I am the reason they serve free drinks at silent auctions and accept credit cards.
But when I packaged my recent “win” — fishing for 4 on Oregon’s famed Metolius River — as Happy Father’s Day, there was all-around approval and merriment.
When I conceded the fishing on the Metolius sounded a little too serious for my don’t-know-how-to-tie-a-knot flyfishing style and suggested the Iron Chef should go with true angling aficionados, a quiet elation filled the room.
That was back in March and now Iron and his fishing buddies, Bo and Zo, are probably assessing the green drake hatch right now. In
between, however, there have been countless hours devoted to trip planning — what kind of flies, which rod weight, what route to take, which breweries to visit, and finally, menu planning.
Now I’ve taken my fair share of road trips with girlfriends. Those of us who are mothers just pack up in the middle of the night when we hear we’re going on a roader responsible only for our own damned selves. We forget a lot of stuff, but the freedom of not having to pack toddler snacks, woobies, a 1,000-piece collection of Hot Wheels, and a library big enough your car gets mistaken for the Bookmobile is intoxicating.
My best friend Lucy once hopped in the car sporting only a soft-sided cooler, a stuff sack that couldn’t have had more than a Kleenex box, and the excellent non-fiction The Bad Girls Guide to Road Trips.
Menu planning is not on the list. Lucy and I have survived for days on convenience store meat and potatoes (Slim Jims and Salt & Vinegar Chips), a Spicy V-8 doing double-time as salad, and Snickers and a lottery ticket for dessert.
Yet somehow I’m married to a man who most likely has a travel-size bottle of capers in his pocket, just in case.
Happy Fishing, man.