The old man had been on the road for three hours. His back ached from sitting for so long. He had another hour to go before reaching the lake. Once off the main highway, he popped open a can of Old Milwaukee. He whispered, “Sorry, Jeannie”, raised the can, and took a big swig. They had made this trip up to the lake hundreds of times over the past forty-five years. Jeannie caught her first fish there.
The truck chugged it’s way out of the low country and up the mountain. The landscape slowly changed from high desert chaparral to deep green pine forest. It was still early in the day, and he savored the smell of a forest still wet from rain the night before. “What a great smell”. It revived old memories. He glanced over at the empty passenger side of the cab, took the last pull from his beer, and shoved the empty can under the seat.
Ten miles from the lake, he came upon a dozen bicyclists blocking the road, riding four abreast in the roadway. He blipped his horn, but they ignored him. Then he laid on the horn, and received one finger salutes from several of the riders. “Spandex wearing Twinkies” For two miles they blocked his path. When he was finally able pass, he got more hand gestures and snide remarks from the bikers.
The Lake was the old man’s favorite place to be. The place was primitive, and it’s only creature comforts were a couple of old wooden outhouses and a few decrepit stone fire pits, but the views and the trout fishing were second to none. The lake sat in a bowl of granite carved by glaciers. The campsites were nestled in the pine trees just above the lake level, and jagged peak lines cut into the horizon all the way around. It had been over five years since he’d made the drive up here.
When he pulled into the campground, he found it was empty. He had the whole place to himself. He backed the truck into his favorite campsite, only to discover it littered with empty beer bottles. Budweiser Longnecks. The dumpster was only thirty yards away. “Must’ve been one hell of a party”. He started picking up the bottles and putting them back into their cartons. His back was stiff, and every time he bent over, he grimaced with pain. He mumbled “Damn lazy kids” dozens of times throughout the clean up effort. He would recycle the bottles. By his count, the redemption value was over ten dollars. Enough to cover the campsite fee.
He set up camp, and then set his mind to fishing. Stiffness in his hands made knot tying nearly impossible. His fingers just weren’t flexible enough anymore. Attempts at tying a blood knot aggravated him. He cursed his arthritis.
The fishing was poor, no bites all day. It would be better in the morning. After watching the sun set behind the peaks, he built a fire and cooked franks and beans. The old man spent most of that night laying in his bedroll, staring at the sky. He thought about how much he loved this place, how much he missed Jeannie, and how in all likelihood, this would be his last trip up here. It was after 3 A.M. when he finally dozed off.
Dawn broke cold and wet with dew. Each and every one of the old man’s joints stiffened up during the night. Icy fingers struggled to unzip the sleeping bag and his knees cracked loudly when he got up. His back was stiff, and it took several minutes before he could stand erect. His entire body felt as brittle as a pretzel. He decided to forego fishing, it didn’t seem worth the bother. He stoked the fire brewed a pot of coffee while packing his gear, then loaded the truck and headed for home. The highway was forty miles away, and even though it was only 8:15 in the morning, he popped open a can of Old Milwaukee, whispered “Sorry Jeannie”, and took a big swig.
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