We, You and Me, Are Thinking Creatures

I was reading my son-in-law’s blog (http://jarcaines.blogspot.com/) this morning and was really struck by the power that the written word can have in someone’s life. Yours, mine, anyone’s and everyone’s. JR’s blog is all about deep thinking in the realms of spiritual and social responsibility. Heavy stuff for this old man. And, yet, I am really drawn to it.

We, you and me, are thinking creatures and we very seldom have concurrent viewpoints on any issue, particularly spiritual and religious ones. What makes us such interesting individuals is that we ARE different and we DO think differently.

In my life time we have seen the great Socialist experiments in China, and the now defunct USSR, collapse. Experiments that were designed from the start to ensure that all under their influence would look, act and think as one, everyone the same, all the time. It did not work. It could not work.

Mankind was created in our Father’s (God's) image. We were not created as clones, each one looking or thinking the same. We were created as individuals who think, look and act independent of one another. We are wonderfully and gloriously made different from each other on purpose. It is God’s design that we be different, that we THINK different from each other. How special.

Psalms 139: 13-18 says it best:

You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother's womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous--and how well I know it.

You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb. You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.

How precious are your thoughts about me, O God! They are innumerable! I can't even count them; they outnumber the grains of sand! And when I wake up in the morning, you are still with me!


My hope is that we all will fight intollerance of opposing viewpoints where ever we see it, that we will fight injustice at every opportunity and even more importantly, that we will support those who pick up the sword to lead us.

A Love Story

A True Love Story

I will seek and find you . . .

I shall take you to bed and have my way with you.

I will make you ache, shake & sweat until you moan & groan.

I will make you beg for mercy, beg for me to stop.

I will exhaust you to the point that you will be relieved when I'm finished with you

And, when I am finished, you will be weak for days.

All my love,

The Flu

Slim and the Hyattville Mafia

Jack had ducked around the corner in into “Fat Jack’s Saloon”, the fine (?) establishment next door. It was fine if you were looking for a western themed inebriation station.

The exterior is rustic with a capital “R” and the interior not much better. The bar is a very large slab of tree laid on its side covering some old, recycled cabinets. The floor is hundred year old planking with a few old weeds poking through in places that don’t get much foot traffic.

The Saloon is connected to the Café by way of the old garage running between them – dirt floor and all. Old car parts and abandoned junk littered the ground with a pathway just big enough for a couple of farmers to walk side-by-side and not trip on something.

Connie, Jack’s wife, runs the café. It is really a nice and very pleasant place to sit and sip a cup of coffee or lemonade while eating some really fine cooking. The morning we were in town, the local “Women’s Club” was having their monthly meeting and celebrating one of their member’s 90-something birthday. Lot’s of happy sounds were coming from within their midst.

At one point while we were cutting in the door, the young school teacher (whom the local preacher was courting) brought her kindergarten class over from the one-size-fits-all school across Main Street for their school district supplied hot breakfast. Luckily for us, they went back to school before the “crash” happened. At least all we did was spook a bunch of old ladies when the wall fell in.

Connie helped to get things straightened out with Jim. She gently reminded him that he knew it was Jack who had done what was done with the stealing of his Suburban and battery. I’m not sure if it was her sweet threat of bodily harm whilst waving that iron skillet around or if it was her soft stern voice the convinced Jim to cool down and reassess the conclusions he had made. Which ever it was we three city boys were grateful.

We went looking for Fat Jack and found him in the Saloon talking to a guy who was loading the old refrigerator in the back corner with beer. Now it’s cold outside, somewhere in the upper 30’s had they’re loading beer for the 5 o’clock rush. It really struck us as funny.

Connie called us over to the Café for some dinner. Pork chops and mashed potatoes with a really yummy pork chop gravy. A meal fit for Kings after a day of cold fishing. After we were done we went back to the Saloon to say our goodbyes to Jack. He introduced us to Slim, the guy we saw earlier stocking the refrigerator. Slim is 6’-4” tall. Thin as a rail with a handlebar mustache that just drooped off his face. He is a soft spoken man with a southern Texas drawl that completely mesmerized us.

The place was full of farmers! Well, full is 6 or 7 guys all around one table. They were all playing some sort of game and having a lot of fun shouting and poking fun at each other all the wile drinking beer and other poured drinks. Being friendly friends of Jack’s they, with some coaching form Jack, invited us to join them.

The game they were playing is called Ship-Captain-Crew. It has a leather cup loaded with 5 dice. No board, cards or any other instruments are needed. We noticed that each farmer had a pile of loose change in front of them and so we agreed to join.

John was the first to roll. The object of the game was to roll one four, one five and one six and then your score was the total of the remaining two dice. Each player enters the game by placing a predetermined amount in the pot. It our case they started out at 5 cents.

You get three rolls and you can leave any four, five or six on the table while rolling the remaining dice to better you chances. It didn’t look too difficult. Little did we know hat a lesson we were in for.

It wasn’t the nickel pot that got us in trouble it was being egged into side bets that got us. One farmer would bet that Loren could not roll a run and he would put down a quarter to back his bet. I would take his bet and put down my quarter and Loren would roll with only his nickel in the pot at stake and he would bomb out and I would be 25 cents poorer while Loren only lost his nickel if in the end he lost the round. This went on for some time all the while everyone is drinking what ever Slim passed around.

Before the night was too old all three of us city slickers had no more cash left. Those farmers cleaned us out and got a real good laugh doing it. I’m not sure if they felt better at beating us at their game or if it was the spandex under wader outfits we still had on after a day of fishing that gave them the real laughs.

We placed our last few remaining dollars on the bar in front of Slim as a gratuity for a fun night and the good southern service he had provided us with all evening. Slim kept trying to give it back and we would put it down again. This went on for a couple of rounds and finally Fat Jack jumped up and told Slim to keep the money. Slim started to make a fuss and said that we had paid for all our drinks and that we didn’t owe any more to the till. Jack amusingly told Slim that the money was meant for him. When he balked Jack told him it was a tip. I still don’t think Slim understood.

As we were leaving we suggested a new name for their group. In our eyes they, Fat Jack and the farmers, could only be named “The Hyattville Mafia.”

A Soft Sweet Voice

“What in the Hell are you doing with my truck!” Huh? “What in the Hell are you doing with my truck , can’t you city boys hear?” “Who gave you permission to “steal’ my truck, and what’s with stealing the battery out of my car? I had things to do today and you guys screwed my day from here to there and back.”

“Who are you guys, anyway?”

This old farmer was really pissed off and John, Loren and I just looked at each other wondering what was going on. Buford knew that it was time to hide and he took off around the corner following Fat Jack.

John stuttered some unintelligible grunting sounds and I thought the farmer was going to have a coronary right there. The veins in his neck were bulging and ready to burst. His eyes were white with fury and it was all directed at us.

There was a long silence while we tried to compose ourselves and come up with an answer that we thought would be acceptable to him. None of us had much to say.

There was a distinct odor in the air as everyone’s sense of imminent calamity began to flood their being. Fear, it turns out, causes your skin to smell or in this case, to stink. We were tired from the bouncing and being thrown back and forth, up and down while riding in the back of the suburban and none of us had much in the way of patience left to deal with this irate farmer.

“OK boys” said a sweet voice behind us, “what’s all this yell’n and holler’n about?” My, were those words comforting. I’m not sure if it was the words or the soft sweet voice but the situation immediately changed and everyone’s guard was lowered some.

“Jim, what are you so worked up about and why are you yell’n and carrying on like a cat who’s tail is on fire anyway” she said to the farmer. “You know it was Jack and not these fine fellas that messed with your stuff. Now, get on with it.”

“JACK!” she yelled. “Where in blazes is that husband of mine. He’s always caus’n me some kind of trouble.”

Fishing with Fat Jack #4

It was snowing lightly as we prepared to start back down the mountain to the coral. Fat Jack was standing there with fish tails sticking out of his jacket all over the place. There were tails in every pocket and hole. He must have had 30 fish stuffed in it.

I had just arrived back at the stable and was getting ready to dismount when I heard a loud “Wahoo” coming from behind me back up the trail. Loren decided to make a grand entrance and he, on his horse ominously named “Ricochet,” came screaming down the trail, around the trees and into the area just outside of the coral.

Loren was trying to get his horse to clear the fence, tugging on his reigns and really whooping it up when his saddle started slipping. Somehow his “cinch” had worked itself loose. Centrifugal force took over and he began sliding down and to the outside just like a bull rider. His horse wasn’t quite sure what was going on and I don’t know who was more scared, Ricochet or Loren.

Ricochet made the turn but Loren ran head first in to a 4 ft high snow bank. The collision tore Loren right out of the saddle and there was a huge spray of snow flying all over the place.

At first I was sure Loren was deeply and horribly injured. I launched myself out of the saddle and started running to see if I could help. He seemed truly dazed and disoriented. We got him to sit up and lean back on the snow pile and started to see if he could identify how many fingers we held up in front of him. It took a while but finally he said “three” and that was the right number.

I think it was Fat Jack who thought to look after Ricochet. John and I were focused on Loren. After a few minutes when it was evident that Loren was OK except for his pride, John nicknamed him “Crash” and we all had a good laugh.

The trip down the mountain was uneventful except for the bumping and bottoming out in the ruts, dips and cavernous troughs we had to drive through. We still had to hold our hands on the ceiling to ensure that no cranial damage was done to our bodies. Fat Jack did not know how to drive slowly. It was full throttle all the way.

It was dark when we arrived back in Hyattville and there was a greeting party waiting for us. They didn’t look too pleased either, except for Buford, Jacks dog. The first thing Fat Jack did when we got home was greet Buford and start tossing all those trout to him. He just chucked ‘em in the air and Buford caught them and swallowed them whole. Here we thought Fat Jack wanted them for dinner and what he really wanted them for was dog food.

One of the old guys who was waiting for us started yelling, “What in the Hell are you doing with my truck!” Fat Jack just grinned that same grin he gave us when he peaked around the corner when the door caved in on the old ladies having tea earlier that morning. We new there was going to be more interesting events coming.

Fishing with Fat Jack #3

Unbeknownst to us, Fat Jack had taken us to a horse camp high up in Wyoming’s Wind River Range. All the way up the mountain, Jack kept telling us we would get a opportunity to see his “little pink poodle.” It sounded so strange that we all dismissed it as just a little tale and really gave it no mind. Finally, the Suburban slid to a stop. Jack had slammed on the breaks and tried to see how long a skid mark he could leave. We piled out of the SUV as fast as we could. I think John even exited through the window! It had been a long ride slipping and sliding our way up the mountain. At times we had to brace ourselves with hand and arms against the roof to keep our butts anywhere near the seat. I think one or two of us even kissed the ground when we got out.

Jack had fetched 5 horses and we were in the process of saddling up when I asked if there was a bathroom around. I thought it would be nice to take care of business before we left. He pointed me to a trail and said the outhouse was only a few yards up the trail. “Oh, and by the way say hi to my “little pink poodle” he said. I thought “not that again.”

He was right. It was only 20 yards or so to the outhouse and I was desperate. I was really glad not to have to use a bush for cover. It wasn’t bad as outhouses go and I’ve used worse. It really beat just a hole in the ground. Also, outhouses don’t stink much when the outside temp is in the low 30’s. It’s just the cold seat that stings a little.

Here we are miles from anything civilized – a two-hour ride in a 4-wheel drive vehicle just to get here. I opened the door with the half moon cutout in it and there it was! The seat was padded with soft, light pink furry foam and on the seat cover was a Pink Poodle. It was very artfully painted on the lid once you opened it up. What a sight and what a joy to have soft furry foam instead of hard cold plastic.

Jack had us mount up on the horses once he had them saddled and off we went. We used the fifth horse as a pack horse and loaded all our fishing gear on a pack saddle. After a two hour ride we arrived at our destination, a small stream high up in the mountains.

It only took a few minutes in the icy air for us to get geared up to go fishing. Jack was really snickering under his breath at us getting all decked out in the “right” fishing attire. HE was wearing this old thread bear jacket that looked a little like it had seen it’s last life years ago. It had holes were the stuffing was peaking out, strings hanging at the cuffs and neck and it kind of smelled like, well, I’m not sure what it smelled like. It just sort of stank.

We had to break the ice on the stream in a lot of places to get room to fish. It was loaded with brook trout. Jack told us to just throw the fish up on the snow bank and he would come back later and pick them up. He said he wanted to take them home.

We fished for 4-5 hours and caught literally hundreds of 7-10 inch brook trout. The snow banks of the stream were littered with them.

Jack finally caught up with me and what a sight. He had fish tails sticking out of every hole and pocket in the jacket. They weren’t in bags or paper, he had just stuffed them in head first anywhere he could put them. It looked like he had added 100 pounds to his already ample 300 plus pounds.

He had followed behind us and kept the fish he wanted and tossed the others back in the stream. I was skeptical that we had not killed any fish until I saw him toss one back that had been on the bank for 15 or so minutes. It slowly just swam off. Amazing!

Jack challenged us to try “fishing naked” and I was sure that he was crazy. Then he explained that what he meant was to fish with a hook only. Sure enough it worked. A red hook worked better than a gold one and gold was better than bronze. But we caught fish on all three colors. Again, I was amazed.

It was time to head back to camp. We had an uneventful trip back but on arrival Loren earned a new nickname.

Fishing with Fat Jack - #2

After the buzzing of startled old ladies died down Fat Jack came out from his hiding place and was met right in the middle of the café by Connie (Mrs. Jack). She put a stop to everything and demanded to know what was going on.

John stepped forward and introduced us as “Sven, Ollie and Otto” complete with Scandinavian accent. He continued to tell her that we were contracted to install the new door as payment in kind for Fat Jack to take us fishing. This didn’t set well with Mrs. Jack and, of course, Fat Jack was sheepishly just letting it all happen. Connie and Jack made their way back into the kitchen where there was some discussion that we were not privy to.

Soon Jack emerged with a smile and some lipstick on his cheek. To this day we do not know what Jack said to Connie but we certainly are thankful!

John and I found some old weather beaten wood in the passage way between the two buildings that served as a “garage” of sorts. We took and ripped them I the old saw to make some trim pieces for fancying up the hole we had just cut.

After about 40 minutes John, err Sven, and I had the door hung. Ollie (Loren) just stood back and gave directions to which Sven and I paid no attention.

Just as we finished cleaning up Fat Jack came back. “All ready to go?” he asked. “Ready” we all exclaimed. And off we went.

Fat Jack took us up into the Wind River Range of mountains. We traveled for about 2 hours up this bumpy, rutted and weather warn dirt road.

We stop at a stream on the way up to fish and Fat Jack handed us some flies to use. They were #10’s or #8’s! Some of the biggest damn flies I have ever tied on my line. We kind of laughed at him and he seemed puzzled at first then he figured out why we were laughing. We were used to fishing with those “little dinks” from California as he called them.

We did catch fish on those huge flies.

There was snow on the ground and the air temperature was in the upper 20’s. Ice was forming in the guides of our rods almost as soon as we cast out. We were constantly dunking our equipment in the water to release the ice.

All I heard was “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH SHIT! And then a big SPLASH!

Loren had slipped on an iced over rock and had gone in over his head in this really cold, freezing water. When I got to him he was really hurting and COLD!

We found a hunters camp that was not being used and stated a fire in the stove. Loren had to get out of his wet clothing fast and get warmed up. Both John and I shed some clothing and gave it to Loren to wear.

We decided it was time to continue our adventure and piled back into the Suburban. After a little more bumping and being tossed back and forth we arrived at what we thought was our destination. Jack said for us to hole up here for a few minutes and he would be back. Sure enough, in about 20 minutes here he came with 5 horses in tow!

Fishing with Fat Jack - Installment #1

On one of my many fly fishing trips to Wyoming, my buddies and I happened to land ourselves in Hyattville, WY. It is not what you would call a big city, maybe not even a city. It is perhaps two blocks long and one block wide. There is a post office, a church, a school, 2 or 3 drinking establishments and a couple of civic buildings.

It was a cool, crisp October morning. The only place in town that was open was a small café and saloon across the street from the elementary school. The name on its shingle was “Fat Jack's”.

A slight breeze was blowing and there was the feeling that snow was about to fall. An old barn door, falling off its hinges and held open a bit with a 2x4 greeted us. There was the sound of a sawzall and a poorly tuned radio spewing mostly static and some hard to make out country music coming from inside. A cat skittered off the street into the old barn and my buddies and I followed.

We were looking for somebody who could give us direction on where we might go fishing. I'm not sure that we should have ever asked.

Inside was a very large man cutting a hole in the wall with the sawzall and next to him was this really big old hound dog. The man seemed a little annoyed at our appearance but stopped working to see what we wanted.

We introduced ourselves, “Hi, I’m Loren and this is John and Michael.” We told him that we were from out-of-state. I am sure that there was not a need for the "out-of-state" comment as we were standing there in what my wife likes to call our "spandex" fishing undergarments.

I thought the guy was going to choke to death as he tried to clear his throat enough to get out the words, “Howdy, what ya’ll fellas want?”

We quickly asked if he knew where we might go fishing. “Hey, now that seems like a right fine thing to do on a day like to day, with the snow ‘n all. Hmmm, my names Fat Jack and I own this here place.”

“Ain’t no one around that can take ya’ll that I know, jus look around, the town’s almost boarded up, sep’n us and the Hitch’n Post down the street. Besides, I got a git this door hung ta’day or the Misses is gon’a tan my hide.”

John said, “You go ask your wife and we will make sure the door is hung.”

“Huh?” said Fat Jack. “Yeah,” said John, “we’ll hang the door for you.” And, off he went to negotiate with the Misses.

All we heard was voices getting louder and louder. Soon the rattle and banging of pans from the kitchen drowned out the voices and the hound dog moved across the room.

It wasn’t long and Fat Jack was back. He was sweating a little and looked a little nervous. “If ya’ll are sure ya’ll can hang that door ya better git to it!” He said.

John grabbed the sawzall and started to finish cutting where Fat Jack had left off. He just pushed the blade all the way through cutting both sides of the wall at the same time. Before long the cut-out was loose and it fell away from us into the room on the other side.

“What the …” screamed a startled elderly woman. The local Women’s Club’s Tuesday morning meeting was in progress at Fat Jacks Café. We were face to face with 10 very startled old lady’s gazing at us through a cloud of drywall dust and sawdust.

Fat Jack neglected to pass on some very vital important information. His head poked around the corner and he had a smile that went from ear to ear.

Fish Naked - A Definition

Well...I guess it is time to get you all up to date on what "Fish Naked" really means. This really is for J.R.'s benefit, however, I am sure many of your havn't got a clue either.

The term "fish naked" refers to fishing with only a bare hook! No bait, feathers or other incumberances. I have caught fish this way but only in extream circumstances.

This will sound like a TRUE fish story but it truly is true.

My buddies, John and Loren, and I found our selves in Hyattville, Wyoming one fine September morning. We stopped at Fat Jacks Saloon and Diner to find directions on where to go fishing. We meet the proprieter, Fat Jack, and commenced on what turned out to be one of the finest adventures I have ever had. I will tell it in length one day.

Fat Jack stole a vehicle, battery and who knows what else from one of his friend in town. He took us fishing high up in the Wind River Range of Wyoming. We took a two-hour drive in a 4-wheel drive SUV (with a stolen battery) up a dirt road.

We went about 15 miles up this horrible, rutted and rained out road and stopped at a horse camp. It seemed strange that we circled the camp more than once before we entered but I didn't figure out what we were about to do until after we arrived back at the Saloon that evening. We later found out that the horses were not Jacks at all. Guess that made us "rustlers."

It was snowing and the wind was blowing something awful. We road on horse back for about 2 hours winding our way even further up the canyon. When we arrived at our destination there was this small stream with completely covered by ice all the way across. We broke through the ice with a log and our feet. The stream was chalk full of 6-8" Brookie Trout.

Between the three of us, we must have caught 60-70 fish. We just through them up on the snow bank to retrieve on the way back down stream. We picked through the fish on the way back and even after 30 minutes the ones we tossed back still were alive and swam away. Their metabolism had slowed down almost to a stand still I guess.

Well, back the the fishing naked...

These brook trout were so hungry and litterly went after any fly we tried, whether it was a nymph or dry, that John challanged me to catch one using just a hook. Well, I gave it a try and wouldn't you know it, I caught a fish. Then he had to try it and it worked for him also.

What da ya think, J.R.?

There is lots more to this story and one day I will finish telling it. It includes some gambling, dice, a guy named "Slim," a few farmers, Fat Jack, three city slickers and Mr. Jim.

First Ramble

Life's too short, fish naked!