The campground did have one positive part: the hostess Mary-Jean. She was the first person we met/interacted with in Salmon. Fresh into town, sporting another migraine, after a long day of many forms of travel, Mary-Jean gave us a warm/informative greeting. Her first words were "Well I'll beee horn swaaaggled, you two actu-wally made eittt." It was Sunday evening, and she was about to close the campground office, but she showed us our lovely quarters, then gave us the do's and don'ts. After the tour she insisted on taking us to get some groceries, etc. Mary-Jean was a hearty old woman from deep Texas. She had albino hair and a terminal southern accent that sounded right at home when she used one of her many idiomatic phrases like "what e-in tar-nation" or "well make me a pee-ig and rowll me e-in the muuud." Mary-Jean had a strong faith in some Protestant-type religion, not the typical--in these parts--Mormon institution (80% of the town claimed to be) which made her an outcast herself. Her kindness was the exception and not the rule here. She always checked up on us, offering us baked goods or vegetables from her garden, just making sure we were adapting to life on her adopted Salmon River. We would see her every day after work when checking for mail that rarely came or the phone messages seeing whether anybody remembered us enough to call all the way to the Mountain Time Zone. With her friendly disposition it wasn't that painful not to get any mail/calls. As Lloyd rattled the vehicle by, we peered over at the entrance of the camp office, hoping for a last glimpse of her cherished/pruney face. We promised her some pictures as well as annual updates. As I slouched down in the passenger seat I wondered how many letters we would actually write to our new acquaintances. Not feeling very optimistic--rather more like death--I was betting very freaking few, as I opted to try and sleep off my self induced misery instead of pondering my lack of motivation.

Lloyd began singing to himself as soon as we left town. It sounded familiar, probably because he sang it for us on at least 13 different occasions. I don't know if he meant to be annoying or if he thought Gina liked his voice or if he was just trying to keep himself awake, whatever the case, my pulsating skull wished he'd stop. Since he was a recovering alcoholic/freshly reborn Christian, we couldn't tell him about our simultaneous hangovers or our asinine night at the local taverns/back roads. So I chose to bury my head in the small space between the end of the bench seat and the frame of the truck, just above the door lock. I have always felt that with bad headache/migraine's the best defense is a good offense. Creating my own pain in a different spot alleviates the primary pain--sometimes rerouting it and maybe replacing it (for whatever that's worth). Lots of memories, as well as the throbbing, were racing through my mind as we chugged along.

Gina seemed to forget her ailments as she and Lloyd began a monumental discussion about log cabin pro's and con's. I dozed off for a short spell, but was jarred awake when Lloyd screeched to a halt on the icy/snow-covered highway. He saw a road-killed buck back a few yards and wanted to collect his horns. Lloyd hopped out grabbing the saw from the gearbox. "Rod, Rod...oh my gawd...this is amazing...you have to watch Lloyd, he is looking so tiny and uncoordinated...why is he doing this...Rod, Rod?" Gina said nudging me with that nervous/excited feeling, while also testing to see whether I'd already died and nobody noticed. "I can't really look at anything right now. Tell that freaking hick to stop singing/ranting about prefab log cabins and breathing that loaf of breath so loud," I said as I mashed my head harder against the cold window. "Maybe if you throw up you'll feel better," said sensitive Gina. "How come you're not feeling like shit anymore?...and where do you get the energy to talk about drafty log cabins?" I said in a pissed off I'm the only sick fuck on board tone. "I'm sorry, I feel a lot better now...maybe if you stick your fingers down your throat you'd feel better." I was rolling down the window, desperately needing some air and hoping to purge my mind of any finger dessert ideas, when I noticed where we were: right near the field where the lame ass 4th of July fireworks display took place. With that well-known weekend camping trip fresh in my mind, I shrugged off death for a few minutes in order to remember a couple other memorable Salmon figures.

Britt and Mark were prototypical California guys who also worked as Forest Service Seasonals. They lived in the bigger trailer next to ours with a bunch of people from the fire crew. When we moved into our house, the casual friendship was turned up a notch to where we felt like we were going steady with them. They liked retreating to our house, getting away from their cramped bunks and stretching out while Gina and I jokingly insulted there every minute detail. They were always trying to plan a big house party, with a plot to invite all the local high school chicks they were wooing, but luckily it never happened.

Apart from Gina, me and the fire crew's sole Black kid (who was allegedly chased out of town for looking at a local guy's wife), none of the summer help stuck out more than these two blonde haired, blue eyed, surfer looking dudes. They were the archenemies of many Salmon folk, obviously hailing from the most dreaded state: California. The people who live in these small, isolated Northwest towns always fear/loath outsiders "who come up here with all their money and buy up all the land, clog up all the roads and clutter up all the campsites with there Sport Utility Vehicles/RV's." And the most notorious "outsiders" are those from the golden state. At least they weren't from LA, which is probably the most hated city anywhere in the country, never mind Salmon, ID. They both lived in Northern CA and were real outdoors people, always fishing, mountain biking, swimming, hiking and hanging out in front of the local high school. Their only crime (besides unconfirmed statutory rape) was geography.

The four of us decided to take off for the long 4th of July weekend to fish some beaver ponds, hit a high mountain lake for some hiking/camping/more fishing, then eventually head over to the fireworks display and meet up with Candice and Syringa; the mother/daughter combo with whom the California duo were currently infatuated. Britt and Mark had just recently bought an early 70's Pontiac clunker from one of our coworkers, who obviously saw them coming. They planned to use it to travel all over Idaho/Montana, hopefully intriguing many o' female into coming along for the adventure. So far, thanks to our lack of wheels, I think we were the only intrigued ones. At the end of the summer they were going to use it for the 1000 mile jaunt back to their respective California colleges. It didn't seem too probable that this low riding fragile city car was going to last long on these uneven dirt roads. But we didn't care, we were just excited to get out of Salmon, head for the hills, wander around and catch some wild cutthroats.

The first night was mostly driving, sipping some lukewarm Mt. Rainer's (two cases totaling $22) and listening to them argue about who had more stock in the car or who had a better chance of scoring with certain local women. When we got to the beaver ponds, Gina and I promptly set up the shitty tent we'd borrowed from Mike D. We had camped together a bunch of times, but still never mastered the comfort part of it. It finally dawned on me the problem: our crappy/dated/fifth hand camping equipment. Britt had attractive and very expensive gear (a factoid that would come up often throughout the trip). His tent practically erected itself into shape, glowing in purple neon, complete with rain fly, UV ray protection, bug net, satellite dish and adjacent gazebo (probably made out of breathable gortex) w/optional hot tub. Mark didn't even consider unpacking, opting instead to instantly start fishing.

Much to our chagrin, the leisurely, back-to-nature getaway quickly became a competition to see who caught the most/biggest/wildest breed of fish. Mark's fishing gear, while better than our tattered junk, was not as cutting edge as Britt's. This would be his excuse for most of the weekend. Whenever he lost a fish, got his fly stuck or couldn't cast well enough, he would complain that it was because mother didn't buy him a $500 ($399 actually) fly rod. This sentiment became contagious. Before long we were all making fun of Britt's stuff; from his back ($185) pack to his hiking ($150) boots, to his Teva ($75) sandals, to his terry cloth ($15) towel, to his space age ($120) rain gear, to his water ($60) purifier, to his state of the art camp ($75) stove, etc.

The sun was going down and the black flies were creeping up. As I fruitlessly fished a small dammed pond, Gina started to start a fire with hopes of repelling the ferocious cloud of black flies that had congregated around her head. Britt was a few bogs over and up to his waist in stagnant, murky water, casting to any rises or boils. He had a smooth and practiced technique that we later found out was learned during a week long ORVIS fly fishing ($450) seminar his mother sent him to, in preparation for his summer in Idaho. He caught at least ten fish to every one I caught with my antique/duct taped salmon rod that I borrowed from my dad (w/o his knowledge). Nobody knew for sure how many fish Mark caught, since he was about 500 yards away and sheltered by a bunch of Alder trees. As my tangles and snags piled up, I too became angry with Brit and his expensive line, flies, net, reels and rods. Every now and again (usually after losing either another tiny fish or another tiny $3 fly), I'd catch myself blurting out some curse word aimed at Britt's over indulging/under appreciated (at least by us) mother. By this point in the summer (month and a half in) he was used to the constant abuse the three of us dealt him.

--Rod Murphy, Jr.