Lessons From Meth Mountain
You ever get an idea rattling around in your dome that you can’t seem to get rid of. That happens with me all the time with great bites I’ve been on in the past. The past couple weeks I haven’t been able to get an old saugeye bite I was on out of my head. Ole buddy it was a barn burner! I’m talking the kind of bite where you’re wearing the paint off jigging raps kind of deal. A bite so damn good I had to call a couple buddies to come down and experience it for themselves.
Now for the fine print. This body of water I’m talking about isn’t in a nice area. The person to teeth ratio is way out of wack. I’m not a statistician or anything but I don’t think it’s too far fetched to assume a four tooth to person ratio within a couple square miles of this saugeye spot. It’s Methy if that makes sense. If you’re a bleeding heart type you’d see the pain and hurt in the folks around here, if your perspective rides on the other side you might see some bums that need to get their act together. Like all hurdles involved with fishing, I don’t see anything but fish, and anything that keeps other anglers away I’m all for it. If I’ve got to hurdle a dozen four tooth zombies to get to catching, I’m okay with it, but…
There’s a hill. The hill of death, a true test of fish wanting grit, an equalizer, the type of deal that separates the men from the boys. Although the hill doesn’t hide, the complexity of conquering the hill has to be felt before it can be seen. On a good day it’s a son of a bitch, on a bad day it makes you yearn for a slightly sloped concrete boat ramp and all the turds that seek that comfort.
Yesterday I decided it has been too many years since I’ve hurdled the four tooths and conquered the hill to slay countless saugeye. Now that I’m a bit older and fatter I had to be more calculated with how much gear I brought with me. After whittling down the collection to absolute essentials I was bare bones. 2 batteries, 4 rods, 3 boxes, my Lowrance, black box, and active target pole/transducer. Loading up the kayak I felt light like a prancing gazelle. I was younger and naive last time I’d attempted the hill, now I had grey bearded wisdom on my side.
Pulling into the parking area I wish I had a gun. I’m not sure how to explain this but the innocence of the four toothers before looked different yesterday. Not to get too serious but I’m not sure if it’s fentanyl or something else but the folks I passed yesterday had a different look in their eye. It’s not like you want to invite your neighborhood meth zombies to supper but there’s a harmlessness to most of them. Sure they’ll take the catalytic converters out from under ya, but only because they have to. The people I drove past yesterday had a different look in their eyes. Revisit my take on people after this story and you’ll understand anything I say that isn’t directly related to catching fish should be taken with a heaping spoonful of salt.
With my head on a swivel, I started loading up my kayak. I started pulling my kayak towards the hill with my scupper wheel cart. At this point we’re tip top Magoo. At the top of the hill, I do a quick once over, take a deep breath, then start planning my descent. It’s too steep for a direct shot down, the only real option is to take the narrow path that eases down the side of the hill. It’s a little iffy in some parts where there’s a drop off on the right side. I decide it’s best if I walk in front of my kayak and control it down the path. I didn’t think it was going to be a walk in the park but with all gazelle prep we should be golden.
17 inches down the path my right wheel falls off and my kayak starts sliding down the ravine to the right. I think me screaming “OH SHIT” over and over again is what kept the kayak from sliding down into the ravine. I was a little shook at this point but still had fish catching optimism and coffee fueling me. I decided I’d take my broken cart off and just slide it on its bottom all the way down the hill. There were a couple harry moments but overall I do think no wheels is a better way to get down the hill. Now at the waters edge, barely escaping full blown catastrophe, I say out loud “like a damn gazelle.”
A split second before launching I ponder on how I’m going to get back up the hill with no wheels. All those self help books I’ve been reading for decades talk about living in the moment and I was here. I wasn’t going to let later on problems mess with my here and now. I throw my broken wheels and cart in the back of the kayak and I’m off the hammer some monster saugeye!
With the excitement of a fatty opening a Kit Kat I start scanning for fish. I’m five minutes in and now my memory starts kicking in. It wasn’t the locals or the damn hill that kept me from coming back it was the fishing. They’d treated the weeds with some nasty chemicals years back and since that time I hadn’t had near the success. Still, the pantry half full side of me was thinking it’s been long enough for mother nature to correct the city’s misguided “management.”
I’m pedaling around harassing giant schools of 8 inch perch now cursing the city for their management practices with addiction, homelessness, and fisheries. It’s not lost on me that I’m the dude that narrowly missed dropping dookie in my waders a week ago and now I feel like I could do better at solving these complex problems. In the moment I don’t realize I’m being a real doucher but with age I can see it reflectively.
After eyeballing a few people up near my truck and watching teenagers bomb pumpkins down the hill into the water I was ready to leave. The romance of the lawless area and tough terrain only works with big fish. There’s a reason you’ve never heard Jeremy Wade speak all englishy while writing into his leather-bound journal about little perch. You don’t traverse through the bush, dance around malaria, and risk local tribes for dinks ole buddy and damn it that’s what I spent a few hours doing. I needed to get back home and eat left over turkey to lick my wounds, only one thing left to do.
The battle of the hill and broken wheels was about to begin and I had no idea how rough it would be. For starters I couldn’t get the kayak out of the water. Turns out my gazelle with all the latest and greatest tech/batteries was now heavier than any other kayak I’ve ever pulled up out of this spot. Pair that with a couple of years and an office job, you have yourself a Grade A dilemma. You see the thing is to get the kayak on the path I have to pull it directly up the hill before turning sideways. It was so heavy that as soon as I started pulling it up the hill the back end would start sliding down and pull me with it. With the arrogance of a teenager, I did the same thing ten times before deciding I better rethink my approach. My heart is pounding like a hangover headache and I haven’t even got the dang kayak out of the water yet!
My next Mensa moment is when I decided to take a rope I had with me, tied it to the front of the kayak, and then walk up the hill to pull my 200lb kayak up. To summon my inner Hemingway, I’ll keep it super simple here. That was dumb. I couldn’t even get the front of my kayak up on the bank much less pull it up the damn mountain. Now I’m standing up on the walking path with a long rope down to my kayak scratching my head when a couple of four toothers walk by. Nothing was said but we had a moment where I felt like we all acknowledged I’m a dumbass. Like a kid that was just cut from the JV squad I walked down the hill defeated.
Down at the bottom of the hill feeling stupid and weak I stare at my kayak for a while. I was at a crossroads where I could either think this through and find the best way or rapid fire just start using brute strength or whatever brute strength I have left in this pear-shaped body. It was go time. Pissed off at father time for greying my beard and throwing a little extra gravity on my bits I started heave ho’ing that damn kayak up until I had it out of the water. I wasn’t pretty but I was still standing and hadn’t earned myself a hernia yet. Now what do I do about getting it up meth mountain and into the back of my pick up.
I can’t figure out the best way to go about using my broken scupper cart to get the kayak up the hill. Do I put the broken wheel on the upside of the hill or downside? I came to the misguided conclusion that the upside would be better for some reason. I tip the kayak on its side, get the cart situated, then watched it slide back down into the water. Thankfully I still had the super long rope attached to the front of it.
Broken I sat on the bank as my Hobie drifted out in front of me attached to a ridiculously long rope. I was thinking about taking all my gear off it, tying it off, then writing a little ditty on Facebook sword and the stone style or perhaps putting up a sign. “Whoso pulleth out this kayak from this saugeyeless pit, is rightful king/queen/or whatever these days to this ole ass kayak.”
Stubbornness took over and I started pulling the kayak up inches at a time. Once I got it back on the path, I took all my gear off and walked it up to the top of the hill. From there it was one herky jerky pull at a time. It damn sure wasn’t a straight line either. I’d pull it up a few feet, then me and the kayak would both slide back down a foot. There were a few more close calls with the ravine now on the left, but disaster was averted again. I took breaks sitting on the front of the kayak questioning my entire existence. When I started, I was aware of my surroundings, now there was nothing in my world outside of the my water buffalo of a kayak and meth mountain. As the nose of the kayak crested over the top of the hill, I felt like I had a true understanding of sense of accomplishment ultra-marathoners feel after completing a race, minus bloody feet and chafed nipples.
Loading the kayak into the back of my truck I was on deaths doorstep. Everything on me hurt from my chode up to the space in between my fingers. I was tired, sore, and ashamed of how I felt when I pulled up. My truck didn’t get ransacked, I didn’t get mugged, the only thing that was robbed today was my dignity. From time to time, I have the ability to lose perspective outside of my own purview to see we’re all doing our best in the current moment. Our best in life is the same as a personal best in fishing, it’s where you are here and now and if you’re trying your best that’s the only true measure. For some folks it might be buying a new house and for others it might be taking sobriety or living within the rules of the law minute by minute. At times when we’re riding high, we forget where we once were. Ole buddy your PB might be a double digit largemouth now but at one point you were cheesing about that pounder that wasn’t longer than your right foot. Life isn’t much different. Looking down at folks that are struggling is like looking down at someone that hasn’t caught one quite as big as you have. The struggle and willingness to fight is the juice, the result is just keeping score. When it’s all said and done, we all leave with the same stuff, love and memories.
I pulled up wishing I had a gun and drove away understanding I need to see with more love. Don’t get me wrong I don’t want to donate catalytic converters or anything but folks struggling are fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. Me struggling up meth mountain pales in comparison to folks struggling the mountain of addiction. Yet again I went looking for Jeremy Wade journal worthy fish and left with eye opening perspective of life. Fishing doesn’t always give us what we want, but if you feel closely fishing can give you what you need.
-Eric Allee
