ALONG THE WAY

Roughing It at Old Ruby Turns Out to Be a Kind of Fish Story Gone Awry

When I turned 13, my father despaired at the loss of his favorite camping buddy to blue eyeshadow and more feminine pursuits. I walked away from mosquitoes, soggy socks, and campfire rations without a backward glance, planning to spend all my future outings in the comfort of plush hotels with magnificent views. Unfortunately, later on my dreams of luxury travel were shattered when I began dating Kris. He loved roughing it.

Kris and I and our friends, Ronnie and Kami, set off to the ghost town of Ruby for a weekend of outdoor fun - an oxymoron if I've ever heard one. What's left of the town of Ruby is private property, but we had permission from the owner.

Once there, Kris handed me a fishing pole.

"Do you really like to fish?" he asked. I scrambled to remember the rudiments of angling but went disappointingly blank.

"Of course. I've been fishing since I was five," I bragged.

"Good," he said. "Let's go catch dinner."

"That's okay. I'll stay here and set up camp," I said, waving to Kami, who was expertly unpacking gear.

Kris smiled in boyish anticipation, grabbed his gear, and set off with Ronnie, leaving me to tackle the heap of camping stuff at my feet.

I cursed, struggling with an entanglement of nylon and plastic until Kami came to my rescue and helped me pitch the tent.

Just as we finished, Kris and Ronnie returned to camp with a stringer of glistening trout. It seemed barbaric - so unlike the neatly packaged fish in the supermarket. I applauded their efforts and then disappeared into the brush until they had cleaned and cooked their catch.

After dinner we set out to view one of Ruby's abandoned mines.

As dusk approached, thousands of airborne rodents filled the sky in a flickering flurry, rising almost as one in a majestic column.

But suddenly the wind turned, hurling hundreds of the bats earthward. The creatures scuttled blindly across the ground, some catching their wings in the thorned brush. Kami, the only fearless one of our group, freed them from their prickly prisons. I shuddered with distaste. All I could think of was a warm bath.

The next morning, I rose at dawn and sneaked out of the tent. I figured I could redeem myself as an outdoor aficionado if I returned with a stringer of fish for breakfast. I picked up a reel and rummaged through the tackle box.

Unable to find any of the cute pink balls I had used as bait in my youth, I searched through the assortment of shiny plastic lures. I finally chose the prettiest one, a big iridescent blue and green fish with two treble hooks. I guessed that the bigger the lure, the bigger the fish, and I was determined to make a big impression. I just didn't realize how big.

I secured the lure with a basic "tie your shoe" knot and started out around the pond. Intuition told me that the smooth water, filled with reeds, would be the perfect spot to catch my fish. I envisioned myself making a flawless cast. Not quite. My first cast sent the lure to lounge in the reeds' green tops.

I laughed at my lack of prowess and tugged to unsnare the lure. It didn't budge. I braced my legs and yanked hard. The brightly colored lure jerked free and flew toward me like a demon hummingbird. Instinctively I turned my face, which might have saved my vision, but the hooks dug into my cheek. I stood, stunned, and raised my hand to trace my numb cheek and the dangling lure.

I hadn't brought a knife to cut the line, so I resolutely reeled myself in and started toward camp.

Once back, I peered into the truck's side mirror. Two hooks had run through my cheek and another had sunk in up to the base of the lure. I touched it in awe, wondering how I could wake up Kris without scaring him.

There wasn't a way. I'll never forget his horrified expression. He cut the line and took me into the tent, where he and Ronnie surveyed the damage. They both stared in stunned amazement. Unaccountably, I laughed like an idiot.

Gravely, they decided to extract it. Ronnie held my hand and looked away as Kris pushed the hooks far enough through to crimp the barbs, before pulling them back through my cheek. His hands trembled.

An eternity later, they praised my bravery and offered ice for the swelling.

I'd slept on the ground, survived a maelstrom of bats, and caught myself instead of a fish. But I finished the weekend sitting down and sipping iced tea while the others packed up camp.

With a lopsided smile, I settled back in the shade, watching the butterflies dance. Now, this was my idea of roughing it.

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