No Way Perrier!

This comes from a collection of cynical writings I did while at University in Wisconsin.
These are "Tales From the Tundra, circa 2000:

Ever since I first stepped foot in Central Wisconsin, I have seen these green bumper stickers on the back of beat up, rusted out American cars that read: “NO WAY PERRIER!” And ever since I saw the first one, I have wondered what it meant. Was it something against that damn bourgeois sparkling water, a statement against those damn Frenchman that come to our country to have sex with our wives, or was it something totally unrelated? I have wondered this for so long, yet everyone I asked didn’t have the faintest clue as to what I was talking about. By the end of this last semester here, I had completely given up on my quest for truth.

Low and behold, my first night out with my friend last weekend, an older man next to me at a bar struck up a conversation with me. After a while of discussing random topics with this old man (whom was quite talkative after throwing a few back), he brought up how Point Beer (the local Stevens Point brewery) used to taste really good until the city made them switch from natural spring water to city water. He explained that there is a naturally occurring spring not far from Stevens Point that produces some of the purest, cleanest and most mineral rich water. Then he told me that it became so popular that Perrier wanted to build a plant nearby to bottle the water. Well, the townspeople did not like that idea! They didn’t want those damn French people to take all their water! Thus the bumper stickers creatively displaying their dismay with a strong statement like: “NO WAY PERRIER!”

I told the man how delighted I was to finally know what that bumper sticker meant, and he was happy to have helped me. Then I pointed out that it was good to know that Perrier really bottles natural spring water, but he didn’t seem to appreciate that idea. Plus, telling him how much I loved France and French people didn’t really help either. He wasn’t very talkative after that. 

You think he had one of those bumper stickers?

Chernobyl Chicken

This comes from a collection of cynical writings I did while at University in Wisconsin. These are "Tales From the Tundra, circa 2000:

As I sat on the hard futon, blindly staring at the local news the other night, I saw something that I just could not believe. Please understand that I usually avoid the local news here in Central Wisconsin because it is just so painful to watch. Bad lighting, bad audio, lame stories, etc. Unfortunately, I was a captive audience awaiting the miserable weather forecast, when all of a sudden a story of “local color” filled the screen.

If I may make a brief interruption to remind you about the couple of problems that California has had with environmental pollution over the years. Things like the DDT spraying that eventually led to the problems with eagle eggs; toxic waste dumping by evil corporations that polluted the water and ocean, and numerous oil spills that killed thousands of cute little furry animals and birds. We are quite aware of the problems that may arise from pollution, but when there’s a problem, or symptoms of a problem it usually gets handled and cleaned up. Of course there were numerous jokes made about frogs with six legs and babies with arms growing out of their head, but the problems were always taken seriously.

I’m sure you’re all just dying to know what this story was, right? Well, it started off showing a picture of a very large egg. An egg that wasn’t quite as large as an Ostrich egg, but certainly comparable. The reporter appeared at a home in a small town where Mr. and Mrs. Wryzshingzrgvski’s chicken had laid this enormous egg. As soon as the camera started rolling, the wife broke the egg over a bowl, excited that she could make scrambled eggs for the whole family with just one egg. To her dismay, all this clear goo oozed out and produced ANOTHER normal sized egg inside. Mmmm…..those whites are full of protein, you know! And yes, they did eat the egg.

At this point, I was understandably speechless. I waited for the “investigative journalist” to give the scoop on the local aluminum plant that must be dumping their waste illegally. However, when it came time for the commentary from the intelligent anchor, once again, I was left dumbfounded. Little Miss Goody tried to make a cute little joke saying: “I feel bad for that chicken! Ha, ha, ha!”

YEAH....

If this happened in California, there would be several groups showing up to check the water, test the food, and walk around with Geiger counters to measure radiation levels. But here in the Tundra, it’s a funny little story that warms the heart.

A River Runs Through Me

This comes from a collection of writings I did while at University in Wisconsin.
These are "Tales From the Tundra, circa 2000:

During my last semester of college, I needed to fill two missing PE credits. So I registered for a weekend fly-fishing course that took place out in the woods of central Wisconsin, and in the Wisconsin River.

  

I was excited! Fly-fishing had appealed to me for several years. I have always known it to be one of those pastimes that requires a significant amount of devotion in both time and energy to be good.

Growing up, I went fishing with my father fairly often (by a city-girl’s standards), but always with the classic fishing pole.

Okay, so I have to admit, most of my knowledge and romance with fly-fishing came from watching Brad Pitt in “A River Runs Through It”. I still remember those scenes because they were so gorgeous--the scenery, I mean. Anyway, just the idea of being out in the middle of a river so stunningly beautiful, alone with only yourself and your thoughts is very romantic. But those majestic images of a serene river at the base of the gigantic Montana mountains were quite different than the experience I was about to have.

On the first evening, we had classroom time were we learned the mechanics of the rod and tying the different knots. I enjoyed the discussion about fly-fishing: the history of it, the tradition of it and how it can become a way of life for some people. I also learned how much scientific information fly-fishermen have in their head. These guys learn all the different larvae, invertebrates and other bugs and memorize them not only by size, shape and classification, but also by the hatching season. It blew me away. The fact that they know what time of year each insect is out, and which fish prefer which type is very impressive. I’m sure all that information makes catching fish more successful. Personally, I think it's a bit extreme, and so much technical information takes away from the visceral experience.

Yeah, well, actually standing in the middle of a frigid river with swamper overalls up to my chest wasn't really the visceral experience I was expecting.

Unfortunately, it was early March, the water had just thawed and it was raining. Did I mention I don't handle cold very well? It was utterly miserable. I really wish we had nice weather that weekend, as I might actually have enjoyed myself.

I did love being out in nature and learning the proper techniques like keeping my wrist straight and “watching my back cast”. But by Sunday, I was so cold and wet and my silly plastic pancho was not keeping me dry.  I had finally had enough of being a good sport. It is hard to stay positive when after several hours, the only thing I caught was a head cold. But that's just as well, because I'm not interested in tricking fish into biting a sharp, metal hook only to rip it out their mouth and throw them back in. I'm sorry--I don't care how much we were told it's the humane way to fish--I don't agree. Therefore, I was not really wanting to catch anything, anyway.

All suffering aside, I do have to admit, there was one brief moment when I experienced that thing--that moment of complete Zen. There was a point when the wind died down, I was watching the movement of the water and hearing it ripple around the rocks...as I cast my line, it made that little thwip sound and it flew out so smoothly and glided down, as if in slow motion, right to the spot I was aiming for. It was as if in that very moment everyone else disappeared and I felt so present and focused on what I was doing. It was fantastic--that serene moment I had romanticized for so long (minus Brad Pitt, of course). But, shortly after it started, my serene moment was rudely interrupted by the chattering of my teeth and pieces of my wet hair slapping me in the face. So much for my moment of zen.
  

Overall, I did have a great experience. Fly-fishing didn't sweep me off my feet, but I can understand the attraction. I know that I would love it for the peace and tranquility of being enveloped by nature, hearing nothing but the sound of the water rushing past me and the birds singing in the trees...

But for that matter, I could just randomly stand in the middle of a river without the fishing pole.

Do you have any fly-fishing stories?