I started off the first steelhead fly fishing trip I've embarked upon in nearly a decade thinking a lot about Mexico. Sunshine, warm tropical waters, fancy state of the art equipment that rarely breaks down, and my usual team of collaborators and coconspirators around to assist me when I found myself in trouble, or in otherwise need of immediate help. Yes, Mexico sounds very good indeed when you are laying beneath your truck on a desolate highway in remote British Columbia in the pouring rain, fighting off the first stages of hypothermia, and bleeding profusely from a fresh wound to the head.
As I alternated wiping the rain, oil, mud, and blood from my eyes I thought a lot of Casa de Casas, the Maximo, and all of my friends and family down south. The weather would surely be better than the near-freezing temperatures, 35 knots of wind, and driving sideways rain that haunted my journey this morning. And despite all of the crazy, harrowing experiences i've endured in Latin America over the years I've somehow stopped short of dying on the side of a highway, alone, dripping blood, bone drenched and freezing.
On this particular morning, dreaming of better times, I found myself stranded on highway 19 between Port Alberni and Tofino, a scant forty five minutes from home, but a very long goddamn way from anything in any direction. The journey, scarcely begun, was not off to a favorable start.
The plan was for me to drive from Tofino to Nanaimo, take the ferry across to Vancouver, meet up with my friends Mike and Mike, pick-up a canopy for my truck, load up the jet boat, pack all the gear, and vamanos for Smithers, British Columbia on Friday. If all went as planned, and we managed to drive all night from Vancouver to Smithers, we should have had camp set up, the boat in the water, and flies shooting forth from Spey rods towards prime wild steelhead by Sunday morning, forty eight hours later. Oh the best laid plans of mice and men....
Thanks to two cups of coffee I drank while leaving Tofino at six am on this particular morning, I made it past the junction near Ucluelet, across Kennedy Lake, over the switchback mountains and the upper Kennedy River, and damn near all the way to Port Alberni before I had to take a dump. I pulled my trusty 1996 Chevrolet 2500 Sierra over into the entrance to an old abandoned logging road, shut the truck off, and hopped out of the cab to go dig a hole. Given the severity of the rain, relentlessly pouring in amazonian-like sheets, my plan was to make it a quick one.
For some strange reason I had this nagging feeling while I urged my lower intestine to hurry that I shouldn't have shut the truck off way out here in the wilderness. I finished up, reached for some freshly fallen leaves, re-boarded the pick-up, and went to start ol' Betsy up when that little man on my shoulder yelled "I TOLD YOU SO ARSEHOLE!" in my ear as the starter went CHICK-CHICK-GRIND-RATATTATTTATTAAA-FUQ!
Always one to appreciate some of life's little ironies, I actually laughed out loud for a second. But as the rain continued to pour, and the windows began to fog from within, and the cold began to creep into the cab, I stopped laughing and started calculating. Ok, no big deal - it's just a starter. But do you have a spare? No, of course not. Tow truck? Unfortunately. Do you have BCAA? (Canada's equivalent to AAA roadside service) Yes, good. Cell phone reception way out here in the boonies? After a quick check of the phone, no service. Chit. Time of day? Early, won't be any traffic for an hour if I'm lucky. Tools? Yup. OK then you can kill time ripping out the old starter to hasten repairs once the tow truck arrives to take ol' Betsy to town for a quick starter swap-out.
I dug out my tools, squirmed under the truck in cold, thick, juicy mud and got down to business. I told myself to keep a sharp ear turned for any oncoming traffic in either direction. As I was a good fifty feet from the highway, tucked down the entrance to a decommissioned logging road, i'd have to run out to the main road to flag someone down, give them the number to BCAA for me, a general description of my location, and hope that they would pass that along to the tow truck company, whom would allegedly then come and save me. Seemed like a simple and straightforward plan of action, until the first car went by.
WHOOSH.
Chit, i thought. I didn't even hear that one coming! I squirmed out from under ol' Betsy and ran to the main road. Gone. I waited for another ten minutes in the pouring rain until I convinced myself that I would certainly hear the next car coming, now that I was prepared to expect it. I got back under the truck and went to work removing the old starter. Two minutes later WHOOOSH! Another car blows by on the highway. FUQ!
I run back to the road, gone. I wait another ten minutes in the driving rain, nada. My mind is beginning to play tricks on me now. Stand at the road, wait for a car, or rip the starter off and see if miraculously i can fix it. There is a part of my brain that knows all too well that there is no way in hell i will ever be able to rebuild a starter on the side of the road in the wilderness without parts or proper machine tools, but that little man on my shoulder does a good job of convincing the rest of me that I am a very good wilderness mechanic and by all means can I fix the goddamn thing myself.
Back under the truck i go. The rain has created a series of rivers that run beneath the truck now. They converge under the engine and create a makeshift reservoir where my body weight has indented the mud. I crawl into the lake. It is cold, very cold, and i am shivering.
WHOOSH. And then WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH.
CHIT! That's four cars in a row!
Again the little man on my shoulder assures me that all i have to do is remove the starter, fix it, reinstall it, and i'll be on my way.
I have never removed a starter, let alone rebuilt one, before in my life. The little man on my shoulder dismisses these facts and passes me the 1/2" socket.
WHOOSH. WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH.
I hear at least six more vehicles go by in either direction, I am hip deep in the lake under the truck by now. It's raining harder. The water is rising.
I manage to get one of the mounting bolts off with ease, the remaining bolt is not cooperating. The little man on my shoulder offers encouragement. I go for the hammer.
On the third or fourth whack i miss the handle on the ratchet and smoke myself square in the mouth with the flat part of the hammer, opening up a nasty gash in my mouth, now I am bleeding. And swearing. The little man on my shoulder is knocked unconscious by the blow and i squirm out from the truck, dripping muddy water, and stumble towards the main road. The blood is really coming out of my mouth. I am freezing, wet, and spitting out bloody chunks of gum tissue. Swearing makes me feel a little better.
About ten feet from the main drag a large truck carrying fish farm food WHOOSHES by. Then another. It is a goddamn convoy and I am running for my life towards the road but when i get there they are gone. With all the rain, and wind, and nastiness in their mirrors they never look back, or fail to stop for the bloody, muddy monster running after them in their side-views. I really swear this time, but it is no longer making me feel better.
I wait for ten minutes on the side of the road. Nothing in either direction. I manage to light a cigarette. After a few drags it is covered in blood too, and I remind myself that i should finally quit smoking. The bloody cigarette is a metaphor, i throw it into the mud.
Finally, after nearly twenty more minutes a lone white pick-up truck comes down the road. I run into the middle of the highway and make the truck stop. The driver rolls down his window and asks me if i'm okay, if there's been an accident. No no no, i tell him. I'm going steelhead fishing, everything is fine.
He takes one look at me, at the mud and the blood, and asks how he can help. I give him my BCAA information, tell him to let the roadside assistance operator know that i need a tow into Port Alberni to replace a blown starter, and make sure that he knows how to give them directions to my location. Okay, he says, and asks me again if I'm sure I'm OK. No problem, I say, I'll be here waiting for the tow truck. He drives off.
I crawl back under ol' Betsy, pick up the hammer and ratchet again, and start dreaming of Mexico. My thoughts are warm, but my soaking wet and bloody body is shivering. I almost think i hate Canada, but i stop short.
Two hours later when the tow truck finally arrives i have succeeded in removing the starter. I am holding it on the side of the road like a proud daddy when the tow truck driver shows up. The operator is a large, overweight Native guy. He asks me if i've been in an accident. No no no, i tell him. Showing him the failed starting motor, I'm going steelhead fishing, i say, and i need to get to Port Alberni to buy a new starter. You're bleeding, he says. Yes, i tell him, i had some trouble with the starter. He nods. I think he knows what i mean.
He wastes no time hooking up my truck in the rain, i dig out a fresh change of clothes from my gear and change while he's busy. We spend the remaining forty five minute drive to the parts store in Port Alberni talking about fishing. When we arrive he unhooks my truck in the parking lot of the parts store and sticks around to help me install a new starter. I have trouble with the shims so he calls one of his buddies who comes down and finishes the job in the parking lot. I finally get on my way at two in the afternoon, eight hours after i left Tofino earlier that morning. The little man on my shoulder regains consciousness and says - hey, that wasn't that bad!
As I alternated wiping the rain, oil, mud, and blood from my eyes I thought a lot of Casa de Casas, the Maximo, and all of my friends and family down south. The weather would surely be better than the near-freezing temperatures, 35 knots of wind, and driving sideways rain that haunted my journey this morning. And despite all of the crazy, harrowing experiences i've endured in Latin America over the years I've somehow stopped short of dying on the side of a highway, alone, dripping blood, bone drenched and freezing.
On this particular morning, dreaming of better times, I found myself stranded on highway 19 between Port Alberni and Tofino, a scant forty five minutes from home, but a very long goddamn way from anything in any direction. The journey, scarcely begun, was not off to a favorable start.
The plan was for me to drive from Tofino to Nanaimo, take the ferry across to Vancouver, meet up with my friends Mike and Mike, pick-up a canopy for my truck, load up the jet boat, pack all the gear, and vamanos for Smithers, British Columbia on Friday. If all went as planned, and we managed to drive all night from Vancouver to Smithers, we should have had camp set up, the boat in the water, and flies shooting forth from Spey rods towards prime wild steelhead by Sunday morning, forty eight hours later. Oh the best laid plans of mice and men....
Thanks to two cups of coffee I drank while leaving Tofino at six am on this particular morning, I made it past the junction near Ucluelet, across Kennedy Lake, over the switchback mountains and the upper Kennedy River, and damn near all the way to Port Alberni before I had to take a dump. I pulled my trusty 1996 Chevrolet 2500 Sierra over into the entrance to an old abandoned logging road, shut the truck off, and hopped out of the cab to go dig a hole. Given the severity of the rain, relentlessly pouring in amazonian-like sheets, my plan was to make it a quick one.
For some strange reason I had this nagging feeling while I urged my lower intestine to hurry that I shouldn't have shut the truck off way out here in the wilderness. I finished up, reached for some freshly fallen leaves, re-boarded the pick-up, and went to start ol' Betsy up when that little man on my shoulder yelled "I TOLD YOU SO ARSEHOLE!" in my ear as the starter went CHICK-CHICK-GRIND-RATATTATTTATTAAA-FUQ!
Always one to appreciate some of life's little ironies, I actually laughed out loud for a second. But as the rain continued to pour, and the windows began to fog from within, and the cold began to creep into the cab, I stopped laughing and started calculating. Ok, no big deal - it's just a starter. But do you have a spare? No, of course not. Tow truck? Unfortunately. Do you have BCAA? (Canada's equivalent to AAA roadside service) Yes, good. Cell phone reception way out here in the boonies? After a quick check of the phone, no service. Chit. Time of day? Early, won't be any traffic for an hour if I'm lucky. Tools? Yup. OK then you can kill time ripping out the old starter to hasten repairs once the tow truck arrives to take ol' Betsy to town for a quick starter swap-out.
I dug out my tools, squirmed under the truck in cold, thick, juicy mud and got down to business. I told myself to keep a sharp ear turned for any oncoming traffic in either direction. As I was a good fifty feet from the highway, tucked down the entrance to a decommissioned logging road, i'd have to run out to the main road to flag someone down, give them the number to BCAA for me, a general description of my location, and hope that they would pass that along to the tow truck company, whom would allegedly then come and save me. Seemed like a simple and straightforward plan of action, until the first car went by.
WHOOSH.
Chit, i thought. I didn't even hear that one coming! I squirmed out from under ol' Betsy and ran to the main road. Gone. I waited for another ten minutes in the pouring rain until I convinced myself that I would certainly hear the next car coming, now that I was prepared to expect it. I got back under the truck and went to work removing the old starter. Two minutes later WHOOOSH! Another car blows by on the highway. FUQ!
I run back to the road, gone. I wait another ten minutes in the driving rain, nada. My mind is beginning to play tricks on me now. Stand at the road, wait for a car, or rip the starter off and see if miraculously i can fix it. There is a part of my brain that knows all too well that there is no way in hell i will ever be able to rebuild a starter on the side of the road in the wilderness without parts or proper machine tools, but that little man on my shoulder does a good job of convincing the rest of me that I am a very good wilderness mechanic and by all means can I fix the goddamn thing myself.
Back under the truck i go. The rain has created a series of rivers that run beneath the truck now. They converge under the engine and create a makeshift reservoir where my body weight has indented the mud. I crawl into the lake. It is cold, very cold, and i am shivering.
WHOOSH. And then WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH.
CHIT! That's four cars in a row!
Again the little man on my shoulder assures me that all i have to do is remove the starter, fix it, reinstall it, and i'll be on my way.
I have never removed a starter, let alone rebuilt one, before in my life. The little man on my shoulder dismisses these facts and passes me the 1/2" socket.
WHOOSH. WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH.
I hear at least six more vehicles go by in either direction, I am hip deep in the lake under the truck by now. It's raining harder. The water is rising.
I manage to get one of the mounting bolts off with ease, the remaining bolt is not cooperating. The little man on my shoulder offers encouragement. I go for the hammer.
On the third or fourth whack i miss the handle on the ratchet and smoke myself square in the mouth with the flat part of the hammer, opening up a nasty gash in my mouth, now I am bleeding. And swearing. The little man on my shoulder is knocked unconscious by the blow and i squirm out from the truck, dripping muddy water, and stumble towards the main road. The blood is really coming out of my mouth. I am freezing, wet, and spitting out bloody chunks of gum tissue. Swearing makes me feel a little better.
About ten feet from the main drag a large truck carrying fish farm food WHOOSHES by. Then another. It is a goddamn convoy and I am running for my life towards the road but when i get there they are gone. With all the rain, and wind, and nastiness in their mirrors they never look back, or fail to stop for the bloody, muddy monster running after them in their side-views. I really swear this time, but it is no longer making me feel better.
I wait for ten minutes on the side of the road. Nothing in either direction. I manage to light a cigarette. After a few drags it is covered in blood too, and I remind myself that i should finally quit smoking. The bloody cigarette is a metaphor, i throw it into the mud.
Finally, after nearly twenty more minutes a lone white pick-up truck comes down the road. I run into the middle of the highway and make the truck stop. The driver rolls down his window and asks me if i'm okay, if there's been an accident. No no no, i tell him. I'm going steelhead fishing, everything is fine.
He takes one look at me, at the mud and the blood, and asks how he can help. I give him my BCAA information, tell him to let the roadside assistance operator know that i need a tow into Port Alberni to replace a blown starter, and make sure that he knows how to give them directions to my location. Okay, he says, and asks me again if I'm sure I'm OK. No problem, I say, I'll be here waiting for the tow truck. He drives off.
I crawl back under ol' Betsy, pick up the hammer and ratchet again, and start dreaming of Mexico. My thoughts are warm, but my soaking wet and bloody body is shivering. I almost think i hate Canada, but i stop short.
Two hours later when the tow truck finally arrives i have succeeded in removing the starter. I am holding it on the side of the road like a proud daddy when the tow truck driver shows up. The operator is a large, overweight Native guy. He asks me if i've been in an accident. No no no, i tell him. Showing him the failed starting motor, I'm going steelhead fishing, i say, and i need to get to Port Alberni to buy a new starter. You're bleeding, he says. Yes, i tell him, i had some trouble with the starter. He nods. I think he knows what i mean.
He wastes no time hooking up my truck in the rain, i dig out a fresh change of clothes from my gear and change while he's busy. We spend the remaining forty five minute drive to the parts store in Port Alberni talking about fishing. When we arrive he unhooks my truck in the parking lot of the parts store and sticks around to help me install a new starter. I have trouble with the shims so he calls one of his buddies who comes down and finishes the job in the parking lot. I finally get on my way at two in the afternoon, eight hours after i left Tofino earlier that morning. The little man on my shoulder regains consciousness and says - hey, that wasn't that bad!
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