Memo: Ad Hoc Meeting at the Businessman's Club

I felt I had made a friend and experienced some unexpected, amusing things, which is a big part of why I like to go around the world and Colusa county fishing in the first place.

Time to add Grant county, WA. You know you're getting close when you start seeing the signs. On route 17 South toward hatchery road:

"HITCHHIKING NOT PROHIBITED"

Isn't there something warm and friendly (if odd) about explicitly pointing that out? Then, when you get on the gravel hatchery road, they let you know that you are getting warmer:

"PRIMITIVE ROAD"

Sure enough, the road leads to a primitive place full of primitive men. Rolling into the parking lot at Rocky Ford Creek, I learned a new nickname for my fishing buddy Mike. His pals Pete and Scott greeted him with a shout of, "HAIRY MIKE! How the $%#@ are ya! How's the ^@&!n@?"

"I got married last year."

"Oh, sorry about that . . ."

Mike's friends were not the type of guys to hold anything back. They were men with beards, waders, and large furry streamers tied on large-diameter tippet. But to make sure I got the point, Scott offered, two minutes after meeting me, to show me his (#%<, so that "I would understand the reason why." I declined. I think I understood why already.

Within an hour the four of us were lined up on a small 25-yard long run that must have held 200 fish milling in brisk water two feet deep. The trout were big, beautiful, and often aggressive, chasing down furry streamers as well as sipping in small scuds and mayfly nymphs. Lots of catching was going on; four primitive men were having primitive fun. An open 12-pack of PBR marked the center of the tribal territory, and loud conversations in harsh language warned the faint of heart to make an ample detour. For the first time ever, I was having fun fishing in a lineup.


If you know Rocky Ford Creek, then you know that very few of these fish were native, and that a lot of them were probably big fat hatchery brood stock let loose in the creek. Much of the creek is slow and clear and fairly tough fishing (we took one fish in a big, aquarium-like pool by the bridge) but certain sections are a bit more forgiving (like the one where we took about three dozen). Were we disappointed that the trout weren't highly evolved, pure bred natives? Oog say, "no $%#@! way."


For Mike and me it was a welcome change to be hooking so many trout. The day before, we took the trouble to arrange a shuttle, set up and rig up my inflatable two-man kayak, and float several miles down a very lovely stretch of the Yakima river --very scenic, but for us, not very fishy. One decent fish on a wooly bugger, one dink that ate a skwala stonefly dry, and two shake-and-snap offs. A lot of work for few fish, but someone's gotta do it.



Anyway, the fun down in Grant County does not end when you're off the water. Put away your tackle, shower up (or don't) and hie thee down to the Businessman's Club. Mike and Pete were long-standing members of this venerable institution, as proven by Pete's year 2000 membership card. Mike had a card too, and seemed envious that Pete's had the term "Businessmans" spelled correctly on it. We knocked on the door. A small aperture swung out on the side, and the barman stuck his head out. To Pete's request for special permission to renew his membership and bring in guests, he replied with a question: "How long has it been since you were last here?"

I guess it figures that a club for businessmen would slow down somewhat in the current economic climate. The large space had a dozen or so tables with only one or two other parties present on this Saturday night. The gambling table for a game called 4-5-6, at which Pete reportedly excels even though he has no idea of the rules, was shut down and empty. But the pool table was still working, and the Coors was still lite. We settled in for a good evening of hanging out and listening to Scott's hunting stories.

I won't even bother to tell how, after a while, a rather tightly wound young fellow in a tight ball cap tried to goad us into hostilities with Grant County. He ended up being ushered out the back door (a site of some considerable suspicious activity throughout the evening), and meanwhile a couple of cowboy-hat club members came over to meet us, share a round, and make up for any perceived lack of hospitality. Soon, a well-preserved rancher named Huey was making us feel nice and welcome by calling us "gunts."

"What are them, Pete, Wranglers or Levis yer wearin'?"
"Uh, these are kind of, uh, combination shorts and pants made of ripstop ny-"
"GUNT PANTS! Oh, boy. Darlin', come on over here and lookit this fella . . ."

(Note: the word gunt may be a vulgar term in some urban/suburban hip hop settings, but we believe Huey had an entirely different vulgar definition for it.)

Pete responded by giving Huey the affectionate name of "D!%#head, and we all got along fine. Scott, who introduced himself as "Santos" so that he could enjoy listening to the ranchers pronounce it, argued with Huey about what constitutes a world-class whitetail and mule deer. Huey had some good stories, and so did "SAN-TOSE." In addition to pictures of fresh kills, both had some pretty good pictures of pretty gals on their cell phones, too. We found that, though we hailed from very different places and did very different things for a living, there was more common ground than uncommon. And in the end, I felt I had made some friends and experienced some unexpected, amusing things, which is a big part of why I like to go around the world and Grant county fishing in the first place.