear inept while I am in their company. Indeed, if you happen to run into any of my regular companions, they may very well mention how I am constantly borrowing tackle from them on fishing trips, because I have forgotten certain items of mine—a fishing rod for example. Indeed, they may display some glee in reciting my misadventures, completely unaware that those misadventures were deliberate on my part, simply to make my companions feel better about their own ineptness.

My athletic prowess may not weigh heavily on the minds of potential world champions, but that is because they have never heard of me or it. Once word gets out, though, they won't sleep nights for worry.

I am that rarity in the world of sport—the secret athlete. Even my family and friends don't suspect they live in close proximity to the unofficial world-record-holder in more track-and-field events than they have ever heard of. They think all I do is fish, a sport popularly regarded as mild therapy for outpatients from the geriatric ward.

Most of my acquaintances are under the impression that I would get shin splints from a fast game of Monopoly. I'm said to get short of breath ascending a bar stool. People joke that my only form of exercise is elbow-bending. (Seriously, though, you never know when you might break a leg and have to crawl out of the wilderness on your elbows.)

The reason for these false impressions about my fitness is the clever disguise I've perfected over a number of decades, essentially the appearance of a gray-haired, middle-aged guy shaped like a yam. But as I recently revealed to my wife, Bun, beneath the flab hides the rock-hard body of a world class athlete.

“
Whose
?” she exclaimed.

I mention Bun's pitiful attempt at sarcastic wit only as an indication of my superb disguise. “Why, it may be asked, do I hide my sleek, rippling physique from the eyes of the world?” Quite simply, it is to avoid the attention of wild, wanton, beautiful women and their come-hither looks, not to mention the endless pestering of male fashion magazines for me to act as a model of their latest fashions. It would all be so very boring, compared to my real-life adventures.

At the moment, I can't think of my many other principles, but will certainly write them down when they come to mind.

Basic Lying Made Easy

B

ert Tipple, a local scientist, told me the other day that a recent study of his showed that the average outdoors-man actually takes more time and care in selecting his spouse than he does in selecting his hunting companions. I was shocked.

“That's hard to believe,” I said. “Most potential wives don't even come armed.”

“It's true, though,” Tipple said. “A man is just going to be more careful in his selection of the person he is going to share most of his life with.”

“That's my point exactly. So how come you figure he selects his wife with more care than he does his fishing and hunting pals?”

When I got home, I told my wife about the results of Tipple's research. She laughed herself sick. “I can't believe it,” she said, wiping away tears of mirth. “And Bert calls himself a scientist. Someone must have pulled the plug on his computer.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You know how much time I spend checking out prospective hunting and fishing companions. A person can't be too careful about a serious matter like that. Make one little mistake, and you can end up with a real dud.”

“You're telling me!” Bun said.

One of the qualities I treasure in Bun is that she's so agreeable.

“Come to think of it,” I mused. “I guess I've made my share of mistakes in picking hunting and fishing companions. Boy, some of them were real doozies.”

“Which reminds me,” Bun said, “your old buddy Retch Sweeney called this afternoon.”

“Oh, yeah? What did he want?”

“He said he wanted to remind you about the fishing trip, and that when you come to pick him up to bring an extra fly rod and waders, the rubber raft, the grub and beverage, and the bail money.”

“Bail money?”

“Yes, apparently he and another gentleman got into an altercation down at Kelly's Bar & Grill, and Retch was sitting on the man, tickling him under the arms to get him to say ‘Enough!' when he noticed the badge on the man's vest.”

“Badge?”

“Yeah. What's a SWAT team anyway?”

“A SWAT team?”

“Yes. Do you think it's a serious offense to lock a SWAT team in the ladies' john? I couldn't make heads or tails of what he was saying, he was laughing so hard. Anyway, my impression was there wouldn't have been any problem if the prowl car he borrowed hadn't run out of gas just north of the city limits. What do you make of it?”

“Same ole, same ole,” I said. “He's lying.”

Really fine outdoor companions like Retch Sweeney don't just grow on trees, although some persons would argue the point, Bun being one of them. I, of course, deserve some credit for making Retch what he is today. Believe it or not, he used to be a loud-mouthed, belligerent oaf who spent all his time eating, drinking, bowling, fighting, lying, gambling, hunting, and fishing.

One day I reached the point where I couldn't stand it anymore and told him he had better knock it off.

“Geez,” he said in a hurt tone. “What don't you like?”

“The bowling,” I said. “Actually, I can tolerate bowling. It's the bowlers, I can't stand.”

I'm happy to report that Retch gave up the bad habit instantly and hasn't bowled in fifteen years.

I must confess I haven't been so lucky in the selection of all my hunting and fishing companions. I've had my share of slackers and sluggards, boors and bores, know-it-alls, nitpickers, lunatics, and lummoxes. Each of these characters in his own right was a master of disguise, who revealed his true self to me only after the last vestiges of civilization had disappeared far behind us.

I remember one chap who pretended to be a ball of energy while we were loading the car for a trip into the wilderness. “Here, let me load that canoe for you. No, no, I can handle it myself. I'll just slip it up there on the rack all by myself, no trouble at all.”

The only time he bothered to lift a hand after that was when the camp cook asked who wanted seconds.

While most of these characters were your standard dyed-in-the-wool misfits, two individuals in particular continue to occupy a special place in my memory.

As with all of the aforementioned mistakes in my judgment of character, a chap I'll call Ned managed to win my confidence and admiration by passing himself off as an average human being. The flaw he somehow managed to conceal until we were two days into a week-long canoe trip. I was cooking our breakfast the first morning out, when he squinted through the smoke and asked, “Have you heard the one about the two campers?”

I said I hadn't.

So he told me the joke about the two campers. It was a very funny joke, and I laughed and laughed, little realizing that my response would turn loose a monster. I even thought, what a delight it is to camp out with a man who actually knows how to tell a joke.

But scarcely had I finished wiping my eyes with my handkerchief than he said, “I bet you haven't heard the one about the eyes and handkerchief. Well, it seems. . .” and away he went with another joke. It was funny, too. By the fifth joke in the endless series, I had exhausted all my joke mirth, even though I continued to laugh at each one, simply to be polite.

“It's getting late,” I said. “We had better get the canoe loaded.”

“Wait! Wait!” he cried, grabbing my arm. “You're going to love this one. It seems. . .”

The deluge of jokes continued for the rest of the trip. If we were shooting at rapids, dodging rocks, fighting the grasp of a whirlpool, I would hear over the roar of the water, “Hey, Pat, you'll love this one. It seems. . .”

I think the only safe way to select an outdoor companion is to hook him up to a lie detector.

You: “Do you tell jokes?”

Candidate: “No, I hate jokes.”

You: “OK, you pass.”

Candidate: “I should mention that I fatally wounded my last two hunting companions.”

You: “No problem. You pass.”

One other thing I've learned is that when you are hunting with a new companion, never tell him the truth. When I was young and didn't know any better, I worked in a public relations firm. One day I mentioned something about deer season opening soon. “Hey, great, another hunter!” the fellow next to me said. “I've just taken it up! What say we go deer hunting together?”

“Well, all right,” I said. He seemed decent enough. Now even though I worked in public relations, I felt one should always tell the truth when asked a question. Yes, yes, I know now that that is really stupid, but I was about to get a lesson in lying. Never, never lie halfway. It will do you no good. If you're going to lie, go full throttle with the biggest one you can come up with.

One day, Fred, as I'll call him, asked me to join him and his girlfriend for lunch. I said sure. We met the girlfriend at the restaurant. I managed to conceal my shock. Agnes was the homeliest girl I had ever seen. She turned out to be very nice, and I ended up liking her a great deal.

A week later, Fred and I headed up into the mountains on our first hunt together. He was driving. Off on my side of the car, the mountain dropped off sharply. I imagined the wheels of the car occasionally knocking rocks off into space. That's when Fred turned to me and asked out of the blue, “Say, what did you think of my Agnes' looks?”