Fishing For Glory
“Betcha goin’ fishin’ all of your time, baby’s goin’ fishin’ too.”---Taj Mahal
There is no such thing in Idaho as a bad day for fishing. Anglers there will drop a line in fair weather or foul, in skinny creeks and rushing rivers, at the crack of dawn or in the dead of night. If the wind is blowing fifty miles an hour, it’s a mild inconvenience. If the lake freezes over, Idahoans will cut a hole in it. If grandma’s last rites interfere with the annual Izaak Walton Lodge casting contest, we weren’t too crazy about the old girl anyway.
People come from all over to fish in Idaho. Massive buses pick them up at rural motels early in the morning and disgorge them at sacred fishing grounds all around the state. Light aircraft land on tiny grass runways in Hell’s Canyon and dispatch giddy gaggles of them into the Snake River. They’re on a Mission from God, these manic piscators, and neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night stays these fishermen from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.
We ran into them everywhere we went, from Coeur d’Alene to McCall to Stanley to Ketchum, rods in hand, on the banks of rivers, puttering down remote waterways in vessels of dubious merit, celebrating their victories in loud restaurants at dinner, talking trout, salivating over salmon, passing on their secret spots to newly-arriving brethren in this fraternity of the fish. The restaurant menus reflect the flavors of the day, chock-full of finny choices, fishy aromas circulating briskly through the dining areas. It is, we have no doubt, the only place in the country where the room goes stock silent when some fool orders the meat loaf.
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| Stanley, Idaho--the emerald in the Gem State's crown. |
Has Anybody Here Seen Stanley?
We have, and it’s not bad for a town of 63 sturdy souls, down from a rollicking 100 in the year 2000. All the Idaho guidebooks tell you not to forget Stanley, “the most beautiful place in The Gem State,” ringed as it is by the eye-popping Sawtooth, White Cloud and Lost River ranges, populated by hundreds of high mountain lakes accessible via a well-developed trail system. Stanley is base camp for fishermen, mountain bikers and white-water rafters, most of them ensconced in one or another of the properties owned by the ubiquitous Mountain Village Resort, which also runs a supermarket, a gas station, a cacophonous bar and a smattering of minor affiliates. We stayed there. The motel is the kind of place where guests leave their room doors open and swap adventure stories in the parking lot while the kiddies toss the pigskin around.
Once the day latens, there is not a whole lot to do in beautiful Stanley. You can take a dip in the Inn’s hot spring if you’re willing to bump noses with the milling crowd or you can whittle driftwood on the porch of the motel. Siobhan thought it a propitious place to get the laundry under control while I vainly searched for a TV station which carried word from the outside world. All I got were vampires, zombies and martial arts contretemps. The bloody brawlers in the latter category made the zombies look like sissies so I went over to the office to read the friendly militia handouts. I was shocked and dismayed to discover the federal government may be coming for our guns. Good news, though. For the time being, they’re leaving our fishing rods alone.
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| More from Stanley. That's nobody we know in the hot springs. |
It’s a short drive through Ooh-Aah Land from Stanley to the Sun Valley/Ketchum Twinnery. It’s difficult to tell where one town begins and the other ends, and nobody seems to care much. Ketchum appears to have the shops and Sun Valley the slopes, and e’er the twain shall meet. The first thing we saw in Ketchum (on the way to Sun Valley, of course) was a funky art fair. We are big suckers for art fairs, as the artistic contraband piling up in our tiny abode will attest. Siobhan bought a bunch of paraphernalia for her workers back home, I glommed onto a nifty yoga shirt for my massage therapist pal Sheree Deneu, who gets very excited over the slightest tribute. There were no two-for-one deals on the Renoirs so we moved on.
Eager for a hike, any hike, we meandered down the Harriman Trail which follows the Big Wood River. There is no elevation to the hike and a nearby highway is rarely out of sight, so the excursion will not make anyone’s Top Ten list. We headed off to the Pioneer Mountains to try the Pioneer Cabin loop trail, which begins at the end of a fairly long dirt road. Our low-slung Nissan balked, the peak of the road grabbing at the squeamish underbelly of the vehicle and making awful squealing noises. We drove to nearby Hailey, where the people who cannot afford to live in Sun Valley reside. It was a snore. We went back to Ketchum and handed out Bill Killeen For President literature in the city square. People looked at us funny and asked our position on gun control. We gave them free ice-cream and got an unconditional promise of 85 votes. Our Idaho campaign manager, Johnny Bolton was right, Idahoans go nuts over free stuff.
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| (1) Checking in, and checking out the political advice; (2) Art in the mountains; (3) The Bigwood Bread Cafe, our lunch hangout in Ketchum; (4) The pause that refreshes along the Harriman Trail. |
The Subterranean Circus opened in Gainesville, Florida in September of 1967. Within two years, half the employees were graduates of Winter Park High School near Orlando, and these included Johnny Bolton, Mike (Jagger) Hatcherson and his then-wife Linda Hughes. Johnny bolted after about a year but Jagger hung around, eventually moving over to help put on the show at Silver City next door and to earn a legendary reputation as a member of the Tres Amigos with Debby Brandt and Ricky Childs. No saloon in town was safe when these three outlaws marched through the swinging doors. Hatcherson also played a part in the famous tale of the Diabolical Bonker, steeped in Circus lore.
Seems our old pal, Michael O’Hara Garcia had just returned from the Vietnam War on the heels of the first after-hours break-in and robbery at the Circus. Hearing about this outrage, Garcia took it upon himself to devise what he called The Diabolical Bonker, modeled after a nefarious Viet Cong trail trap. When an interloper stumbled over a trip-wire installed along the trail, a tree branch with a spike sticking out came flying from the foliage and impaled the intruder, or at least knocked him silly. Garcia built his trap with very heavy automobile engine parts. When it launched from the Circus rafters, the whole building shook. We weren’t too sure about the thing but after Michael’s extraordinary efforts we felt it only fair to give it a try.
The first night the DB was set, Jagger was among the closing crew. He was very close to the action when the Bonker was accidentally tripped and came gallumphing down, scattering the terrified employees. “Somebody’s going to get killed!” he told employer Bill the next morning. “I don’t think I can work here any more if you don’t take it down.” Well, gee. Nobody wants to lose their one-and-only Jagger. We carefully removed the instrument of destruction the next day to the great consternation of Michael O’Hara Garcia, who didn’t talk to us for days afterward. Otherwise, it was a happy ending. Michael Hatcherson remained at the store for years, Garcia went into the olive business and Johnny Bolton found his fortune in Idaho. Well, almost happy. Jagger’s ex, Linda, fell into a mysterious miasma one day while riding her bicycle, moved to rural North Carolina and became an unrepentant Republican. We’d send Cultbusters to pry her loose but we’re pretty sure Linda remembers how to make one of those Diabolical Bonkers.
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| (1) Johnny, Bill and Jagger celebrate the moment; (2) Garden party at The Grill on Knob Hill; (3) Jagger recalls his exploits as Johnny cringes at the thought. |
The Grill At Knob Hill
When we arrived at the Tyrolean Lodge in Ketchum, campaign honcho Johnny Bolton had appropriately installed Killeen For President placards in the lobby. Johnny has been all over the state, passing the word and handing out bribe money to critical supporters. Bolton assures us that the way to get elected President in Idaho is to beat your rivals at handing out free stuff, so who are we to argue? Recent polls have us 3 percentage points up on Lou Dobbs and 10 points ahead of Ketchum resident Ernest Hemingway, whose alleged death is disbelieved and often scoffed at by Idaho partisans.
The reunion of age-old pals was to take place at the lovely Grill At Knob Hill. Everyone was issued name tags so we’d be sure to recognize one another. Bill and Siobhan arrived first, barely edging out Jagger and Johnny. We secured a table in the stunning garden area just outside the restaurant building, ordered champagne and then everyone got out of the way. Who wants to get trampled when people who have not seen one another for 40 and 50 years get into memory mode? Siobhan stood up under the harsh demands of the hour only because Jagger asked questions about her cat, Kittypuss. Bill and Johnny discussed the difficulty of rigging the voting machines in Boise. The conversation raged into the night and was only halted by Idaho blue laws which require old people to be in bed by eleven. Nonetheless, a good time was had by all and everyone agreed to get back together in another 20 years. We know what you’re thinking, but never count out the crusty survivors of the Atlanta Pop Festivals, Mexican Marijuana, Acid Love and The Diabolical Bonker.
Next Week:
Our friends nudge further east on the Road To Yellowstone, sliding off to the nether regions of Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve, a curious land of dead lava on the Snake River Plain between the microscopic towns of Arco and Carey, where everybody knows your name. The residents there heard about the Ketchum ice-cream, so they were waiting. With a band.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
