Going to the mountains is going home.

— George Leigh Mallory
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For the past two years, at about this time, we’ve packed a large motor home with enough food to last for weeks and headed out. Destination: the hallowed trackside ground inside the oval at the Pocono 500. It was always an adventure; getting in, setting up, and then just living it up in redneck city for a few surreal days. We’ve met some quite colorful characters, and seen many strange and wonderful things. And, yes, some weird things too.

This year, though, we didn’t make it. Not that it wouldn’t have been exciting and fun. But after attending the race for a couple of consecutive years, well, the fire seemed to have died. We didn’t really talk about it back then, my friends and me. But a few months ago, I mentioned to Paul that I likely wouldn’t be able to make it this year, what with my book coming out and all. He nodded and said that the others in the group had discussed it, and decided they would not go this year.

Hmmm. Discussed it, had they? Somehow they had failed to include me in that little conference. Guess that shows where I rate on the totem pole, but then, I’m not the one who owns the motor home. But, hey it all worked out. Looks like we all reached the same conclusion at roughly the same time, just from different points. And so this year, no redneck Nascar trip.

Since we first attended that Nascar race back in 2009, we’ve taken to hanging out as a group, now and then. At the home of one of us or another. And a few months ago, another couple showed up one night. Michael and Lori. They fit right in to the flow of things. And I got to know them fairly well.

Turns out Michael and Lori own a cabin in the hills of West Virginia. Close to the southwest corner, a good six hours’ drive. And this year, they invited us all down for the Memorial Day weekend. Come on, they said. We have plenty of room, and Ira can sleep on the couch.

It seemed like a good thing. Except, man, it was far down there. As gas prices rose, I fretted about running Big Blue all that distance. Not really so much about the miles. Just the cost of driving them. But I decided to go. Goodness knows I’ve been a bit stressed out lately. A road trip to a remote mountain cabin would be relaxing.

Everyone arrived by Friday evening, except me. On the way down, I stopped for the night at the house of my good friend, Dominic Haskin, who lives in Martinsburg, WV. Dominic and his father run Timberline Pole Buildings, and buy their materials from Graber. So I figured I’d stop and hang out for the night. Check to see if there were any supply issues.

I arrived around 3 PM, and found Dominic outside whacking weeds, and cleaning up the place. Getting ready for a Memorial Day party. We hung out by his pool. The boys from his crews stopped by for a few beers, and to talk about our building products. They vented about a few minor glitches in our system. I listened sympathetically and promised to take care of things. We didn’t go out on the town or anything, just hung out. Dominic grilled up some fantastic steaks, the first of many scrumptious meals I’d eat that weekend. We sat out by the pool and just chilled for a few hours. By midnight, we were nodding off. I slept in the spare bedroom downstairs. A cute little fluffy white cat kept stalking me, right down the stairs. The cat lurked about outside the bedroom door, staring at me with grim cold eyes. Kind of gave me the shivers. Clearly, I was an unwelcome intruder.

The next morning around 10, Big Blue and I headed west and south. Through the mountains of Cumberland, MD, then on to Morgantown. Then south and west. Around 2:30 or so, I was approaching my destination. I called Michael on his cell; they were all in town, eating lunch at some little hole in the wall restaurant. I joined them, and after lunch we strolled through an impromptu flea market set up in the local courthouse lawn. Americana at its finest, with flags waving everywhere, and cheap merchandise galore.

After stocking up on supplies at a nearby WalMart, we headed out to the cabin. Off the highway a mile or so, then a half mile back into the mountain on a narrow gravel road. Beautiful setting. A classic little board and batten cabin, with a roomy open porch on front, built by Michael and his father many years ago. I lugged in my bags and joined the others, loafing about outside on the porch.

Paul had brought and prepared his signature ribs, but there was no cooker around. So he and Michael fashioned one out of an old 45-gallon drum. It was all a long and leisurely affair, with much unsolicited advice flowing in from all sides. Eventually they got a fire going in the redneck contraption. The ribs were set on a makeshift wire grill inside the barrel. And so began a long stretch of feeding and starving the fire at tense sporadic intervals to adjust the heat inside the barrel. More streams of unsolicited advice flowed freely. Paul took it all in stride, dishing out as much as he got. The whole scene was pure hillbilly production.

Paul adjusting the air flow on his barrel cooker.

Some four hours later, Paul proclaimed the ribs done. And they were. We cut them up, served with beans baked over the open fire. And fresh Ceasar salad. A delicious feast. The ribs were hot and spicy, dry-rubbed in various spices and cayenne pepper. Whew. But tasty? You bet they were. Afterward, we all sat around an open campfire, chatting and sipping drinks, then moved to the porch for a few rounds of Hi-Lo. Around 10 or so, everyone drifted off to bed. I sat out on the porch alone for awhile, absorbing the West Virginia mountain night. Then I wandered inside, made a nest on the floor with couch cushions and settled in for a few hours of fitful slumber.

Sunday morning we slept in. Then got up to a huge breakfast of eggs, Applewood smoked bacon, hash browns, toast and coffee. Just what I needed – to gain more weight. But, hey, one doesn’t get to hang out in a mountain cabin with good friends very often. So do as the mountain folk do. Eat. After breakfast, Paul and I headed to town to get a Sunday paper. And the lazy day drifted on.

Three four-wheelers had been hauled down on Michael’s trailer. There was talk of going on a trail ride, and I agreed to go, assuming that I’d ride with someone. But when the time came, Paul decided he would stay at the cabin. He insisted that I take his four-wheeler and join the others.

Which was very generous of him. Except for one very important thing. I’d never driven a four-wheeler before. Never even so much as rode on one. So I balked. Those hills out there went straight up and straight down. It looked dangerous. But the others insisted. So, after a two minute tutorial on such basics as throttle, brakes, and how you must always lean forward going uphill, I mounted the wicked little machine and gunned the engine. There was no helmet. So I wore a bill cap, and goggles for eye protection.

The other two four-wheelers were loaded double. Michael and Lori led. Then Don and Angie. And then me. I should have had the presence of mind to cross myself. I mean, what can it hurt? I’ve done that for years every time I get on a plane. But it never occurred to me that now might also be a good time to do so.

The others roared off through the yard and straight up the steep trail. I watched them disappear up the hill into the trees. Then I gunned my engine, turned the throttle and took off after them. Immediate steep hill. And I mean steep. I leaned forward; the four-wheeler clawed its way up. And we crested the first hill. It was fun, except I was too tense to really enjoy it. The throttle seemed a bit erratic; one moment I was leaning backward from the speed and the next second I was practically flying over the handle bars as the machine seemed to cut and buck like a bull. But gradually I relaxed as the controls became more familiar. Up and down, up and down, the other two four-wheelers always disappearing over the next hill or around the next bend.

We rode for probably half an hour. Stopping now and then to take in the breathtaking scenery. I’m sure the others exercised great patience at my inexperience. And it was fun, all of it, except for one straight-down descent. I hung on as the four-wheeler bobbed and weaved dangerously, pretty much out of my control, then leveled at the bottom. Only then was I told that on such steep hills, I should use only the front brakes. Whew.

It all ended well. We got back to the cabin, safe and sound. After dismounting, I refused to ride again that day. I’d pushed my luck far enough, I figured.

That night, we ate by the fire, and hung out late by the fire. No cards. Just good friends hanging out, comfortable with each other, talking and watching the sky for falling stars. It was all quite relaxing. Magical, really.

And that was West Virginia.

As most of my readers know, I was raised on a farm. Around horses, cows, hogs and chickens. And as a young man, I detested farming with a passion. And since my flight from from the land many years ago, I’ve never really missed it much.

Except in some ways, I have. For a decade or more, I’ve dreamed of owning a few acres in the country. A tidy little place, in my mind, with a few sheep and goats grazing peacefully in lush pastures. And maybe a few miniature cattle. But no horses.

Maybe one day I might realize that little dream. Or maybe not. In the meantime, I recently took a rather startling step. Playing a role as a detached gentleman farmer. A few weeks ago, I bought a young Boer nanny goat. Yep, that’s right. A goat.

And no, the goat is not tethered on my lot in New Holland, grazing on my lawn. Here’s how it all came down.

A few weeks back, my Amish co-worker, Eli Esh, mentioned to me that he and his brothers were looking to buy some goats to graze on a few acres their father owned.

“Goats?” I asked, incredulously.

“Yep, goats,” he said. Then, sensing my interest, he asked if I wanted to buy one or two and graze them for free in the pasture. I immediately perked up and allowed that I might indeed consider such an offer.

And so, after Eli and his brother located and purchased four little weanling nannies, I bought one from them. A black goat, with a white blotch on its forehead. And we’re looking to get a few more. The plan is to graze them on the pasture, get them bred, and raise little goatlings for slaughter. I’m just a silent partner. No work involved for me, I was assured over and over again. We’re looking for a few more. Right now, the boys have a lead on some yearlings, ready for breeding. I’m fixing to buy at least one more, maybe two.

As with most “gentleman farming” ventures, I’m sure this entire episode will morph into a mini black hole, gobbling small chunks of money here and there and here and there for stuff that must of course be done to keep our investment, well, at least alive. Worming. Feed and hay in winter. And so forth, on and on. It’ll never stop. But hey, it’s a small sliver of one of my small dreams. Who knows what it might portend? And it will be fun. Plus it should, based on my record, provide me with at least a few prime opportunities to grumble a bit. And that’s something I enjoy doing once in awhile, given the right fodder.

One more blog after this, and then my book comes out. I feel like a little kid, counting down the glacially slow-moving nights until the dawn arrives when some great, grand, rare event unfolds. Sleep two more times, then I’ll get to go to town. Or something like that. In any case, I’ll post my final pre-book-release blog on Friday, June 24th. And then, well, I reckon I’m going on a little journey.

Nothing makes a fish bigger than almost being caught.

—Author Unknown
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A month back, around mid-April, they sprouted magically like they always do that time of year. Swarming around the tiny little creeks that cut like soggy ribbons through the fields of Lancaster County. Opening day of trout season triggered a great flood of people, fishing for the small stocked trout the Game Commission had obligingly released a day or two before.

They’re out there at dawn on almost any morning, but especially so on Saturdays. Mostly men and boys. Following the traditions passed down to them by their fathers. And it’s a good thing, although I’ve never had the energy to join them. On Saturday mornings, unless I’m working at the office, I sleep in with all phones unplugged.

But it’s still good to see, and it always tugs at me a bit. The thought of casting a line and feeling it come alive as a fish takes the bait. Except these creeks are so crowded, with people standing side by side, their poles and lines dangling dangerously close to each other. A real wild fish of almost any size could sure create some havoc if caught. You’d have one vast hopelessly tangled mess, and probably a good bit of cussing.

It’s cool, too, that Dads take their sons and daughters out to experience the thrill of catching a trout or two. Fishing is a wholesome activity and I can’t imagine my own childhood without it. Back in the day, I even fancied myself a bit of an expert at the sport. A long, long time ago, of course.

I was probably four years old when I caught my first fish. And it was my sisters, not Dad, who led me into a new and enthralling world one morning soon after breakfast. Naomi and Rachel and me, and maybe my brother Titus. We sat on the north bank of our pond, which was probably an acre in size, which back then seemed like a huge lake. The north bank was steep, and the water was deepest there. We had no real fishing tackle, except a hook and line. A four-foot piece of small black plastic pipe (did they make PVC back then?) served as the fishing pole.

Naomi baited my hook with a worm, and told me to dip the line in the water. I don’t think I’d even seen anyone catch a fish before, so I really had no idea what was about to happen. We sat there for a few minutes, and suddenly some unseen force tugged at the hook. My little black pole was almost torn from my hands, or so it felt.

“Pull him in, pull him in,” my sisters hollered. I yanked at my pole, back and up above my head. A wicked little yellow-bellied black monster of a catfish came sailing out of the water, whizzed past my head and landed smack in the middle of the multi-flora rose bushes behind us. A sorry little critter, about four inches long, writhed and twitched there in the dirt. Fortunately, my hook held and Naomi nudged the fish out of the thorny bushes, while I danced about excitedly. A fish. I’d caught a real fish. After retrieving the squirming little excuse of a fish, she carefully removed the hook. It was all quite wild and exciting.

And that was my first fish, ever.

After that, my brothers and I often fished on our own, out by our pond. Eventually we even purchased our own cheap rods and reels and assorted tackle and fishing lures. Our pond held mostly small catfish and some sunfish. We always hooked our catch, a mixture of both, to a wire stringer and carefully carried them in. Then whacked off their heads and gutted and scraped them clean. Which left a tiny sliver of edible meat. Mom always faithfully and cheerfully saved up the scraps that totaled a day’s catch, and stored them in the ice box. And eventually she had enough to fry up a good meal. Our meager offerings must have created far more bother than they were worth, but she never let on.

The best fishing in Aylmer came from the gravel pits, a series of ponds about a half mile east of our farm. Years before, gravel had been removed, hauled off by big ten-wheeler trucks. Back then, they didn’t fill the gaping holes that remained after drag-lines had clawed into the earth to extract the gravel. And thus some very nice deep ponds were born, and ponds of such quality will not remain long without fish. Who cares where they come from? Maybe they rain from the sky, to seed new waters.

We often ran over to the pits after supper on a hot summer evening for a quick swim. And during our spare time, probably two or three times a month, we fished our favorite waters there.

The pits held some bass, but mostly northern pike. A wiry snake-like fish with a long wicked jaw lined with razor-sharp teeth. We mostly caught small stuff, a pound or two in size, and man, there ain’t much better eating out there than northern pike, when it comes to fish. They sure tasted a lot better than the small fry junk from our own muddy pond.

Slowly, over time, we accumulated quite a stash of fishing tackle. Flimsy rods of various lengths and brands. Zebco push-button reels. Cheap no-name spinning reels. We bought line, hooks, sinkers and lures. In town, mostly, but sometimes here and there at local auctions. My brothers and I debated the merits of various spoons, flathead lures, and spinners. Rapala. Flathead. Mepps Rooster Tails. Peppermint spinners. Plastic worms, with and without wiggly tails. We carefully saved for our next buy. Kept our treasures in small plastic or metal Plano tackle boxes. As our fishing supplies grew, so did the size of our tackle boxes. The biggest one I ever owned back then had a hinged two-tier, lift-out tray.

And somewhere, from some cluttered auction box, I found a nice flathead lure with no hook. Mottled green, speckled with dark black spots. But it had no hook. Hmmm. Not being an engineer, I quickly found a solution. I safety-pinned a nice 3-pronged hook to the bottom side of the lure. That should do it. And the flathead joined all the other lures in my two-tiered tackle box, probably in a spot in the bottom tray. Maybe one day I’d actually use it to catch something.

That day of reckoning arrived one fine summer day. I’m thinking it was mid-morning, although it might have been right after our noon meal, when everyone else was taking a nap. My sister Rhoda and I snuck out and walked the half mile east to the gravel pits. (A tomboy to the core, Rhoda consistently outfished all her brothers. But hey, she could communicate with animals too, so no doubt she was talking to the fish, somehow, to get them to take her bait.) Instead of fishing at our usual spot, we chose another pond, just a bit east and south.

We stood there on the bank, two sun-browned and barefoot Amish children, and surveyed the pond. A silent heavy sunny day. Waves of heat shimmered from the water. Seaweed clogged the pond a few yards out. Protruding just a bit from the seaweed lurked what might have been a big fish, a pike. But nah. It had to be a small limb, broken from overhanging trees. We threw in our spinners and reeled them back. The limb stayed where it was, unmoving. And always seaweed clogged the hooks on our spinners. It seemed pretty hopeless, that we’d catch anything at this spot.

And then Rhoda reached into my tackle box and pulled out the mottled green flathead lure. Snapped it to her line leader. Cast out into the pond, no more than fifteen feet. She slowly reeled it back; the flathead dove deep into the clear water and snaked and wobbled like a wild living bug.

It all came down so fast that time seemed to stop, or at least slow down a good bit. The “limb” protruding from under the seaweed suddenly flashed to life. A huge pike shot out and gobbled the mottled flathead lure. Boom, just like that. Rhoda’s light rod bowed dangerously as she instantly reacted and yanked it back to set the hook, purely on reflex.

And then the great fish surfaced. Didn’t jump or anything, just rolled. The flash of silver scales glinted like a mirror in the bright sunlight. The water roiled and thrashed and foamed. And in that instant, my sadly under-engineered little safety pin was ripped from the lure. The massive pike shot back under the seaweed like a ghost, and was gone. It was all over in about five seconds. Stretched out seconds, of course, at least to us. We stood there frozen as tiny waves from the departed pike rippled up to the bank at our feet. Rhoda slowly reeled in the mutilated flathead. The hook was gone, firmly planted in the fish’s mouth.

Sure, we were young kids back then. I was probably twelve years old, give or take a year. Rhoda was a few years younger. And of course the pike seemed much larger to us than it probably was. But I’d swear to this day that the fish was at least a ten-pounder. Certainly massively larger than anything we’d ever seen, and larger than any fish anyone had ever caught in Aylmer, at least up until that time.

In muted voices of utter disbelief, we talked excitedly about what had just unfolded. The thought kept pulsing through my mind that I should have known that a safety pin would never hold any fish, let alone a monster like the one that had just chomped my flathead lure. A little life lesson was eventually born of that moment. If you’re gonna refit/repair something, do some calculations. Get it right.

We sadly headed home, where our story was met with dubious condescension. No one doubted that a pike had torn the hook from my lure. But I mean, come on. A safety pin. A four-inch catfish in our muddy pond could demolish such a pitiful connector. Everyone was openly skeptical of our descriptions of the pike’s massive size. Can’t blame them, I guess. I would have doubted it too, had I not seen it with my own eyes.

Chasing that pike became minor obsession for me for the next few years. I dipped deep into the reservoir of my meager savings, and promptly squandered a good twenty bucks or so on a brand new spinning rod and reel at the Canadian Tire store in Aylmer. It was the sturdiest setup I had ever owned. And in the ensuing months, and during the next few summers, I stalked the banks of that pond dozens of times at any hour of the day. In the morning. At mid-day. And as the evening shadows deepened into night.

Sadly, or maybe not, my quest was entirely futile. I never got that fish to bite again. He disappeared into the sea-weeded depths as if he’d never existed. Maybe the embedded hook killed him. Or maybe the wily monster learned enough that day to never be fooled again. I like to think he died peacefully of old age.

Over the years, my fiberglass spinning rod slowly splintered and disintegrated, and no shreds of it remain. The mottled flathead lure, too, was lost in the dust of time along the way. But somewhere, in a box in my garage, I still have that old Daiwa spinning reel. I pick it up now and then and hold it in my hands. It’s the only tangible thing that remains to remind me of that muggy summer day in Aylmer so long ago, when two raggedy Amish children did brief but valiant battle with a monster fish and lost.

I value that old relic of a spinning reel as one of my very few surviving childhood treasures. Along with the memories, I suppose, it is enough.