In a meager attempt to overcome my cabin fever I decided to head indoors and see what the trade shows had to offer. Having somehow missed the “Walleye, Only Walleye, Nothing But Walleye, Everything Walleye” show last weekend, I was left with the Chicago Hunting, Fishing, Outdoors and Travel Show. While not my first choice in entertainment, the show would at least give me a sniff of the outdoors. Of course it would also help my self esteem as a fishing show is one of the few places where I am considered thin, handsome and dentally advantaged.
I should have known I was out of my element as soon as I pulled into the parking lot in my totally inadequate four door Explorer. These guys have a different definition of “tow vehicle”. If it ain’t got at least six wheels, what the heck are you doin’ drivin’ it? Minivans were nowhere to be seen.
My sense of separateness followed me into the convention center as I realized how inappropriately attired I was for the event. A flannel shirt, boots and jeans were not going to cut it here. If you weren’t wearing at least one item of camo, you were considered prey, not hunter. And your spouse better be in green too. Got a holster on? So much the better.
The first hall contained the Canadian fishing lodge booths. Apparently my perception of Northern Canada is a little off. I picture it as pristine, filled with wildlife and mostly uninhabited by humans. ‘fraid not. There were enough “remote fishing lodge” booths to fill a good sized continent. I stopped at one that advertised a “true wilderness experience” and asked Grizzly Adams (he’s sort of like Santa Claus – he’s real, but there are a lot of him) how far North his lodge was.
“25,000 miles north of Chicago”, he said.
“25,000? Let’s see – the Earth is a little over 24,000 miles in circumference so that would put you near – Milwaukee?”
“That’s right. It’s a true wilderness up there. In hosPITable to human habitation for all but two weeks out of the year. Nothing but grizzlies and skeeters the size of your - well, MY fist.”
“That’s all?” I queried, wiping northern sPIT out of my eye.
“That’s it – not another living thing.”
“But I thought you ran a fishing lodge. What about the fish?”
“Lots of fish. More fish than YOU could handle. And they ain’t normal fish neither. They’re WILY fish.”, he stated with distinct pride in his voice.
“So they’re difficult to catch? Why would I want to go fishing someplace where the fish are hard to catch?”
“God’s country.”
A simple declaration of “God’s country” was often heard whenever an exhibitor was asked a question for which he had no answer.
“How rough is it up there?” I asked, picturing all the comforts of a melting Igloo.
“Well, last year the generator went down and we had to live for two whole days without hot water in the Jacuzzi. Chef Christophe even had to turn the rotisserie by HAND! What do you think of that?”
“God’s country!” I said and quickly moved on.
As I looked around at my fellow outdoor enthusiasts I discerned a particular health pattern. For some unknown reason, nearly all the men over the age of 16 had a pronounced limp. Among the various maladies and malformations one could observe such as missing digits, scars and drooping tattoos the limp was unique in its almost universal appearance. As I have not yet acquired this mark of a sportsman I just had to find out the truth. I approached a man who at least appeared unarmed and politely inquired.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind telling me how you got that limp?”
He grimaced, hitched his pants, spat a wad of ‘bacca at a “Beautiful Canada” poster and informed me “T’aint nothin’ “
Thus encouraged but not quite enlightened I decided to conduct a bit of a survey. Whenever I could work it into conversation (which was surprisingly easy) I asked these agile athletes about their limps. The answer was always the same.
Grimace, hitch, spit. “T’aint nothin’ “
My curiosity aroused, I was growing concerned about the possible spread of the “T’aint nuthin’“ disease beyond this insular community. I felt it my duty to root out the cause and perhaps even find a cure. I needed to approach this scientifically and I soon found the perfect subjects.
I spotted Grandpa, Pa and little Joe walking down the “Forever Bass” aisle. Dressed in matching camo, they appeared the perfect picture of the modern family and they all carried the same limp! I knew that with a few carefully chosen questions I just might be able to solve the three horned dilemma of nature/nurture/hunting accident. I approached cautiously so as not to spook my prey and sidled up to them at the self loading ammo station.
“That’s a fine rabbit’s foot you’ve got there” I said to the eight year old Grizzly.
“Yup, still got the blood and lig’ments on it too. Ain’t lucky notherwise.”
The last word almost set me thinking but I remained in pursuit of knowledge.
“I wonder if I might ask you gents how y’all came upon them limps.” My foray into the vernacular would have been more successful ‘cept for my use of “gents” but they got the drift and turned as one to face me.
Grimace, hitch, spit. “T’aint nuthin’ “
A wad of Bazooka Joe flew past my right ear, a pinch of Skoal barely missed my left and a final 70 year old tooth got me right in the eye causing an immediate gangrous swelling and oozing of pus. I decided that scientific inquiry is best left in the lab.
Wondering if I would ever see in three dimensions again, I found myself in what can only be described as the “Weapons Department.” Now I have never been one to argue the merits of gun control in part because I think only a fool would argue with a gun toting NRA member. Walking through “weps” changed my mind. It soon became apparent how truly pointless gun control is given the other instruments of quiet demise available to the law abiding citizen. What are the wacko liberals thinking? Are we also going to have bow control, knife control, throwing-axe control, fish-lures-the-size-of-grappling-hooks control, crossbow control, spear control and things-I-don’t-even-recognize-and-could-not-identify-in-a-court-of-law control? After a stroll through that department, I WANT a gun!
Escaping without holes from the Realm of Remington, I came upon a large steel cage. In the cage was a very large Kodiak bear. In the cage with the bear was a not-so-large incarnation of Grizzly Adams. In the bear’s awesome jaws was Grizzly’s head. At that precise moment, with bear drool sliding down his face, Grizzly was giving a lecture – I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP – on bear safety. Just as he emphasized the need to avoid startling the bear, the loudspeaker blared with a goose honk and loudly announced the bird calling contest. The bear drool turned crimson.
The whole scene was a bit bizarre for me so I backed away and bumped into a camo-clad young man with darting eyes and a nervous twitch.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized quickly, remembering our proximity to the Town of Smith and Wesson.
“ “, he replied.
“Huh?”
“ “
“Can’t hear you buddy.”
“Have you seen the bow hunting section?” he barely whispered.
“Not yet” I replied and then he was gone like a shadow in the night.
While still wondering where Stealthy had gone, I picked up the distinct aroma of cured flesh. There in front of me was a long table of smoked, dried, whatever you call it, jerky of every type imaginable. Deer, bear, dog, wooly mammoth – they had it all. This table had, by far, the longest line in the show. People were stuffing bags full of nitrites and this gave me pause. If they were all such outdoorsmen, why weren’t their cupboards already full of their own slaughter? I soon found out.
Wanting to put some distance between myself and the jerky crazed mob (not to mention the Kodiak who was now sniffing the air while Grizzly explained the importance of sealing all food to prevent bears from attacking you), I wandered towards the semi-trailer that was actually a giant aquarium.
A professional fisherman was giving a lecture on “outsmarting your prey.” Now I had always considered fish to be basically a large muscle loosely and imperfectly attached to a pea-sized brain so a pro’s point of view might widen my horizon a bit.
“Now we all know how WILY walleyes can be,” he told the large, adoring crowd.
“Your walleye is not like a perch.”
Hmmm, I thought walleye WERE a type of perch but what do I know?
“No, these fish are intelligent, conniving, cautious and, above all, WILY.” The audience nodded as one. Apparently they had all been out-wiled by a fish or two in their time.
“You’ve got to commit the time and effort necessary to understand the walleye. You have to elevate your thinking to his level (gonna be tough since they are so wily) if you are going to outsmart them.”
While the pro paused for a minute to let everyone soak up his words of wisdom, ole redbeard next to me just kind of shook his head and, with a tear in his eye, confessed “I’ll never be as good as the pros. I just know it. I’m not wily enough.”
I could tell that his larder had not been filled by his use of steel and gut. No, he was still reliant on the smoked offerings available at shows such as this. I was sure that he, like most others in attendance, had been out-wiled not only by intelligent fish but also genius deer, thoughtful rabbits and scheming geese.
Noticing me, he asked the question all fishermen need answered.
“Do you know any special fishing holes?”
“God’s country” I declared and moved on to the boats.
Of course the boats were the real reason I had come to the show. I like to fish. I used to hunt as a kid. I like true “wilderness” experiences so long as the generator doesn’t fail but I LOVE boats. All boats. I had even come to the conclusion recently that I must have a fishing boat for those days when the wind just doesn’t blow. So I set off on my quest of knowledge and empty bank accounts.
Upon first entering the boat room, Stealthy, the bow hunter, appeared out of a boat unmistakably disguised as a duck blind. He now had camo makeup on his face.
“”, he mouthed.
“”, I replied having correctly read his lips and understanding his meaning (crossbows in aisle 12). He disappeared in the general direction of deer heads.
I came upon a boat that could only be described as mundane. It was what we used to call a rowboat. Aluminum hull, square transom, flared bow, bench seats. $8,000!!!!!!!!!! A salesman incongruously dressed in a suit with a wad a tobacco in his cheek and a worse for wear toothpick hanging from his slack jaw knew a boater when he saw one.
“Fine boat there. You picked a good one.”
I hadn’t “picked” anything. I had just happened to stop in front of the sorriest looking boat in the whole place. And it was still outside my budget. By a decimal place at least.
“Now what kinda plant you wanna put on it?”
“Huh?” I replied wondering what in the world he was talking about.
“How you gonna POWER it? What’s your choice of primary proPULsion?”
Wiping Skoal juice off my face and wondering where the chamois salesman was now that I needed him, I replied without thinking too hard, without being WILY enough.
“Maybe a high thrust electric and some oars for backup.”
The convention center went still. Even the Kodiak’s rumbling gut fell silent as thousands of well armed outdoorsmen stared in my direction.
Thinking quickly and beginning to wonder about the exact composition of the jerky and the empty tin marked “homo sapien”, I did my best and shouted,
“Well what the heck do the rest of you use to get the hook out of the wily walleye, pliers?”
Some were appeased and others chagrined (and beginning to question the adequacy of their tools) and all returned to their various bloodlusts.
I began a closer inspection of the boats and realized just what a bunch of pansies you all are. That’s right, YOU!
Think about the things we talk about on this sailing forum. How do I bottom coat my hull? How should I mix my epoxy? Does anyone else have a problem with brush strokes in their varnish? For crying out loud, get some Viagra! You want to know how to build and maintain a REAL boat? I’ll tell you.
First you get some aluminum or sheet metal. One big sheet. I don’t care how you got it or why your neighbor’s BMW looks naked. You take that sheet, you stomp on one end of it, grab the other end in your teeth and bend the thing to shape. Drop it on the floor and spit rivets into it. There, you’re done, you got a boat now. Your toolkit should contain a hammer and nothing else. I don’t want to hear anything about resin soaked cloth. Metal, period. You want non-skid? Ok, you wuss, rip up some carpet from the hallway and glue it gunwale to gunwale. Now you got non skid. You want Alumacraft to do this for you? $15,000 – primary proPULsion not included.
And another thing, don’t tell me about your delicate little tongue weight. You guys are always going on about moving your winch post back or forth an inch or two to get the right balance on the trailer. Try hauling a 150 pound boat with a 300 pound engine! Tongue weight is for wimps – who really cares if you sway a little. Besides, real trailers don’t sway, they strut.
Seriously, these boats are Expensive! You throw a motor on one with seats and carpeting and you’re talking 20 grand! If you want glittery gelcoat, you say goodbye to $30,000 before long.
I was beginning to wonder why cheap sailboats don’t use rivets in the hull and expensive sailboats don’t even come with day-glo glitter in the gelcoat. I knew it was time to leave.
On the way out of the hall I saw, or thought I saw, a glint of metal high in the rafters. I’m not sure but I think it was my friend Stealthy. Definitely time to go. Stealthy’s wily and I don’t think he practices catch and release.
On the way out I noticed an ambulance pulled up in front of the hall with flashers all aglow. I wondered if someone had become apoplectic at the sight of so many lures or if the paramedic rushing in had something to do with “bear safety”
As he came upon me, the medic suddenly stopped, screwed up his face and looked at my festering eye.
“Whaaa?”
Grimace, hitch, spit. “T’aint nuthin’ “ I said.
When I arrived at my wimpy little truck I was (but should not have been) amazed to find (this is absolutely true) one of the Grizzly Adams urinating on my bumper. I kid you not. Even worse, this guy was gushing like a fire hose.
“What the heck?!?!” I shouted and then, remembering all that I had seen and come to fear, quickly came up with,
“What is wrong with you? Can’t you at least hit the top of the windshield? Not man enough? What are you, some kind of sailor?!?”
He laughed as he rolled it up and put it away.
“God’s country, brother”, he said.
“They’re all wily up there.” I replied, at last feeling a kinship to my fellow outdoorsmen.
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