MB2013 (AKA the 24th Annual Talk Like a Mountain Man Week)

I sloshed into camp, still wearing my waders.  The aromas of coffee mixed with ash and smoke from a campfire without enough wood weren't the same cure for a hangover as the fresh air and mist on a river musty with life.  A dozen men all (but one) a generation older than me sat around, laughing, and throwing hilarious and ridiculous insults at each other.  I stopped by the propane camp stove and lifted the lid on the stock pot.  Fat from bacon grease formed a thin cap on a leftover fish chowder.  I fired up the propane under the pot and gave the chowder a stir.  A hot cup of this stuff would ease that hangover better than anything.  We had done better than most years at filling our fish chowder pot with rainbow trout meat.  On the South Fork of the Snake, it is darn near unethical to release a rainbow back where it might hybridize with the local population of Native Cutthroat trout.  Our group is ruthless, both to the rainbows and to each other.  Of course we love to catch the rainbows, and we love each other's company too.  As I sat down, with ice on my waders and a cup of hot chowder in my hand, I heard a phrase that has been uttered annually on the last morning on the river, as if part of a rite, "Hey!  Where are the fucking biscuits!"

Many men like to fish.  Many men also like the company of other men while they are fishing.  I happen to enjoy an annual trip of many men enjoying the company of many other men while fishing.  Twenty-four years ago, Pop Pop, along with his brother, Uncle Chrissy, and Uncle Chrissy's friend, Jimbo, embarked on a week long fly fishing sojourn of southeastern Idaho and Yellowstone National Park.  They were trout bumming, but there was something in the chemistry of unpredictable October weather, golden cottonwood leaves, the hope of heavy trout, and the company of family and friends that made this particular annual adventure so special that Pop Pop hasn't missed a single trip in all of those years.  Uncle Chrissy and Jimbo haven't missed many more.

The trip has grown, no bloated, to the point where five boats and 14 attendees isn't out of the ordinary.  Several other regulars now make the adventure without fail.  Uncle Predator, Uncle Don, Uncle Crotts, Virg, Elle Belly, Uncle Bill the Pill, Sam Sam the Whitefish Man, and a smattering of cameos and newcomers.  You'll notice a common thread.  Most of these people, whether or not they are full siblings of my father, are 'uncles' to me.  One other claims me as his godson, and the rest I would claim as very close friends... family friends.  I think we all have a great deal of affection for each other, which is why we all spend a week floating rivers and berating each other with cruel barbs and insults (Pop Pop warned me on my first trip, that no quarter was given... ever).

Why is Male Bonding (as this annual week-long holiday is now known) so important to its attendees?  What keeps this tradition strong and getting stronger?  There are two primary and intertwined reasons: Peter Pan and unscripted therapy.  This trip is a week in Neverneverland for a group of motivated and successful professionals and entrepreneurs.  Grown men get to act like teenage boys and fish and, for one week, shed the stress of day to day life, letting the pursuit of that next big fish or hatch of blue winged olives be the most serious endeavor of the day.  This trip also serves valuable therapeutic purposes.  It has helped men heal from divorces, make life changing decisions... hell, I studied for my comprehensive exams on this trip.  It also helps us develop a deeper appreciation for the women in our lives.  Absence, and the opportunity to say whatever is on your mind, without fear of reprisal, does indeed make the heart grow stronger.

I left the trip a few days early this year in order to have a long weekend with my young family on another river.  As I jetted out with my godfather, we raced past all the gravel bars, runs, and riffles that have produced such memorable moments in Male Bondings past.  A flickering reel of thrilling fish and snapshots of male antics ran through my mind like the sun shimmering on the river rocks only a few inches below the aluminum hull.