Unlit Cigars Can’t Keep The Bugs Away

[El Presidente]

Unlit Cigars Can’t Keep The Bugs Away

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Preparation was everything to my Uncle. Evander would go through multiple check lists before a simple night time cat-fishing trip and his meticulous preparations before going out of town were legendary. Now that I’m older, I’ve learned to appreciate his attention to detail.

One of his traits was the bag method. The bag method involved having all the stuff that was specific to a particular outdoor activity in one canvas bag. The bags were arranged on the shelves of his garage with other specific items that might go with them. Fishing rods were arranged in vertical racks for shorter fresh water gear; long surf fishing rods were nestled in the rafters. There were a series of shelves beside the vertical rod racks with the top shelf loaded with rod bags and reel covers, buckets with specific types of fishing gear and waders. Below the top shelf were shelves with line, lures, the original boxes for reels which he insisted on keeping, and tackle bags with clear plastic boxes for different categories of plugs, jigs, and spoons. He was organized.

When he took a fishing trip, he selected what he needed as if shopping in a store and piled it up on a bench in the garage. He then double checked to make sure he wasn’t missing something before he loaded up. When embarking on a trip, it was not uncommon for him to pull off on the shoulder ten miles down the road and pilfer through his gear to make sure he has some special gadget he knew he might need. He was organized.

On the other hand, I was a teenaged boy. I thought I was organized but I lacked the experience of my mentor. I would forget the most obvious things while remembering the obscure ones. I went on trips without socks, forgot my toilet gear, didn’t have enough shells, everything that could be left behind, I probably forgot at some time or another.

We were headed for the mountains to fish with a friend of Evander’s named Dusty Raxter. Dusty was a trout fisherman and he lived and breathed trout fishing. He knew obscure little holes where he could pick out a fish at almost any given time and he knew the hills and mountains like you know the dash of your car. While he and Evander were friends, they were total opposites.

Evander was organized and always maintained everything as though the apocalypse would happen tomorrow and he would be fending for himself for the rest of his life. Dusty, on the other hand was low key. Dusty didn’t wear a watch; Evander was always right on time within a minute or two. Dusty used the simplest gear possible. No fish knife, no line nippers, no chest bag for small gear, no fancy rod and reel. Dusty was a minimalist. He carried his rod, his fly box, his pocket knife, and a flashlight. He waded in restaurant shoes as he called them and disdained waders.

The two men genuinely liked each other and sort of looked the other way concerning the two extremes of preparedness they represented. It bugged Evander that Dusty got along with so little and Dusty probably thought Evander to be a gadget freak. They respected each other enough to just sort of ignore their differences and have a good time anyway.

I, on the other hand, was a different story. Evander constantly ragged on me to be more organized and prepare more. I thought I was pretty well organized but I did seem to always need something I’d forgotten to bring. Normally, this wasn’t a problem because I could always borrow what I needed from Evander at the cost of having to listen to one of his speeches about me needing to be more organized.

On this particular trip, we were to meet Dusty on Highway 74 in the Nantahala George in the late afternoon for a trout fishing trip. Dusty had been catching some big trout and invited Evander up; I got to come along as a reward for helping Evander clean out and organize his tobacco barn/storage facility. The old “backer barn” as Evander called it, served as a boat shelter and a water-fowling and surf fishing equipment shed. It was filled to the top tier poles with decoys, blinds, dog platforms, coolers, truck rod racks, canoe paddles, oars, life preservers, sand spikes, and other paraphernalia associated with boats, ducks, and surf fishing. When we did the cleanup, Evander did the supervising and I did the climbing and carrying to get everything organized; I earned the trip.

Evander wasn’t normally a trout fisherman so he was a little nervous about preparation. While we were waiting for Dusty, he rifled through his gear, not wanting to take too much because of Dusty’s minimalist approach, and not wanting to forget anything. I could see him doing his mental checklist over and over as we waited for Dusty’s old GMC pickup to appear.

When Dusty arrived, they talked awhile, catching up on things and, just before we got in Dusty’s truck to shove off, Dusty reminded us that we’d be walking through a lot of weeds and long pants might be a good idea. Evander gave me a worried look, He asked me if I’d brought long pants and remarked to Dusty that I’d forget my head if it wasn’t fastened on. I had long pants and we changed on the side of the road. Just as we were locking up Evander’s truck, he stopped. “I’d better get a cigar; there might be mosquitoes on the river.” Evander loved cigars and often used the mosquito issue as an excuse to light one up. He’d puff and smile and remind me how bugs hated cigar smoke.

There were no mosquitoes on the river but the early fishing was slow. I fished and watched Evander pull the cigar out of his shirt pocket. He slid it out of the wrapper and handled it lovingly. He bit the end off, rolled it around in his mouth and reached into his pants pocket. I could see the concern on his face. He checked his other pockets and I could see the realization come over him that his lighter was in the truck in his shorts pocket. He took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at it wistfully and replaced it. He went back to fishing after a cursory look at me to see if I was watching. I pretended not to notice his dilemma.

A half hour later, he was fishing next to Dusty and got into a conversation. “Dusty, have you ever had to stay out here overnight?”

“No, I fished late one night and my flashlight quit but the road’s just a couple of hundred yards up the hill and I just walked out, came out a rocks throw from the truck.” Dusty was concentrating on his line.

“I guess you never have to build a fire then since you never get stuck out here?” Evander asked, the unlit cigar rolling around in his mouth. Now I knew the purpose of the conversation, he wanted to see if maybe Dusty had some matches.

I decided to rub him a little. “When are you going to light that cigar, the bugs are getting started pretty heavy?” is asked.

He paused; in the rapidly fading light I could see the strain on his face. “Well ****, to tell you the truth, I left my lighter in my shorts pocket. You see, spending some time to make sure you have everything you need can be a big deal. This should be a good example to you about how you should keep your stuff organized.” He then launched into a long tirade that lasted until well after pitch dark about how important being prepared could mean the difference between a good trip and a disaster.

Only Evander Pritchert could turn his mistake into a reason to give me a lecture.

[cigcars]

Not to take away from your heartfelt, meaningful story, still due to the titled subject: I was one night enjoying my fine havana seegar, blissfully blowing the smoke into the atmosphere - when "BANG" fell down the fly that had been F*&%cking with us all day - nice and stunned from the pleasant aroma...and he * was * MINE!!!** Muhahahahah!!!

*Poor little fly

Ain't got no mamma, no daddy

No brother to love you, no sister to love you

Fly - I know who loves you

God loves you

Go to God --- BAM!!*

- Langston Hughes