Dripping Boots
Michael Salomone
 
 Here I am, sitting in the “wader room” under the effects of coffee and cream as a drip from the soggy boots on the shelf up above me trickles down my back. But I can’t move. I try to shift to the edge of my cheek to avoid the next cold drop. It hits my ear. I close my eyes in disgust.
 The stench from a season of Gore-tex induced sweat wafting through my sinuses holds in the back of my nose. I will still smell it in an hour, sitting in the back of my throat like a cheap tequila aftertaste. The clients I have today won’t notice until the morning sun hits their faces and they begin to perspire themselves, adding to the mélange.
 A few pairs of waders are hanging turned inside out either leakers or swimmers, neither are good. Boulders well out of the current’s scrubbing power have acquired a coating felt soles, steel studs and wading staffs cannot penetrate, so swimmers occur. Or at least they get a dunking good enough to ruin most cell phones.
 It is obvious that the shop dog ate too much of the bar trash left outside on the benches. Making the pup, well you know, “sick as a dog.” So a pile has formed in the corner of the fly shop under the rod rack. The shop guys pretend not to notice. The first to acknowledge the barf inevitably has to clean it up.  Walking by looking the other way I pretend too. We all get a chuckle when the first few clients arrive and let the friendly dog lick their faces.
 The smack of decay hits me in the face the moment Andy opens his cooler on the tailgate. He forgot to remove his lunch leftovers two days ago. Colorado summertime heat and direct sunlight in the bed of his pickup have transformed the otherwise delectable items into an indescribable concoction. We opt for keeping all of the edibles in my cooler for the day. There will be no room in the Yeti for drinks now. The waters will be room temperature or warmer by the time lunch comes around.
 The initial sting in my forearm caught my attention but when the client punched forward on the casting stroke I really noticed the grasshopper fly impaled through my shirtsleeve into my arm. “This one is going to hurt!” I thought to myself. In my haste I had forgotten to pinch down the barb on this fly. The longer a fly sits stuck barb deep through my skin the harder it will be to remove. I grimace and hold on as tight as I can, popping the fly from its firm hold. Blood is immediate, but I move on, trying to act as if I am undeterred by the event. My client wants to take a break, now, realizing the errant cast was a hurry-up move that he should not have made. The result was a hooked guide. Ooops.
 A few minutes later, I heard the sound before I saw the results pretty much knowing the rod was broken by the snap that echoed in my ears. The client, wide-eyed and holding the top half of the Sage fly rod, stood in disbelief in front of me. “How?” It was a clean break, just above the ferrule. There goes another one of my rods. Most clients don’t think about the hardware they are using. Knowing the rods belong to the guide not the fly shop wouldn’t prevent the accident, realizing that the guide just lost a critical piece of equipment, however is a start. And, compensating the guide for the loss would be the correct reaction.
 Making the most out of a day on the water should be easier than some clients allow. Finding minor “flaws” in the guided experience and dwelling upon them leads to rough, unpleasant fishing. Clients should realize that the outcome of the experience lies in the their hands as much as the guide’s.  Wet boots, sweaty waders, sick dogs and errant flies can compound into a negative experience. Working hard to stay positive through a long season is a difficult task some days. Because you never really know how the guide’s last trip went.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Opening Day

 Each hunting season arrives with the first breaths of fall. My parents come every year for the opening day of bird season, bringing an English Setter who travels with the extravagance of a prince on safari. Arriving from about a hundred yards above sea level and hunting just under 10,000 feet in elevation, their journey from the Appalachian hills of southern Ohio to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado is a constant climb. Under a bathing yellow light filtered through golden aspen leaves, we hunt our dogs. The promise of points, the assurance of heavy boots and the possibility each footstep contains push us to endure for hidden within the boundaries of White River National Forest are numerous opportunities for a wingshooter and hound to chase wild birds on public land.
 
 We hunt Dusky Grouse, my father and I, in the high country behind pointing dogs, animals with wit and grace. Blues as they are often called are found in air so thin your shot pattern whistles and the flush of grouse wings beats against your chest. My Dad’s recent autumns afield have been behind English Setters, poking holes in tree branches and shooting at woodcock. A slow evolution from southern Ohio coon hunter into a well-traveled upland hunter, he seems to have enjoyed the transition. I remember my father’s ink-black hair from my youth, his dark beard catching chowder like ceiling paint dripped on a velvet Elvis. The same bright eyes sparkle with light beneath a salted gray now. The same grayed coat of his English Setter, Max. He sports the colors well with the poignant reverence of a seasoned college professor. And, as I reflect upon our time in the field I begin to see the thin pinstripe brushstrokes of white now streaking through my facial hair with an increasing regularity.

 On National Forest land with alpine creeks choked into pools by beaver and willows, we hunt snipe. Most scoff when we divulge our targeted quarry as the more recognized “fictional” bird of childhood pranks. Snipe migrate south from northern climes, and we prove to be the first guns to test their speed as the birds hold tight for points from my Brittany, Lola. The telltale “scaipe” in their voice comes as a welcomed call when received behind a pointing dog. Liberal limits of Wilson’s Snipe allow numerous shots afield for the acrobatic little birds with our 20 gauge shotguns--a shooter’s delight. Banking back and forth with hummingbird speed on the initial flush, these handfuls of feathers quickly create space between hunter and fleeing bird--all the while shouting their call.

 The Columbian Sharp-tailed Grouse provides a welcomed option for our game bag. The grassy, rolling hills contrast sharply with the Blue Grouse habitats at lung-searing elevations.  Special permits allow access during weekends and holidays, giving us the impression of solitude in a normally congested area. In Colorado, acquiring a mixed bag of wild, Colorado birds while hunting exclusively on public lands remains a task not easily achieved but honestly attainable.

 Opening day births traditions--both new and old--from hunts past. As a vital component to our first day afield, we drive into Minturn for a mid-day breakfast. The diner shows its age--with bits of vintage memorabilia all around. The plywood Marilyn Monroe and James Dean out front greet customers with their empty, cutout faces. We order from memory--a menu merely passes the time. Huevos rancheros with jalapenos is always my decision--despite repeated mental debate. Boos Burrito lands upon my father’s plate, a local favorite at the Turntable. His extra plate of hash-browns seem unnecessary but are always gone when he finishes.
 We laugh and talk, reminisce on hunts past and how the dogs performed today.  The toy train will circle the ceiling or it might not be running--it really doesn’t matter--we know it is there. The waitresses are icons of the little, mountain town. Known by all, they could run for mayor and win on facial recognition alone. As constants in this ever-changing world, their slow shuffle speed brings comfort to our souls, knowing some things remain the same. The mountains, the wild birds and our affection for pointing breeds are constant too, but the brief glimpse of light our lives illuminate upon this earth is the changing factor we cannot control. And I know that one day I will sit here alone.

 Amidst the rocky reaches of Colorado’s high country, deeply entrenched in public lands our pointers strive for scent following their instinctive drive for upland birds. And we immerse ourselves in the moment. I bask in the company of the one who opened the passageway to the outdoors for me. We both live for the day that arrived with the sun and will regret nothing tomorrow, for today on Opening Day we have chosen to truly live. And, tomorrow I’m going shopping with Mom.