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THE TOP 10 FUNNIEST MOMENTS WITH ROD:
(In no particular order....)
1. Is that a sheep or just a guardrail?
About 5 years ago, Rod and I were making our way back to Anchorage in my ranger pickup truck. At the time we were cruising along the stretch of highway from Summit Lakes to the Turnagain Highway. By nature, I always seem to be more alert during these periods of highway driving, and thus, I tend to see a lot more wildlife along the highway. This time however, Rod was awake and I guess determined to spot some game. We are bombing down the road when Rod spots something ahead. He perks up and says...."There, is that a sheep" and then his voice depresses a bit.."Or just a guardrail?"
Okay, Rod, I know we've been out in the wilderness awhile, but come on, a sheep or a guardrail? Let's see one is a four-legged white haired grass eating creature, the other is inanimate and made of steel.
I gave him crap about that comment for the rest of the drive home.
One summer when Rodney came up for a week of fishing with me on the Kenai, we were sitting around in the camper just hanging out. Our neighbors at the time were a group of frenchies who we were making funny comments about. As we are like to do, we started talking in our poor frenchy accents to each other. Then I got a terrible idea, though it seemed funny at the time - for the rest of the time that Rod and I were together fishing we were going to speak in our "frenchy accents". We went fishing, ate at restaurants, went into stores all week long talking in our phony frenchy accents. However stupid we seemed to everyone else, we sure had fun with it. Over the week we developed our frenchy personalities, as well. Rod was "zee butcher" while I was "zee slayer". I thought Rod was aptly named to fit his fishing style: big salmon rod, heavy line, enough split shot to make a chain link fence, and a propensity for snagging fish in the ass. He truly was a butcher at sockeye fishing. On the other hand, I was a very graceful fly-rodding, slow drifting, mouth hooking gentleman fisher. I was truly a slayer, winning nearly every daily limit challenge. Over the years the names have stuck as well as the identifying accents. When looking for Rod along Eagle Creek I must only cry out for "zee butcher" and listen for his frenchy "uh huh huh huh" reply to know that he is near.
3. Losing all his flies and mine, too
It was 1998 and Rod had just made it up to Alaska for a week of fishing. The first day we fished the airport and I just kicked butt getting my 3-limit in no time at all. Rod lost every fish he hooked and was just down in the dumps. Not only that but he lost every coho fly that he had. As I came up to fish with him I noticed that he was just sitting along the bank, his rod laying in the weeds. I asked what was going on. He said that he’d lost all of his hooks and couldn’t fish anymore. Well it wasn’t that surprising given the way he rigs up….no leader….granny knot…and 72 split shot. He must wrap around every single rock on every cast…and then he’s such a yanker that he breaks off on every foul hook. Well, since I wanted him to have a good time I told him that I’d walk up to the car and get him my pack of reserve hooks. In the meantime I gave him a fly to put on and told him to watch my pole until I got back. With renewed vigor he picked up his stuff and tied up and got into the water. I left him and made the 5 minute round trip to get him some flies. Now to be honest I actually was in a hurry..I wanted to get back to my spot and do some catch and release while Rod tried to finally bank one... I didn’t dilly-dally or anything like that. So it couldn’t have been more than 5-7 minutes before I got back to Rod at the river. So I make it down the trail and there is Rod sitting on the river bank again….rod laying abandoned in the weeds. I ask him what happened….he tells me, “lost my fly again.” I start laughing my ass of at him in derision. But wait, that’s not the funny part. I go to grab my rod….”what the hell?”. My rod is resting up against a tree…..empty leader dangling from the end of the rod. “I lost your fly, too” he says. It took me another 10 minutes to recover from that gut burst of laughter before I could bring myself to fish again.
4. Getting Skunked at Funny River
So, Rod was pretty much demoralized with that first session effort on his first day of fishing. So, wanting a change of scenery, we moved up to the Funny River campground. I was sure this spot would renew the glory of the prior year when he easily 6-limited out in under 3 hours on his first day ever in Alaska. Certainly, this would turn it around for him. Now there aren’t that many great spots at the Funny so we took turns fishing the log hole. I didn’t need to fish all that much since I already had three fish on the bank (limit=6) so it was a low pressure outing for me. And so we commenced the fishing expedition. We agreed to take turns on the hole, changing after a snag or a fish or a missed fish. As it turned out, I’d hook and land a fish, and then Rod would snag the log and break his fly. While he was tying on, I’d hook and land another. He’d make a few casts and then snag the same log again. So I stepped out and hooked and landed another fish. Rod stepped out and snagged and lost a fish. Then he’d throw too far upstream and run his line under or through the log and snap and break-off. He kept trying until the clincher. Rod finally hooks into another fish. “Fish on he yells”. At that very second the red makes a brilliant move and leaps out of the water striking Rod squarely in the chest and knocking him onto his ass. Whack…Rod’s line breaks and the fish was gone. That was it for him. I’ve never had a friend throw his rod down in disgust, he was so pissed I can hardly believe that he didn’t break that rod over his leg. He was truly defeated that day, while I had my 6-limit for the day. It was a riot. Later on we went back to the airport where Rod became famous for his ineptitude. From his evening session he told me that he hooked and lost at least 20 fish that evening. Not a single one made it to the bank. However, due to the vast numbers of hookups that he had his stock had risen in the sight of others…and that’s just as important on the river…the respect of your fellow fishermen.
Rod and I had just caught our limits and were cleaning our fish. We were in a bit of a rush because we needed to get cleaned up and headed off to Homer for the next morning's halibut charter. As Rod was carving on one of his sockeye he missed the fish and made a nice gaping gash around the top of his middle finger. It was a real bleeder alright. Take a look at that photo, and you can see how white and swollen that knuckle is on his right hand.
Rod is a singer at heart. I first met him when he came to audition as the singer for our band. That said we have a tendency to break into spontaneous story in song when we're on long drives. I remember the greatest hits from our drive down to Homer was Rod's chart topper - "Needle and thread" sung as an ode to his gaping filet gash. That one cracked me up for a good hundred miles. It's still one of my favorite songs to this day.
6. Falling asleep driving to the Gulkana
I’ve told this story many times to many different people, often in the midst of a journey to a far away fishing hole. The tale goes like this….Rod and I started out on a journey at about midnight in order to make it from Anchorage to the Denali Hwy just west of Paxson. We wanted to be there early in the morning to ensure that we would be able to rent 4-wheelers for a journey into the middle-fork of the Gulkana near Swede Lake. Since the rental outfit had no phone number to speak of a reservation was impossible, so we had to actually ensure our rental by being first in line. So, it is already very late and I’ve already put in a long day of fishing plus a two-hour drive back from the Russian. But since it is my truck and I’m the guide of the party I’m at the wheel again for the journey north. The trip will easily take 5 hours and about 350 miles to complete. And we want to be there by 8am or so…we figure that’s early enough to be first in line. With that plan we figure to make the majority of the drive at night and then nap when we get within striking distance of the rental shop. That’ll be better than sleeping now and driving straight through. So, we start out and hit the Glenn Highway. Rod launches into what has become his normal passenger appearance – deep coma. I’m left with a bottle of coke for a wake-up buzz and the radio as company. I’m able to make it about 2 hours before I start getting jealous of Rod’s snoring. So, I pull over, take a leak, wake Rod up and hand him a can of coke as an eye-opener. Though at first he seems a little groggy he tells me he’s fine and ready to drive the next stretch. We start out again, down the Glenn Highway, with my turn for a nice snooze. Within moments I’m out in my own personal coma that I had been wishing for only moments earlier. I don’t exactly know what happened next, whether it was fate or God or a pothole, but my eyes open and I momentarily regain consciousness. I focus on the highway ahead and notice that we are way over in the oncoming traffic lane going about 50 miles an hour. Then I look over at Rod. His head is bent forward, eyes closed in a deeper sleep than he had as a passenger. About this time I think to myself…”This is not good”. At this point a million thoughts go through my head….I can yell at Rod and startle him so he crashes, I can grab the wheel and fight for control, I could jump out, I could I could….well you get the picture. Fortunately I chose a good option. I reached over to Rod and thumped him on the shoulder and said “hey”. That had the effect of him regaining consciousness. Slowly he raises up his head and drifts the ranger back into our correct lane. He didn't say a word. No apology, no "I'm sorry, man", or anything like that. Only after he regained control did I let him have it. And then I was so paranoid I couldn’t sleep the rest of his shift…no way in hell.
We finally made it early morning to Mike’s to rent the 4-wheelers for our journey into the Gulkana. Our target was grayling….and I promised Rod lots of action. Also I told him that there were kings and reds laying in there, too, so we brought our light spinning rods. We were going for a day trip only, so we had packed fairly lightly. I had the red coleman cooler on the back of my rig. Rod had some other supplies on his.
The ride in was fairly uneventful. The trail was pretty damp and muddy, and even though we had our waders on, we rode to avoid contact with the mud. I wasn’t in the mood to goof off on the way in. I wanted to make it there in one piece. Well we made slow progress through the bog. I had to pull Rod out once or twice with the tow rope in order to free his machine. I remember we stopped before a deep water pool on the trail to gather ourselves before setting off again. We were about 30 minutes into the 2-hour trip at this point. Rod started off through a deep water puddle. He revved his machine up and spun the tires through the bog. I watched in amazement as his machine barely made it through, shaky and whirring as though it would get sucked under. Then he emerged from the other side of the pool, fully intact. Well, if he could make it so could I…..so off I went. I hit the water pool at top speed….the water slowed my machine dramatically. I made it half way across the pool and my machine started going slower and slower and sinking lower and lower. My tires we spinning in the ruts that Rod’s machine had just made. As a result of that, and the extra 50lbs from my flab and heavily laden coleman cooler…I bogged down. I remember in slow motion that moment when my machine stopped moving altogether and just wheezed to a stop as the water poured in over the air intake. Pretty much everything was underwater except the seat and my handle-bars. This is bad…I’ve killed it…Rod is laughing and I’m struck with fear!! I instantly leap off the machine in a dreaded panic. In seconds I have the tow-rope out and am instructing Rod how to drag the machine out of the mud. In a few moments we have the soaked machine pulled free. We flip the machine over and drain the air intake of water and mud. It is still clogged with muck, but I’m thinking it should be okay. The indicator light comes on when I turn on the starter. I hold my breath as we try to start the machine….click click whheeeeee….wheeee…..nothing. It won’t start….all the trying in the world is only going to kill the battery, too. So, we try to clean and dry all the contact points and the spark plug in hopes of getting a better electrical contact. Whee……….whheee….dammit…not starting. I am pissed, grumpy, downtrodden, angry, and embarrassed. What are we going to do? So we decide to wait about 10 more minutes and try in again. Hopefully, the darn thing will dry out and come to its senses and start up. 10 minutes later yield the same results as earlier. I am resolved that I have to make the decision that I didn’t want to…Rod, you have to ride back and get Mike to help. This is a risky decision. Rod will be traveling all alone, he’s not too familiar with the trail direction, and he has to not get stuck, himself….something that he’s already done twice on the ride in. Rod takes his rescue mission seriously though and off he rides, leaving me with the broke machine and the blue tarp. I construct a shelter from the rain and hide underneath, hoping to protect myself from the elements and any bears that might be strolling along. It is a long lonely wait I have in store for myself. Every noise is a grizzly coming to eat the stranded fisherman. Every minute alone is another thought that Rod got himself stuck along the way. No help is coming. I’m stranded. In another hour I’ll have to face facts and begin the long walk back to the truck. Wasted money and fishing opportunities are all that’s in store for me today.
After what seemed like 2 eternities but was only about an hour, I began to hear the roar of 4-wheelers in the distance. Closer and closer they came until it was certain that my rescue party had arrived. I got the funny look of a disapproving father from Mike, who of course lectured me in the do’s and don’ts of 4-wheeler rentals. He also reminded me of the $50 surcharge for coming out to my rescue. Over he went to the 4-wheeler and once again tipped it over to free the mud flow from underneath the seat intake. He then tried to start it to no avail. Immediately he went to the back of the 4-wheeler to a secret storage compartment and produced a spare spark-plug. Thirty seconds later the plug was changed and the 4-wheeler breathed new life. Now wait a minute, no one ever told us that we were carrying spare parts or had a secret parts compartment. Don’t you think that should be part of the orientation process as well? Heck, Rod or I could’ve changed that ourselves had we known it was there. Just chalk it up to ignorance….on my part that is. Well, minutes later Rod and I were back on the road to the Gulkana….riding a much more conservative path, too.
An hour and a half later we had made our destination. The rain had quit for the moment and though things were wet the river looked fishable. The water level was okay and the color was fine - I saw no reason that the prior events should dampen our fishing plans. With the past events out of mind I quickly returned to my former slayer self and began to lecture Rod on the finer points of grayling fishing. This was going to be a slaughter fest I told him as I made my first cast……and bingo…to prove a point an aggressive grayling shot out of the water with my fly in his mouth. Fish on! I landed the nice 12-incher proving to Rod that this was going to be a cake walk. How little did I know that would be the only grayling we saw all day long!
So, we took off down the river in search of some more of those feisty grayling. After fishing two or three holes without any luck it became apparent that something was very wrong. Where were the fish? This had become one of those funny days that I’ve read about…one of those days where the normally aggressive grayling, a fish you could catch blindfolded with barely a strand of yarn on your hook, had decided to take the day off. I tried all kinds of flies wet and dry but couldn’t get another hookup to save my life….and this after all we had been through just to make it here.
Luckily, there were some other prey en masse to throw our baits at….kings….and lots of them. In fact, I noticed that there were more kings in the river than I had ever seen before. Every hole held a couple. Spawning season had definitely arrived. Neither Rod nor I had any intention of taking home one of these battle hardened creatures, but we sure weren’t against battling a few on light tackle in this shallow water environment. I remember the first king I hooked into with my fly rod and 4 lb leader…..for the first 30 seconds I don’t even thing the king knew he was hooked. When he finally did realize something was sticking in him he ran 20 yards in a flash and wrapped around a log snapping my leader in no time. After that I put on some heavier test line and Rod and I both enjoyed numerous fights with these big red monsters. For all of you law abiding sportsters who are reading this passage with blood boiling, rest assured we did no damage. No king was taken out of the water, or belly ripped open by our splashing around. We simply took our aggressions out on these easily hooked kings. In all, we hooked kings off and on for a couple of hours until we couldn’t take anymore and until the rain began falling again. We made our way back to our machines and setup a tarped shelter to wait out the rainstorm. It rained hard for a good hour and a half…and I mean hard.
Finally, the rain began to let up and we decided that we might have a good window of opportunity to make our break back to civilization. I cautioned Rod that the muddy trail would be even more hazardous on our way home. So, off we went back up the big hill that took us out of the Gulkana valley and we hit the muddy trail. I was correct about the effects of the rainstorm….every puddle and dip that we came to was fresh full of water…many more inches deep than before. But, we slogged away without apprehension. What started as careful detours around deep mud puddles soon became a contest of who could make the biggest splash. Adorned in our fishing waders neither one of us had a care in the world for staying clean. We raced to be the first to hit the deep puddles. If a pool looked exceptionally deep we went back for seconds just to make sure. Riding with carefree abandon we had the time of our lives – mud bogging for all it was worth. The only challenge to our ride was keeping the mud and water out of our eyes. I used a combination of a mosquito net, hand towel, and sun glasses to deflect the muck from my eyes. It was barely adequate. I had to stop a number of times to clean my glasses before I finally gave up on them. We had a number of exciting episodes including one bog that I hit first….I ran into the bog and began to slow down as I lost traction, however, Rod came bombing along behind me at top speed. I looked back and saw him coming to. From the look on his face I knew he wasn’t able to stop either, the moisture from the mud and water had already reduced his mostly ineffective breaks to a new level of non-existence. He rammed the back of my machine at about 15 mph. Thank goodness they’re rentals! Fortunately, his momentum was the perfect thing to push my machine back into the go forward mode, and off I went again. Rod, a bit dazed from the abrupt stop quickly gunned his machine back into action and took off again. Well, anyways we bogged and bogged and hit puddles and took jumps and crisscrossed our way through the tundra back towards the gravel pit entry of the trailhead. By the time we got back to the trailhead, Rod’s machine was starting to poop out. I think it had swallowed too much mud and water on the trip and had a clogged intake. He was able to muster only about half of his original horsepower and was just putt-putting along behind me. My machine was still in fine condition and I was just kicking his ass flying circles around him in the gravel lot. However, soon we faced the facts and knew it was time to motor the last mile up along the highway back to the rental cabin. About halfway between the trailhead lot and the rental cabin we came upon another gravel pit. I noticed that this pit had a nicely graded 45degree angle of gravel that led up to a flatter surface. One look is all I needed to pronounce to Rod…”launching pad!!” I gunned my machine and hit the ramp at nearly full throttle and away I went….a good ten feet in the air with hang time that would’ve made Ray Guy jealous. I landed on all four wheels with a resounding “whump” and then powered around in a hard-braking 180…..I think "shit-eating grin" would describe the smile on my face. Next came Rod, his machine gasping and wheezing for life….he barely made it over the hump and caught no air at all. Heehee…off I go again. I circled my machine and took another run….Yahhhoooo……whump….another Evil Knievel-like jump..…I think I cleared at least 17 school buses that time. Rodney looked on with envy - his machine barely able to clear the ramp without rolling back down. I took a few more runs at the ramp….keep this up I think and I’ll be buying this machine. I can only imagine how much of a pounding I gave that 4-wheeler. After a few more jumps I conceded to Rod’s wishes and gave him command of my machine. In no time he quickly matched the daring and expertise of my jumps. After 4 or 5 of his jumps I think we both felt that the day was a complete success (regardless of the fact we had no fish to show for our journey, heck the mud-bogging was worth every penny we paid for that day’s rental). Minutes later we had the machines back at the rental cabins…not a spot of clean on either of the bikes. Luckily for us, Mike had left and just some of the kids were there to take back our machines. I heard one of the kids mutter how this was the dirtiest he had ever seen a machine….and so it was I assume. As it was, both Rod and I were covered every inch by mud. Thank goodness for those chestwaders. We peeled them off and doused our muddied heads with the water jug. I paid my rental and the $50.00 helpers fee, got back my visa deposit slip…and we were out of there!
8. Hand-Landing Sockeye at the Funny River
Admittedly, I am brutal with rod-tips. Rod, however, is even more brutal with reels and backlashes. His first ever day of fishing in Alaska was up at the Funny River campground. Rod had 3 or 4 sockeye on the bank in his first hour and was just having a great time. But he kept having a problem with the baitcaster reel that he had borrowed from Mike James. Not being used to baitcasters, Rod had got it into perpetual backlash mode with every other cast he made. Eventually out close to the swirling eddy near the mouth of the Funny River, rod hooks up with another red. The trouble begins. For whatever reason, Rod's reel can peel out line at an astonishing rate, but it is usable to reel line in. It is just bound up really badly. So, there Rod is standing out in the Kenai with a nice big sockeye pumping his rod like mad, and he's ignoring the fish and poking and prodding at the spool on his reel. The fish is getting farther and farther away from the bank all the while....
Finally, Rod gives up. He pretty much just throws his rod down onto the bank in disgust. That in itself was pretty funny. But, in a show of bravado, he grabs his line and starts yarding his fish in by hand. It is a pretty good battle that lasts for about 5-10minutes. Eventually, he is able to recover his fish and bring it to the bank. As fate has it, the sockeye is a totally disgusting looking frankenstein of a fish. One side has been completely shredded by nets or seals or whatever. But there is no way that after what he went through that Rod could bring himself to release this fish. And so on the stringer goes frankenstein and another story is born.
9. Showing up for an Alaska vacation with only $7.00
The year is 1998. I've driven up to Alaska in my pickup truck and have been camping and fishing for weeks. Before I left I tried to convince Rod to come up for a week and join me. He says he'll try. Every time I make it to Anchorage I call him and tell him to fly up and meet me. He says it doesn't look good this year, sorry. So, back off I go to Soldotna. Then one evening I call Wayne and check in with him to see how he's doing and to report on my success. This time he also has some information for me - by the way he says - Rod called and he's flying into Anchorage tomorrow night. What the heck? So, cutting my amazing fishing outing a bit short I hightail it back to Anchorage the next day to get Rodney at the airport.
I make it to the airport in time to greet Rod coming off of his plane. We get into the pickup and head to Carr's on the way out of town. It's at this point that Rod decides he can't hide the news from me any longer....
"Mike, how much is a fishing license?" he asks.
"I think 50 bucks for a one week, non-resident" I tell him.
"Uhh, that's gonna be a problem" he responds.
"Oh yeah, why's that?"
"Uhhmmm, I only brought seven dollars" he says.
I can't believe what I'm hearing. How can you go to Alaska on a week's fishing trip and only bring seven fricking dollars? This is incredible. Well, even to this day, I'm not quite sure what the rational for his lack of funding was, but it was definitely vintage Rodney. So, I drive over to an ATM machine and withdraw $300 of my own funds. I hand him the money and tell him - "This is a loan. You are paying it back when I get home. Spend it wisely grasshopper". Rod nods in understanding.
The long and short of it is that we had a fine week after that. When I got back Rod was able to come up with about $100 a few weeks after my return. About six months later I got a call from him - he told me to come out to his house, he had my other $200. So, I make the 45 minute trek out to the wilderness that is Mulino, Oregon. I get to Rods and he meets me out by my truck in his driveway - money in hand. Like a gameshow host he counts out the $20 bills as he places them in my open palm. After a few seconds he hits $200 dollars - yay. Debt paid in full. With that he turns to me and says,
"Hey Mike, I've got a favor I need to ask you"
"Oh yeah, what's that Rod?"
"Can I borrow a hundred bucks?"
AAHHHHHHHGGGGGGG!!!
The second sockeye run of year 2000 was a bit strange. Things never materialized like I had hoped. Oh I caught my fish alright, but this was not turning out to be a banner year. Rod flew in again for another week's adventure. He was really eager to get going, but on the way down I cautioned him that the fishing was only so so. We hauled butt from the airport, but we still didn't make it pass the highway closure near the Sterling Highway. As a result, we took a nap near Summit Lake with the intent on getting up at first light and making it the rest of the way to Soldotna when the highway re-opened.
As is the norm. once you go to sleep, all plans that are based on "early am" risings sometimes come and go. We didn't wake up until about 8am. Still an hour away from our spot I told Rod, man we're going to have to be lucky to find a place to fish - as it was Saturday and I was sure all of the locals would be out. So we took off in a hurry.
We made it to the airport at about 9am. We got dressed and readied up for Rod's first session of his vacation. We walked down the trail and emerged just down from the log hole. Luckily, the river wasn't as crowded as I had feared. I told Rod to follow me upstream a bit to fish the log-hole. As we waded up the river a few yards, we both spotted something black floating down the river. Hard to make out at first, we both stopped in our tracks to watch this thing that was coming towards us. It was right on us before we could make out what it was. It ended up being a bald eagle. It was rolled over on its back, talons in the air, shrieking the shrieks of a tired, injured, about to drown bird. It was just beyond our range to reach, not that I would have tried to grab it anyways. It was surreal and extremely eerie watching the symbol of our country float by in the death grips of the Kenai River. Without speaking we both knew it was an omen of the day's fishing ahead. It was worse than a dozen black cats crossing your path. The fishing session proved the omen was true - we both were skunked that day, unthinkable in the middle of the sockeye run.
2004 - Bonus Story: Rod versus the Bees
Anytime that Rod makes an appearance during a fishing trip you can be guaranteed that there will be some funny stories to relate about his adventure. His appearance during this year's (2004) Kenai trip was no exception. I could relate the story of how his first fishing foray almost turned into a fiasco while we battled sockeye at Bing's Landing. Or how the evening after our halibut trip we went back to the airport to sockeye fish and Rod got "schooled" by the rookie girl who stepped in next to him. Or even Rod's combat battle where he ended up boot-hooking his neighbor on purpose and ended up with taking the guy's fish whacker and glove would be an excellent story. Those are all excellent stories which I will someday relate, but for my purposes today, I think the story of his battles against the bees is the best one of all.
Rodney finally made it up to Alaska again, after a four year absence. Flying up on the 21st of July, I picked him up at the Anchorage airport and we made a dark drive down to the Kenai in order to hit the river early the next morning. We fished in a variety of spots, but our main camp spot was at the airport hole.
The airport is a funny place. Eleven months of the year it is practically deserted. One month a year it has the population of a small country. Almost everyone there is there to target sockeye salmon. As always happens with a large diverse population, you get diversity in the way take care of their fish and handle their food and garbage. As a result, by the middle of July, the yellow-jackets are out in full force, foraging the ground around every vehicle and motorhome.
Early in the month, you might see a bee here and a bee there, but by the middle of the month there seems to be a team of 10-20 bees assigned to each motorhome or camper. For the most part, the bees are pretty docile - I've never been stung anyways. The bees just go about their business - looking for miniscule scraps of food - preferably sockeye flesh. Yes, they really really love that sockeye flesh and slime. I've found that one of the best ways to attract bees is to toss a slime-filled Ziplocs on the ground outside your vehicle. Within a few moments I guarantee there will be half a dozen bees investigating the Ziplocs. Then if you step on the Ziplocs and kill a bee inside, they give off a pheromone and even more bees will be attracted to the area. In all, the fish-slime Ziplocs is a great bee attractant.
Well, lets take the bee's love of fish, multiply it by the peak of the sockeye run factor, and multiply that by the peak of the tourist factor. Then throw in the lack of cleansing rain during the whole month of July and that forms the "bee conditions" that were present during the time Rodney showed up to fish.
Typically during our fishing sessions we'd both retire from the river at about the same time and head back to my motorhome. Upon arrival at the motorhome, I'd change out of my waders and immediately begin the "fish processing" procedure. Thus, I'd bring my bags of fish into the motorhome and set them in the kitchen sink while I prepared the ac/invertor and the vacu-seal for fish processing business. Rod on the other hand, typically would set his bag of fish outside the motorhome on the ground and turn his thoughts to other things such as eating or taking a nap. As I'd go through my procedures, I'd process one Ziplocs bag of fish at a time (approximately 2 sockeye). As I processed the fish, I'd empty my fish slime out onto the ground behind the motorhome and then start a garbage bag of slimy zip locks out near the back bumper. By the time I was finished processing my six sockeye (about 30 minutes) there were a few bees swarming around the back of the motorhome and the Ziplocs garbage bag. But, hey, I was finished and it was Rod's duty to haul off garbage while he was there, so I was in good shape.
Now as I mentioned before, Rod usually took his time getting around to processing his catch. Many times it would be hours before he got around to the task. Additionally, as a money saving effort, Rod didn't always use Ziplocs bags to protect the fish inside his gunny sack, instead he just tossed all of the filets straight into his gunny sack. Usually, by the time Rodney got around to dealing with his fish the yellow-jackets had already discovered the "mother load" and would be buzzing up a storm around his sack of fish. In fact, often times some of the bees had made their way into the sack and were already feasting on the exposed salmon filets. It was not unusual to see Rod swatting at attackers or jumping back suddenly in fear as he reached in his bag to grab his fish. This usually gave me a pretty good chuckle as I watched his performance.
Repeatedly I would tell him with confidence, "Don't worry about the bees. They won't hurt you. They're docile."
For some reason Rod never believed me when I'd tell him the bees were docile. This was especially true on one afternoon in particular. We were both outside the motorhome sitting in our folding chairs enjoying the afternoon. My fish were processed and in the freezer already. Rod finally got around to working on his fish. Swatting away bees as he reached into his gunny sack, he suddenly cries out in great pain - "Ow!"
Then he begins to hop around one one leg, favoring his other foot, while cursing up a storm, "So the bees are docile, huh Mike? Yeah - docile my ass. Owwww! Son of a b*%ch just stung me in the big toe. Ohhhh...."
I tried not to laugh, but couldn't help myself. There's Rod hopping around with one foot in his hand, almost in tears from a bee-sting in the big toe. Rod was out of action for a good 15-20 minutes tending to his toe. He started to walk with a bit of a limp, too. I have to admit I was a bit amazed. The bees always seemed docile to me. Sure they were always buzzing around and flying by me, but at no time did I ever fear being stung or attacked. After all, I've been doing this for over a decade and I've never had a problem. And now here's Rodney, been on the river for three days and he's already making enemies with the bees.
After getting back into action and processing his fish, Rod started carrying out his retribution against the yellow-jackets right away. Behind the motorhome he setup a couple of good fish-slime Ziplocs on the ground. Within about half an hour his bag contained about a dozen bees. He took the honor of stamping the life out of them with a vengeance. Though I counseled him that he wasn't going to make much of a dent in the bee population, Rod was inflamed with a desperate need for revenge.
Even though Rod got a small measure of revenge on the bees that day, I must give the psychological advantage to the yellow-jackets at that point. For the rest of the vacation, Rod was noticeably gun-shy whenever he had to reach into his gunny-sack or grab the garbage hanging on the side of the rig, or even when a bee would penetrate the sacred confines of the motorhome interior. Yes, one time a bee got inside the motorhome while we were processing fish and Rodney immediately bailed out - demanding that I kill the intruder. It was a quick and merciless kill, but I was really surprised at the way Rod panicked and made for the door to get out of the motorhome. Man, that bee-sting on the toe must have really hurt.
A few days later we again came back to the motorhome with our piles of fish. Both of us were exhausted from our early morning fishing session. Before I passed out for a few hours, I took the time and processed my fish. Rod laid down in the back bunk to wait for me to finish, but by the time I had completed my processing, he was sound asleep.
Once again, Rodney had gone to sleep with his gunny sack of fish laying on the ground out in the sun. Not exactly the thing I would do if I were bee-shy.
A few hours later when we start to stir, Rod gets up and prepares to process his catch. By now I'm out in one of the folding chairs, taking in some breeze, as the motorhome really heats up inside during the heat of the day. So there I am watching Rod gingerly reach into his bag and then quickly dash into the confines of the motorhome to escape the whirring flurry of the yellow-jackets. Every few minutes Rod would dash back outside to grab another sockeye filet to process. About the third time he comes out, he fumbles around in the sack a little longer than usual.
All of a sudden, he leaps back into the air and gives out a cry, "Damn bees.......owwww! Owww!"
This looks like a repeat of the episode of the previous day.
"What happened?" I asked, already knowing he got stung again. Mainly I just wanted to know where.
"F*#ker, stung me in the big toe, on my other foot. Oww!!!"
So, once again, there's Rodney doing the one legged hop-hop-hop, holding his stung toe in his hand, cursing at the bees right and left. I couldn't help but laugh again. I mean, I tried not to laugh out of respect for Rod's pain, but I just couldn't help myself.
"Docile f*#king bees my ass" was about all I remember him saying.
Another few days go by and now Rod has gone from bee-shy to extremely bee-shy. The airport parking lot has really cleared out by now and there is a lot of room between rigs. We're parked right about in the middle of the lot surrounded on all sides by other campers, although, none of them are right on us. But, basically, we are middle stage.
Once again it is Rodney's turn to process his fish - which once again have been sitting out in the sun collecting bees.
This time however, Rod has devised a new strategy for getting his filets out of his gunny sack. As I watch him from the doorway of the motorhome, Rod picks up his bag on a mad dash and sprints about 15-yards out into the gravel pit. Quickly, he drops the bag and digs out a filet. He runs it back into the motorhome and then dashes back out to his bag. Without breaking step, he picks up the gunny sack again, and with a juke left and a juke right and a swat at a nearby bee he makes another 15-yard dash around the side of the motorhome, where he drops the bag again and grabs out another filet. He repeats this procedure about 6 or 7 times until he's retrieved all of his sockeye filets. This was the funniest thing I had ever seen in all my times with Rodney. I was literally on the floor laughing out loud for about 15 minutes during this escapade. I remember thinking to myself, I wonder if anyone else is watching this and just what do they think is going on over there?
And to this day, I can still hear Rodney say, "Docile my ass?"
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Some Classic Photos of Rodney - in action ---> 1 Rod's big bloody buck at the Funny River
