Preparations for fishing trips aren’t always relaxing

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In all seriousness, if the time, effort and conscientiousness that’s put into launching even a handy-to-home fishing trip were practiced in the workplace, the gross national product would quadruple. Yet, oddly enough, all the last-minute, rushing-around rigmarole attendant to you and a local fishing partner preparing for, say, a weekend at Chesuncook Lake, is relaxing.

Unfortunately, the picture changes when the destination is a distant fishing ground and a sporting camp where you’ll be in the company of fishermen from far and wide. That, of course, means your wife will scrutinize everything you pack in the way of attire – your tackle won’t get so much as a swift glance. For the uninitiated, I’ll say that, in my travels, inspections by customs agents at international border crossings have never been as exasperating.

To bring the picture into focus, I offer a scenario typical of what takes place when I’m packing for a trip that might require a passport: Says she,”You’re not taking that hat with you!”

“‘Course I am. That’s my fishing hat.”

“You’re not…come on, you look like Frankie Fontaine in that thing. Besides, it stinks. Pete,” my English pointer, “won’t even pick it up, and he grabs everything that falls onto the floor.”

“The hat’s going.”

“Then I’m glad I’m not. I’ve seen how people in those fishing camps dress.”

“Hey! I’m going fishing, not to a fashion show.” And so it goes with every shirt, sweater, jacket, vest, pants, belt, shoes, socks, even underwear and handkerchiefs, that I pack; using, naturally, the U.S. Army duffel bag stuff-and-stomp method that I learned at Fort Dix, N.J., a long time ago. Naturally, she persists in removing everything to refold and arrange it neatly. Understand, I’m not complaining. It’s just that I don’t see any need for being so fastidiously neat about fishing attire. What I’m wearing won’t mean a thing to the fish, which, after all, is my reason for heading off into the hinterlands.

But, friend, let me tell you, when fishing partners from away are scheduled to drop anchor at my house for a bit of a soiree before we strike for camps on Canadian salmon rivers, the business of preparation takes on another perspective, which, again, is entirely my wife’s. Simply put, on those occasions she becomes the “head guide.” Maybe you can relate to it: “I’m getting a new stove and dishwasher before the guys get here,” said she a week ago Wednesday.

“Are you kidding? They’ll be here next Tuesday.”

“I know it. I already bought the dishwasher and the stove’s on order. It’ll be here tomorrow morning and they’ll both be installed then.” Well, guess what? The words weren’t off her tongue when the phone rang. And wouldn’t you know, the first words she spoke after answering it were: “Oh, no!”

“The stove’s been discontinued, right?” said I when she hung up.

“No. But it won’t get here until Friday morning.”

“You hope. That’s why people don’t do things at the last minute. It’s smart to leave some leeway for Murphy’s Law.” Let’s just say that my point was not well-taken. Nevertheless, the stove and dishwasher were delivered and installed on Friday. Thank God.

Then came the carpets: “I’m having the carpets cleaned on Saturday.”

“Why?”

“So they’ll be clean when the guys get here.”

“The carpets don’t need cleaning. Look, those guys are so happy to be going salmon fishing they wouldn’t care if they were camped in a porcupine’s den – and that’s about as dirty as dirty gets. Pour them a drink and they’ll put you on a pedestal.”

“Well, at least someone will. Speaking of drinks, the bar’s OK, except we need some after-dinner drinks. What should I get?”

“Beer.”

“God, why do I bother?”

“That’s what I keep wondering: why you create so much work for yourself. Those guys would drink Lestoil if you put it in front of them.”

“OK, OK. What about hors d’oeuvres?”

“I don’t know…anything at all…cheese and crackers is fine. They never eat all that other stuff you put out…dips and spreads, pates, all that stuff.”

“Never mind. I’ll take care of it. But I want you to edge the driveway for me.”

WHAT? Edge the driveway! You’ve got to be…are you…do you actually think that when those guys drive into this yard they’re going to notice that the driveway’s been edged? Do you really believe that?”

“They might.”

“No way. No more than I would. I’ll bet anything you want to bet on it.”

“Come on. It won’t take long and it needs it anyway.” And so on: “You can vacuum and dust your den for me – and move things…I’m having the lawn mowed before they get here; would it be asking too much of you to straighten the birdbath?…You’ll have to make another trip to the dump…I wish I had some rocks to put around the flower bed.”

I’m glad we don’t grow a garden.

Eventually, in spite of the domestic dueling, preparations for my fishing partners’ arrival were completed to my wife’s satisfaction. And in all fairness, I have to say that everything, inside and outside and including dinner, was memorable. Hence, once again, and most deservedly, she was thanked profusely for her obvious efforts, and genuine notice was made of her new countertop stove.

My contributions, naturally, went unnoticed. What are friends for? But I’m not leaving without saying I got the last kick at the cat: As many times as we drove in and out of my yard, not once did my fishing partners mention how nicely the driveway was edged.

Tom Hennessey’s columns can be accessed at the BDN Internet page at: www.bangornews.com.