Outdoor memories of 2002 topped off by marriage proposal

As a new year looms, many of us spend plenty of time trying to figure out what direction our lives are heading.

It happens every year, you know.

First, we figure out that we’ve got a few things to change. Then we make the first mistake, and resolve to change all of those things (which, of course, have been ingrained as habits long ago) … all at once.

Then, a week later, as our resolutions begin tumbling (all it takes is one intentionally broken resolution to open the floodgates on all the rest, after all), we forget all our self-improvement plans and revert to being the same imperfect sloths we were back on Dec. 31.

Well, it’s Dec. 31. My name is John. I’m an imperfect sloth. And I’m not going to promise to polish all my rough edges in the next 365 days.

What I will do, however, is something that not many of us seem to have time for any more.

I’m going to sit back, eat a couple of red hot dogs (OK, it doesn’t usually take a special occasion for me to take time for this pastime) and remember how great this year was.

Sure, I’m a bit on the roundish side (again). Sure, I’d like to lose a few pounds. Sure, I’d like to catch more fish and actually see a deer when I’m deer hunting and climb Katahdin. (I’d also like to whip myself into shape, so that when I get to the top of Katahdin, I don’t have to call the Air Guard to come cart my carcass off Knife Edge).

But that’s all in the future. It can wait. For now, let’s indulge ourselves for a minute and do what all the self-help gurus tell us to avoid.

Let’s dwell on the past.

Goodbye, 2002. You were very good to me.

This year, 2002, was the first year in recent memory that I didn’t wonder if I’d finally gained too much weight to ice fish. The problem, you see, isn’t that I’m merely hefty. It’s that I have tiny feet for my weight. And according to my amateur calculations, the pounds per square inch bearing down on my size 81/2 boots is approximately the same as the PSI an average water buffalo’s hooves withstand when it tromps through its mud hole. That, of course, makes me very susceptible to breaking through even the sturdiest ice (You’ve never seen a water buffalo ice fishing, have you?)

Since we didn’t get any ice, I never had to worry about it.

Another added benefit is that this is the first year in recent memory when I never spent a full, frigid day on the ice … and got skunked.

I’ll remember 2002 as the year I finally figured out that the first day of trolling is much more pleasant if you’re not dodging icebergs in a 14-foot boat that’s as old as you are.

No, I didn’t get a new boat. I just didn’t push the season as much as we fishermen usually do. (Fishermen, I know you’re ready to throw me out of the club and change the secret handshake after hearing such heresy … but my mom thinks I’ve finally been blessed with a bit of common sense … and my toes didn’t turn blue this year, so it’s a tradeoff I’ll gladly make … until ice-out and the fishing fever hits again, that is).

I’ll remember 2002 as the year I finally got serious about learning how to fly fish. I figure “getting serious” doesn’t have anything to do with (a) how many fish you actually catch, nor (b) how well you learn to cast. (I know, ignoring these criteria are entirely self-serving, but bear with me).

Nope, “getting serious” has everything to do with (c) how much time you prove willing to stand in an apparently fish-free river, hoping against hope that one random salmon takes pity on you, and (d) finally having to figure out how to extract a fish hook out of your own finger.

The answer to (d): Whatever you do, don’t pull. Trust me. If you’ve got time, and the sight of your own blood makes you woozy, go to an emergency room. If you’re like me, and you don’t want to miss out on any fishing, give the offending fly a good push and hope for the best. (Of course, there is more than one fly-fishing lesson at work here: You also learn another reason you should be using barbless hooks).

I’ll remember 2002 as the year I finally went deer hunting.

Well, I think what I was doing is called “deer hunting.” Some more veteran hunters might call it “blundering around in the woods like a fool, making far too much of a racket, and seeing nothing but the (apparent) tail of (what may have been) a deer.”

Either way, I had a blast. Even if I had to get up in the middle of the night to do it.

And I’ll remember 2002 as the year I decided to get married. And the year that a special woman decided the idea wasn’t altogether distasteful (It’s kind of neat when it works out that way).

I’m sure there will be plenty more on this story to follow, but I’ll warn you that it’s a tale that includes a pair of waders, a blazing fire, a very understanding woman, and her fantastic daughters … who, by the way, love to fish … at least, that’s what they say when I’m around.

All in all, It’s been quite a year. I hope you had a great one, too.

Happy New Year.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.