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Dateline: Cabin 23

"Sure."

That was me uttering that one word up there, "Sure."

Then I said this, "Yep, no problem, I'll be there."

Can't take it back, no do-overs with my several thousand bosses who have somehow bugged my house so they know, KNOW, when I'm at my lowest point between donuts, then speed-dial me up and have long, insightful, soul searching conversations that go exactly like this. Exactly:

Some boss: "db."

Me: "Uh-huh," mumbled as I spin the under counter Lazy Susan thing hoping that if it builds up enough speed, centrifugal force will somehow eject a wayward donut-hole.

Same boss knowing he may be three Lazy Susan revolutions from a bad answer: "Can you go to the Bassmaster Classic."

Me: "Uh-Huh," while ducking two cans of soup and a 7-year old bag of Cheetos fired out of the Lazy Susan.

Same Sinister Boss: "Great. Thanks. Bye."

At which point a powdered sugar donut hole shoots out, bounces off my almost good knee, rockets across the kitchen floor and stops at the feet of my wife's dog, Riley, who promptly, in lightning speed, eats the thing, looks up at me and I swear SMILES at me, and then walks into the living room to go back to sleep.

Obviously not a one-of-a-kind event in the db household.

And then two things dawn on me; I've just uh-huhed something that I have no idea what it was I uh-huhed, and Two ... the freakin' Lazy Susan is tapped.

This, THIS is what I should have said:

Me: "Uh-Huh, eh boss, ah, how do you spell ... MAPQUEST?"

Boss: CLICK.

Things would be different if Columbus would have driven

1,358 miles.

I'm in the last rest stop before the end of the earth.

27 hours, 32 minutes of drive time.

I'm about to run out of America.

72 "Recalculatings."

The end of USA soil.

21 "there is a better ways."

I'm standing in front of a "Welcome Area" laminated map, there is no "You Are Here," dot.

I've GPS'ed myself to nowhere. I've somehow driven to a place that's not there.

I'm here, but here has left.

So I keep driving, hoping that in time, here will be somewhere.

Or, I'll drive off the earth.

I'm thinking, that Columbus dude had some gall. He launched himself into nowhere looking for the new nowhere when the old nowhere said, Chris buddy, we it, ain't nothing out there but demons, dragons, and a huge last step.

And this is what Chris said back to his several thousand bosses:

Chris Columbus: "Uh-huh."

Then, suddenly, "in point 4 miles take exit LEFT, then RIGHT."

And there, was here.

Shreveport, Louisiana and the 2009 Bassmaster Classic.

Old dawgs & new boots

Turns out, I beat here, here.

I got here late Tuesday night, the Classic got here today, Friday. Got some lag time going on, so as to not to be totally lying on the expense account, I start listening to people and remembering what they said.

It's the remembering stuff that lets you write it off, and when I got the guy at the hotel front desk to loan me a pen, and then I actually WROTE STUFF DOWN before I really needed to write stuff down to be employed, that stuff I wrote down is what we call "Behind The Scenes," stuff because technically the "Scene" hasn't got here yet.

Trust me, it's Expense Account Journalism, if there weren't all these blank days we had to fill in on the expense sheet, without too much lying, you'd never hear about anything behind the scenes.

Thank an accountant for your inside knowledge.

So, I'm just walking out of the Starbucks in the host hotel (marked on my GPS as the "Bosses Hotel" right next to the DETOUR button) where I just told the Starbuckian "I'll take whatever has the most caffeine, and can you double that," two and a half days in the minivan does that to you, when I run into Elite angler Brian Clark.

Brian and I start to talking, always a good sign when you've done stories with someone and you meet that someone, all random like, and they talk to you in a conversation that never has the words, "Sue You, " in them.

That's a good "Reporting" day right there.

We're talking, for a while, a bunch, most of which I can't remember since there is a certain amount of physiological time before the caffeine reaches peak-serum level (that's my minor in college talk for before the buzz hits you).

Then Brian says this:

"Dog done stole my Christmas boots."

No lack of caffeine will make me miss that sentence.

I take out the hotel's front desk guy's pen and start taking notes:

Brian Clark: "I was up fishing Falcon Lake in Zapata Texas, sleeping in the back of my truck (Where I first saw Brian, or actually, his feet sticking out of the back of his truck last year at the Elite Tournament at Oneida Lake in New York) I had put my brand new boots out on the boot trailer, BRAND NEW BOOTS, and when I got up that next morning, one of the boots was on the ground, the other boot was gone. I looked everywhere, but it was gone."

I'm mad, and I don't even have boots.

Brian again: "So I told what happened to this old guy who lives there in the campground and he tells me, "Must been them old dawgs that run around here. Dawgs probably took your boot, yes sir."

Old run-a-round Texas Dawgs been known to do that, sometimes with you in the boot, sometimes without.

Brian: "About three days later I come back to my truck, I'm wearing sneakers (said pretty much how you would think a boot guy would say sneakers) and there up on my trailer is my boot. The old guy came down to tell me that he'd been looking for it and found it about a mile down the road. Yep, I got it back and still wear them today even if it is a bit chewed up from the old dawgs."

True story, I got a picture of the old dawg chewed up new boot.

Angel Anglers

Off by himself, a U.S. Navy Seal sat in a chair.

Back straight, eyes front, left elbow dislocated.

And on his face, a grin from ear to ear.

Sitting next to him, Elite Angler Denny Brauer, across the aisle, Brian Clark, and they were talking bass fishing with the Navy Seal with the dislocated elbow.

And Kenneth Rhodes was loving every minute of it. All I ever heard him say was, "Yes Sir," "Yes Sir," "Yes Sir." And for that moment in time, there was no pain.

For a couple of hours some of the best anglers in the world took time out to go and meet other best in the world folks. Veterans.

Britt Myers, J. Todd Tucker, Brian Clark, Brody Broderick, Denny Brauer and Marty Robinson went floor by floor, in and out of rooms visiting as many Vets as they could at the Overton Brooks VA Medical Center in Shreveport.

Denny Brauer: "I think we get more out of it than they do. It brings reality home. It's a part of life you really don't think that much about, but it is something we should never forget."

Kilo 37 Third Marines, USMC Henry Merrells 1968-1971, In-County Vietnam.

Bassmaster Elite Angler, Brent Broderick, BORN 01/1968.

A generation separated by a VA Hospital chair armrest. Stories told of past and future fish. Of back in the day, and the coming tomorrow. An autograph given, a friendship gained.

"I thought of my grandfather, Max, when I came in here." It was Britt Myers' grandfather that first took Britt fishing.

"He was a Korean vet and I used to go with him when I was a kid to the VA hospital when he needed care ... it all came back to me when I walked in the door."

Max has since passed away but the gift he gave young Britt lives on when the Angel Anglers walked through those VA Medical Center sliding glass doors.

Red River sunset

Fire and water.

That last glimpse of day, the band of light where legends live.

Birds skim the water, then suddenly swoop. Morning waves turn into evening ripples. One star, two stars, a sky filled with points of light.

Campfire smoke and the murmur of children's bedtime stories. Boots on gravel, steaming coffee, faces waiting for dawn.

Boats under wrap, the hum of batteries being charged, the sound of a lone security guard, his foot grinding out his last smoke.

And as I stepped out onto the cabin's front porch, all I could see was nothing. The nothing that is darkness. And in that darkness, the Red River awaits.

And the river is ready.

Launch

5 a.m. And no one is asleep.

Steps are longer, pacing is quicker.

It has come down to this, between fiberglass and water lays fame.

Whenever this thing is done, whatever your given name is, another two words will be tacked onto it, forever.

CLASSIC WINNER.

Just ask those who have won it.

Just ask those trying to win it.

Immortality measured by the bag, by the pound.

Lots of hoopla around here, singing, barbecuing, cold fingers and toes. Every second you hear a coffee cup hitting the trash and settling in with the 100s of other empty cups.

A bunch of folks have come out, a crowd you have to stand on tip-toes to see over. It's a day for door dings so many folks want to see history launched.

At 6:22 a.m. I tripped over the future of fishing. In a sea of heads, they could only see waists. Two young children stood wrapped in blankets. Huddled so tight their whole body moved when they turned to see the next boat take to the water.

And at the dock the Elite anglers waited.

And under their boats the river waited.

And on the bank the children waited.

For their turn.

And that's why it's called, The Classic.

— db

Don Barone is a member of the New England Outdoor Writers Association. Other stories of his can be found on Amazon.com. For comments or story ideas, you can reach db at www.donbaroneoutdoors.com

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