Fly-fishing frenzy begins a bit too early
The 1950s-vintage motor court was the perfect location for dozens of fly-casters to gather in camaraderie and tie a few last creations before the Arkansas brown trout season opened at midnight.
Room 5 contained the largest number of fishermen on our side of the courtyard. It was an odd room with two full beds, two twin beds and an assortment of tables. Strangers ran in and out with no obvious need to do so.
"I need a brown heron feather!" someone shouted in Room 5.
Despite the frigid weather, each room arranged around the courtyard was open in some way to provide quick communication and to vent the fumes from the cement and solvents used on the newly created flies.
Three undercover federal agents rushed into the room to identify one fisherman and see if he was, in fact, using feathers from endangered birds.
From the roof vent of Room 6, I watched mysterious feather puffs shoot into the air through their open door and dissipate. I imagined the men in there suddenly beginning to tie with chicken feathers.
Despite the frigid weather, I looked through our door at the forlorn playground equipment covered in a dusting of snow. Dusk gave the courtyard a misty, vintage appearance.
The Hunting Club members behind me gathered around Youngster's portable tying bench.
"That looks like a sculpin fly with a clown nose," Doc said.
Urgent whispering began between Youngster and Junior.
"I call it a Sculpin Clown," Youngster said out loud.
A fisherman we didn't recognize ran into our room, examined Youngster's new creation, pointed a cell phone at it and pushed a button, then ran back out and headed for Room 5.
"Only three more hours until season opens!" he shouted at the occupants of Room 5. "And look at this, guys. I just shot a picture of this new guy's fly with my cell phone. Let's tie some."
"So much for my mystery fly," Youngster said.
"You stole it from Orvis," Junior accused.
"Did not!"
They tangled, snarling onto the floor in a flurry of scientific wrestling holds and vicious bites.
I looked around our trashed motel room. Fly fuzz drifted in dust balls across the linoleum floor. The room was awash in discarded fly lines, ragged tippets, fishing rods, boxes of flies, tying tools, spilled drinks, open bags of chips, empty cans of beef stew headed on hot plates, socks, fishing vests, remote controls that worked nothing electronic, spare eyeglasses, Hawaiian shirts, grapefruit rinds and outdoor magazines.
Doc intently cemented a patch on waders held together by older patches.
Woodrow disconsolately sat on the bed in his son's too-small thermals and pondered the heavy snow that had begun to fall.
"Anyone bring spare thermals?"
Jerry Wayne was on his cell phone screaming a frustrated order for take-out chicken. "I said I want half a chicken!" He held the phone to his mostly deaf ear.
The tinny voice on the other end asked, "Once again, which side do you want?"
"I don't give a flyin' flip which side! Right or left, it doesn't matter!"
"Might have mattered to the chicken," Doc said.
"I think they're asking what kind of side dish you're wanting," the Cap'n said.
Jerry Wayne didn't hear.
Wrong Willie examined a map of the river, trying to glean from the glossy paper where a big brown might be lurking.
"Fine! Fine! The left side then!"
Running footsteps outside as someone hurried from room to room to borrow extra cold weather gear. Someone slipped on the ice, fell and a bloody head wound ensued.
Paramedics arrive.
Events accelerate.
Heavier snow outside.
On the crowded table in Room 5, a cigar rolls off an ashtray, contacting flammable cement spilled in a pool of hackles. Things get exciting.
Spark, smoke, fire.
Minor explosion.
People running.
Alarms.
Firemen with axes soon chop indiscriminately at any motel door.
I sense something is wrong
Smoke inhalation.
EMS responders administer oxygen to elderly fly fishermen. Two hopeful college-age fishermen line up politely for a hit of pure oxygen.
Inside, fly rods burst into flames.
Men save waders with sentimental value.
Coolers slide across the icy parking lot.
Die-hards tie frantically before the fire spreads.
Fly boxes bring new meaning to the term as frenzied fishermen heave them through open doors in an effort to save the contents that might be successful on the river.
Stampede.
Someone shouts the time.
Crisis forgotten.
Truck engines roar to life.
Game wardens balance sideways on the teeter-totter jotting down notes to check on those later who might not have fishing licenses.
Trucks spin out as midnight draws near.
Traffic at the exit jolts to a stop like mice on sticky traps.
Bumpers and fenders crumple.
Men jump up and down to unlock bumpers welded together by the impact.
Unscathed vehicles engage four-wheel drive and escape through the courtyard's center, scattering game wardens.
Fishermen arrive at the river, looking for best spots on the crowded watercourse.
The heavily insured motel burns to the ground while on the water, at the stroke of midnight, in a heavy snow, the fishing frenzy begins.
• Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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