The Bighorn Mountains - The Second Day, Tasty Trout

Behind Bars is on the road. We have traveled through South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho and Washington. Places of interest have been the Badlands National Park, Mount Rushmore, Crazyhorse, The Bighorns, Yellow(Jelly)stone, Shoshone National Forest, and others. Here's the start of our second day in the Bighorns - so far, my favorite place of the trip.

On the morning of the 17th, I awoke with an urgent need to get to 'the vault.' It's a nice name for a specific kind of facility -  vault toilet - and refers to the place where the flies hang out under the seat when your facilities do not flush. This particular morning was the first real camp experience I had with results of real camp food - Cliff Bars, Chef Boyardee Ravioli,  Trail mix, and instant coffee. The odd, sucking draft and buzzing flies made it difficult to focus, so I perused the wall literature. 

DO NOT PUT ANYTHING INTO

THE VAULT

IT IS EXTREMELY DIFFICULT TO REMOVE

This was followed by a list examples. The top of the list was logical: plastic bags, apple cores, garbage - and slowly became strange, watches, cell phones, canvas bags with dollar signs on them... Informative, but I needed to put something in the vault before I had time to check the list to see if it qualified. I didn't bother to double check.

I sang "Kodachrome" on the way back to the campsite, convinced my vertical jump height was increased by no less than 2 inches. An old timer and his wife in a red, overpowered golf cart drove the other way on the path. He smiled, enjoying the go-kart / mobility scooter hybrid. I waved at them, "Hey." I said. He waved back. He slowed his motorized "Red Flyer." What the hell? Why is he slowing? I thought, and I slowed down as he aimed the cart at me. Then he blocked my path, and stopped. Oh shit. I'm in trouble, he knows I put something in 'The Vault.'

     "Hey there." He said, and gave a pause long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. It's a pause common to retirees and early-onset dementia victims. People in no rush to move a conversation forward. I tried to decide where he fell. He started talking again, "I have an ax up at my campsite..." He said. 

     Where the hell did I wind up? What is this crazy man talking about? I thought.

     Then he continued, "... Some wood, too. I saw you scavenging last night, head on up to campsite twelve and use that ax to split enough to get your fire going for the morning." 

 "Oh, uh..." I said, then continued to fill the dead air with the garbage chatter of young people. He sat and listened until I got to: "Thanks." Retired, not demented.

     "Well, you go ahead, we'll be gone fishin' until noon I suppose, go ahead and get you fire started." He said, flashed a long smile, and let the conversation hang until I felt uncomfortable again. Retirees work at their own speed. Then he waved and took off. Fishing, I suppose.

I felt like a looter standing outside his RV with an ax in hand, but the thick scent of pine and the masculine job at hand was distraction enough. With the wood stacked next to the fire ring - to save for later - I started another round of instant coffee in an old ravioli can over my camp stove which was just as big.

Around noon, the older couple returned and drove straight up to my camp site. I thought he might yell at me for stealing his wood, but he said,

    "Have you got anything to cook these on?" and opened his 50s style fly fishing bag to reveal a catch of small trout. 

   

I missed the point. He waited as I fumbled through, then tried again.

     "Have you got anything to cook these on?" I finally realized he was trying to give me fish - I had somehow been unable to grasp the concept.

    "I have this small stove." I said, and frowned at the little Coleman realizing how long it took to boil a can of water. I imagined a fish in an old Chef Boyardee can, tail sticking out half way.   "Ah, no." I said, after much oral bumbling. "Unless you've got a skillet, too..." And suddenly, I realized the old man had told me to build a fire three hours ago, a fire which would now be a perfect bed of embers that could be used to cook fish. The wiley bastard! He planned this from the beginning!

     "Unless you have some foil," I managed, " I could build that fire. 

     "That'll work." He said, then, "Have you got anything to put these in?" I held out a ziplock back and he gave me one small 'cutty' two small 'brookies,' and two small 'rainbow.' 

     "Have you got anything in the way of fixings? Bacon, Lemon pepper, that sort of thing?" 

     "I'm packed sort of light." I ran hand back and forth over my head.

     "I'll tell my wife." He said, and gave that long, retirement smile - and drove off.

     A few minutes later his wife bounced down from '#12' with lemon/lime pepper, crisco, bacon and foil. Her movements looked practiced, she moved quickly. She stuffed the bellies with bacon, put the citrus pepper everywhere, slapped lard on the foil, and told me how to fold it up. It took three minutes - max. I was astounded. What happened?

     "I... My name is Brady - my wife is Kelsie. I never got your names"

     "Oh, you two seem like a nice couple. My name is Penny and my wife is Alan. He's retired from the service and I've been a nurse since before there was dirt. When your fire is ready just put this on the grate." She said, and her final action, just like her first, was quick and decisive - and just like a nurse, she left without waiting to be thanked.

     I Couldn't find Alan and Penny over the next couple of days to tell them how fantastic the meal was (best fish I've ever eaten - and I'm from Minnesota, land of 10,000 lakes.) So, Penny and Alan, thanks - thanks for the best fish of my life. The Bighorns were full of people in no rush, feeling generous and wanting to talk. I'd go back in a heartbeat.