Fishy Food

Matthew’s Memory
or
Fishy Food

Well, I know that I have had a lot of experiences in my life, that isn’t the problem. The problem is being able to elucidate just one. It’s not that picking one specific experience is a difficult task in and of itself, but that through the years all the individual experiences have somehow run together to make one big memory; a memory that really makes up who I am. For example I have a memory of camping, a memory of hiking, a memory of home, a memory of friends and family and so on and so on. But if you were to ask me about one specific camping story, one hiking story, one whatever story I might not be able to pull up the specific file in which the memory was stored. So it would be easier to just fill up a page with things I remember doing year after year after year until they became ingrained on my memory as a generic experience but I prefer not to. Instead I will rack my brain and try to remember one of those elusive memories of an actual one-time experience. So here we go.
The memory takes place in the not too distant past at Red’s Meadow, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains near the California-Nevada border. I’m sure you all know the place. It started one morning very early, at the crack of dawn to be more precise, well maybe before dawn because of that big old mountain that blocks the sun till about 10:00 or so. Anyway, it was before anyone else was awake, all the tribe members were slumbering soundly. I was among those happily oblivious slumberers until the tribal chief (read Dad) came to my tent or whatever it was I was sleeping in (I told you I am not very good with memories) and asked me if I wanted to go fishing to acquire sustenance for the entire tribe. I said that I did and so the two of us left. We went out of camp and crossed the great road to the path that leads through the woods. We walked along the path where the barbed-wire fence is off to the left, you know the one where Joseph got his shin scar. Then we crossed the log bridges and soon we came upon the quasi-secret sapling that marks the depart-from-the-trail-point leading to the quasi-secret path that’s leads to the quasi-secret swimming hole. Then we began fishing on the river. It was a beautiful high sierra summer morning, the clouds were white the sky a bright blue, the sun was yellow and the evergreens were well you guessed it, green. We did pretty well that morning catching about 9 fish, actually I remember that we caught exactly nine, including a 14 and a half and 15 inch fish; and that is pretty big for a mountain stream in that area. Actually it is the biggest fish that I have ever caught up there but now I am just rambling so let’s get back to the story. The fishes didn’t come easily however, especially the 15 inch one that Dad caught, oh, it fought all the way in. For all three grueling feet and 3 long seconds of the fight between man and beast the water was roiling as the fearsome fish struggled for its life. If you couldn’t tell I am being sarcastic; that fish came very easily, Dad just dropped his line in a hole near the bank under a overhanging tree and presto, a second or two later there was one more dead fish. Not all nine, however, came so easily and despite our superior skill there were a few snags and even a lost lure if I remember correctly. All early morning we roamed up the river in search of our elusive prey, well I guess that it wasn’t too elusive because we did get nine of the moronic beasts to fall for our ruse of fluorescent power bait, flies and lures. We walked upstream pretty much until it became difficult to go any further. The stream takes a right turn as a small white waterfall comes cascading down slippery black rocks and adds its water to that of the great river. At that point the trees on one side make access to the river difficult and the cliff from which the small waterfall springs makes it impossible so we turned back, fishing all the way down to the swimming hole. We then followed our secret path back to camp and found signs of stirring so the chief began to cook the newly dead fish for the whole tribe. Our quest for food was over and the tribe members were happy, and soon began to find various ways to expend the energy received from the sumptuous repast.
I know I could have related any number of other experiences but this one is the one I remembered this time and is somewhat representative of all the great times we had and memories we made at Red’s Meadow. I suppose that since this will be a recurring assignment I’ll leave the rest of the memories for another time. I know you can hardly wait for next Christmas so you can hear about another great Nielsen adventure.