Britt was always a fairly good sport about the relentless ribbing that began the instant Gina and I met him. We poked fun at his entire package: his Grateful Deadish wardrobe, his soft style (for effect) of speech, his extra sensitive demeanor, his intellectual wannabe philosophies, his live off the land like Jerimiah Johnson attitude and his environmentally correct to the point of nausea credo. While he did love the attention, he didn't like being called a rich kid. At some point he must have snapped because he eventually began lashing out at our inadequacies, which inevitably only made the repartee increase. Gina was always quizzing him on another alleged facet of Britt's world: if he was gay. She half-jokingly would say he was secretly bisexual and that he had designs on me, then watch his reaction and judge his expressions/ comebacks and say, "See ... I knew it. Look at your face ... you can't stop blushing. I knew it was true ... I knew it. There's nothing wrong with having those feelings, just don't have them for Rod." This would make Marc skittish, Britt grin neurotically and made me search for a swift way to change the topic.

By 9:30, Gina was bored, I was frustrated, Britt was completely consumed and Marc was still at large. We tried to eat some of the crappy Western Family brand food we bought (pop tarts, tortillas, refried beans, bagels -- total spent $7.85) for the trip, instantly renaming the regional company to "Welfare Family." Finally Marc made it back to camp, crazily swatting away flies and still protesting Britt's unfair equipment advantage. Apparently Marc caught around six fish (keeping two for dinner), all very large and as thick as footballs, ranging from cutthroats to rainbows to a hybrid style cutbow. All this fish talk willed Britt back in to claim his dominance. He caught 12 fish (keeping none) of every size, shape and denomination. He bragged-up his countless cerebral battles with certain fish, telling of his intuitive ability to predict what the fish would do in each situation. I pulled third place in our little contest (keeping zero) with one cutthroat landed and two that I had on the line pretty close to shore.

With the increase in smoke, bugs and darkness, the drinking kicked in full force. Marc could definitely hold his own in this event. He was a stocky, football player-looking dude who prided himself on being a micro brew connoisseur. One time Marc borrowed a car and dragged us all four hours away into Montana to pick up some of his favorites. One case of "Yea sure ya Betcha" ($21), two cases of different blends of his hometown "Sierra Nevada" brew (total $45), as well as a few interesting singles/sixers. He would drink any beer anytime, but preferred fine ale. Over the course of the summer he became upset with Gina legions of times for not finishing every drip of beer in the bottle. He felt it was disrespectful to the brewer and whoever bought the case not to drain each bottle completely. Gina loved to draw caricatures of Marc with his fully extended posture with his always pointing way up to 11 o'clock hour chin, his barrel shaped body --suggestive of the late John Belushi, his jagged Billy Idol blonde hair, and his duck like waddle. Marc was easier going than Britt. He didn't seem to brood about political, philosophical or environmental issues much, opting to drink, mountain bike, fish and chase after area teens instead. While Britt shared many of these same hobbies, he would sometimes (during the pursuit of said local High School girls) bring down the mood by contemplating global warming and overpopulation during any subsequent fun.

As the night bled on, so did the bug bites and the harassment of Britt, but now it was exclusively being administered by Marc. Gina and I decided to turn in somewhere around 11:30, it was chilly now and we hoped both idiots would follow our lead before any fist-a-cuffs eventuated. Gina dozed off quickly. Somehow (probably with the aid of the five Mt. Rainier's) I, despite the jagged rock that dug deep into my kidney, managed to gravitate into some semblance of sleep, only to be startled back awake somewhere around 1:30, by a series of metallic thumping sounds and heightened voices. Apparently Britt and Marc had continued arguing, covering everything from the fishing competition to chicks to who was the rightful owner of the 1973 Pontiac. The situation escalated into a bit of a shoving match and now Marc was emphatically stating each of his "thousand points of light" by pounding on the hood of the car after each ray. Gina and I sat up in our dewy tent wholly disoriented, but then intently listened to/snigger at Marc's incoherent rant. At first it seemed likely that they would brawl, but as the debate wobbled on it became more civil/friendly/understanding, with the two finally psyching each other up for the rest of their "mad fun summer." "Come on man its gonna be fucking-A-great. We're gonna go down to Henry's Fork (famous fly fishing Mecca). We're gonna run up to Missoula and meet those girls from fire school. We're gonna head over to Glacier (national park in northern Montana) and hit Yellowstone maybe bringing Syringa and Candice along ... maybe even go up to Seattle. We got the whole Northwest and every girlie in our way at our disposal," said Marc. Britt answered with a barrage of "way-cool's" and "oh you are so totally right's." Gina's on-the-money imitation of each putz during their epic episode was the perfect supplement. She possesses the uncanny talent of noticing then reproducing people's mannerisms and idiomatic expressions, oft times taking it further by capturing the most obvious of these with a marker and some sketch paper.

The rest of the weekend was more of the same; lots of fishing, drinking and insulting. Gina and I hiked around Iron Lake (notorious glaciated high-mountain lake), whipped/skimmed rocks and spied on the California mates. Later Gina showed off her unique fishing style, which consisted of attaching a fly (caddis $2.50) to a spinning rod with a bobber (.25 cents) to keep it afloat. Purist Britt could not believe it. Marc laughed powerfully until she reeled in a nice sized rainbow ... then another ... then another. This would become a trademark of Gina's, while she didn't really like fishing ("felt bad for the poor fish"), she liked trying untraditional ways of doing traditional things, always hoping to revolutionize something. If she was better at fly-fishing she may have never needed to try this unorthodox method. She switched to this safer type of fly/spin-cast fishing after an unfortunate/infamous (for me) incident.

Gina learned how to fly fish the summer before in Yellowstone, where there were so many fish in some places that it didn't matter how far or how badly you cast or how much of a commotion you caused while doing it. Up in Idaho the fish were smarter/more selective. We fished close together and I tried to help her figure out the mechanics again. Typically, whenever either of us tries to show the other (even with the best intentions) how to do something, pride takes over. Maybe it was my alleged condescending tone or it could have been all the snickering Britt and Marc were doing while we squabbled. Whatever the reason was, I backed off before I said some more dumb-ass comments, leaving her to figure it out. I went to the tent looking for some Pringles, not paying attention, when out of no-where a gray ghost streamer ($3.50) fly impaled itself into my forehead. Evidently during her search for the perfect cast, she got too much line going. Thus no distance (25') was safe. It was dug way into the very thin skin of my brow's frown lines. She didn't realize it, so she kept trying -- without ever looking back -- to free the hook from whatever pesky bush it was snagged in. When Britt and Marc saw what was going down they were speechless and couldn't even muster any help/warning. It took a couple huge roars to convey the painful message over to a resolved Gina. Once the blood slowed down a bit we all had a good chuckle and Gina and I had another story we could never live down. Graciously/sympathetically Gina switched over to her safer, unconventional and yet successful spinning/fly style.

The binge weekend ended in some cow pasture with 500 or so locals watching some lame-ass fireworks (estimated cost $97.00) display. We all sat on the car roof/hood and watched, drinking more Mt. Rainier's. Syringa, her mother Candice and a few other High School girls came too, ensuring the rest of our 4th of July experience was uncomfortable. We should have stayed at the lake away from all the inbred locals/seasonal workers/tourists and their collective offspring. When it mercifully ended Marc -- being most patriotic -- decided that he was going to take Syringa and some other High School girls up to the hot springs to do some more celebrating. Obviously Gina and I would be excess baggage. We didn't wanna go in the first place, but for some odd (perhaps latent) reason Britt chose not to go either, opting to catch a ride back with us in the back of some dude's truck who worked on the Fire Crew. We experienced our only traffic jam for six months on our way home. All the red necks were whooping it up on federal highway 95, blowing their horns, swerving all over, flashing/mooning each other the entire way back. It, in tandem with a buzzed and lonely Britt wheezing and skulking right next to me throughout the whole ordeal, sucked. The self-induced grid lock was taking forever. The back of the truck was un-freaking-comfortable with all the battery acid, spare tires and ridges in the bed liner every 16". The long weekend ended on a sour note with Gina accusing Britt of trying to kiss me while no one was looking. No definitive decision has ever been reached on whether or not he did make an attempt. I chose not to press charges. All three of us were dehydrated, tired, dirty and scratching our many bug bites. I think we were collectively pissed at Marc for ditching us and forcing us to cram into this confined truck with all our fishing/camping gear. We had a good time but like so many trips taken with friends, were glad when it was over. Just as I now wished this hangover/migraine/endless journey home was.

Lloyd was ardently concentrating on driving over the dreaded pass into Montana when I first felt that familiar cheeky feeling that comes just before puking or dry heaves. We were behind schedule and the weather was seriously crappy, but I had to stop and barf. "Lloyd ... I know this isn't a good time ... but ... would it be okay if we stopped for a sec ... I need to use the facilities." We were now very close to the top of LoLo peak/pass and Lloyd remembered an outhouse he saw last time through. I think he thought I needed to make #2. I wish. It was hard to keep the resurgent bile inside. We sloshed around for another mile and just when I was about to tell Lloyd to "pull the fucking truck over now" -- he found it. What timing. What a memory.

I raced out and heaved repeatedly behind the aquamarine plastic structure. I could see all the pizza from the party (total estimated cost: $111.16) the Forest Service threw for us the day before. Everybody that was left (most employees were either laid off or back in school) at the Forest Service was there. All in all, it was a valid attempt to say good-bye to us. An awkwardly fitting gesture that gave the presumably unsuccessful/bogus Salmon Recovery project (for anybody who might be looking) closure.

With Lloyd still in the rig I continued to ralph all over the backside of the Porta-potty. Meanwhile Gina was trying to comfort me by peppering the volatile moment with bumbling updates about Lloyd's demeanor/body language. When that failed to give me relief, she advised me to again stick my fingers down my throat and "get it all out." With my eye's watering/bulging out of my head, she helped me back to the truck in standard three-legged race fashion. This must have finally tipped Lloyd off to what was wrong with me but he mercifully kept his biscuits-and-gravy mouth shut.

With the intense snow piling up/falling sideways, it seemed too strong to be just a regular storm. Feeling so gravely ill, I barely noticed any of the life and death scenarios we came across during our descent down the mountain. Lloyd fought the elements for the next hour or so while I drifted in and out of consciousness. One time I woke to see the 18 wheeler in front of us jackknifed and taking up both sides of the narrow highway. It looked like a scene out of "Real Stories of the Highway Patrol." I chose to believe it was a dream, drifting out again. Later I found out it actually happened and was therefore no apparition. Gina kept Lloyd company by rambling on and on with her cross of menial and bizarre topics, saying anything to take his mind off the blustery conditions. Lloyd seemed grateful. I, on the other hand, was of no use to anyone. At this point, all I wanted was to get on the plane and have it blow up during take off.

Thanks to Gina's percolating disposition and Lloyd cautious driving, we survived the miserable road conditions and made it to Missoula early enough for the dynamic-duo to have a last breakfast (biscuits n' gravy: $2.99) together. I spent the majority of the Denny's stopover in the bus-station-like rest room. I threw up a bit more, brushed my teeth twice (Gina dug through the luggage and found my $1.89 brush and the .49 cent travel size Colgate paste) so the acidic bile wouldn't eat through my molars. After those precautions, I washed my faced 23 times with the coldest available water hoping that I'd freeze it all out.

When we got to the airport, we received an unexpectedly odd good-bye. I figured ol' Lloyd would carry in all our bags, make sure the flight was on time and then give us many syrupy hugs till we all got misty eyed. Lloyd was either not too good at farewells or he was worn out from the tumultuous field season behind us. Or maybe he was just sick of my death row groans. Whatever the case, he quickly pulled up to the curb in front of the departure area, left the motor running and squirmishly waited for us to shoo as we incredulously collected our wet/heavy/tattered parcels from the back. When we stumbled away he waved his bluegrass picking fingers feverishly, gave an insipid smile then sped off as if he was going to be late for a movie matinee. Gina got a tad emotional as we struggled inside, still confused as to what happened. "Ba-buy Lloyd," I muttered, without any chance of him hearing me from 14 blocks away.

We were now just two plane rides away (Business Class: $460, with a plane change in Salt Lake City -- paid for by the US Department of Agriculture) from wondering if anyone would pick us up at the airport back in Boston. I still had that stinging brain tumor feeling and now my woes were adversely affecting Gina. She looked winded as her shoulders slouched from the strain of trying to carry too many duct-taped boxes up to the gate. Her quiet/determined effort made me feel like a Styrofoam cup filled with diarrhea. So I made myself momentarily snap out of the funk in order to ease the load.

At the Northwest gate, I was promptly told that I couldn't take the two meticulously packaged/secured cardboard Huggies boxes (one tied up with an old bike tube) as carry-on's. I was in no mood for some faceless lady to tell me I couldn't bring home our trophy's and memorabilia. I argued/moaned/held up the line long enough to get some other faceless person to address our problem. He was almost ready to concede letting me bring on the eye sore boxes, but when he ran them through the X-ray machine he noticed their contents: numerous antlers and bones. He was flabbergasted. Next he called in a few more faceless fucks as our jury. Things didn't look so good. They said it was illegal to bring these "weapons" aboard any commercial plane, because they could be used for "foul play." On the verge of blacking out I remember mumbling "Weapons! Weapons? Foul play?" I could barely speak now. I think my brain shut down. I vaguely remember Gina entering the fray with her pleasant/innocent/clueless nature. Looking back, it must have seemed a bit strange to these corporate screws. A sick, mumbling, smelly-looking freak with puke breath who brought his unattractively/dangerously manicured luggage up to the counter and now was outraged over not being able to bring his lucky Elk skull to the seat with him. Gina must have struck a deal or plea-bargained down to a lesser charge, because we did get on the annoying plane and our cherished horns/thoraxes made it back East in one piece.

Needless to say, I was queasy/bothersome the whole way home. I got in a fight with some cowboy/ass-sniffer who took my bag out of the overhead, threw it into the aisle and then placed his suitcase in its spot. Lucky for him (I had antlers/weapons nearby), the flight attendant intervened, declaring the ass-sniffer winner by TKO (he unknowingly/on-purpose bashed me in the temple with his bag). She then moved him up to 1st class as his purse for the fight.

We were both loathing the thought of moving back home to our parent's lair for the required few months needed to save up/figure out where to escape to next. It was a depressing reality that neither wanted to confront yet, so we opted to sleep instead. My ache eventually dissipated to the manageable "splitting headache" category and all the strange events of the past day/six months began to soak in. While the Salmon Recovery Project was, through no fault (not too much anyway) of our own, a borderline failure, we had learned a lotta crap about fisheries and field research. We felt that under the right circumstances we could do some kind of cool/exciting/high paying research job in some exotic locals. The only problem was that we didn't have the right degree or the right geography to really pursue this kind of career. Another drawback was that at least 20 million other buttholes already had the same revelation and there were only about three jobs that fit this romantic description in the first place. So we touched down in Boston without any life changing epiphany to cling to; we were just as lost/confused as when we left. What we did have was a bunch of ugly boxes, some undeveloped film, twisted memories/new acquaintances, sore muscles, a bunch of cheesy gifts for our family, no apartment of our own, antlers/skulls, scrapes, bruises and student loans to worry about. So things were looking up!

Gina's extended family met her at the airport. Hugs, handshakes, gifts and kisses were exchanged. A week before we left Salmon I wrote my boyhood chum Timmy a postcard asking for a ride home from the airport because my parents were on a vacation. He was late, so I figured the postcard never made it. My head scrambled around for a back-up plan, not wanting the Buscag's to drive me all the way (wrong direction) home. Just as our dishonorable luggage made its initial flop around the carousel, Tim slipped in and saved the day. He watched from afar for a second, catching a good snort from the muddled/scruffy site of us (Gina with a thrift store cowboy hat and me with a pubicky, crumb catching beard) and our bags/boxes.

With Gina and her fam heading out for a celebration gorging, Tim and I quietly/ceremoniously sipped off a warm Busch Light on the ride home. Everything looked so cramped during the grid locked commute, no horizon anywhere, just strip malls and ugly structures. I wasn't exactly feeling claustrophobic, but it did take a while to get reconditioned to the "beauty" of central Massachusetts. Along the way I told Tim the abridged version of our experience. I felt a bit like a self-cleaning oven as I conveyed our collective mishaps. After I was internally evacuated, all I wanted to do was sleep for a week. I figured when I got home I'd eat solids for the first time in 26 hours, shower/hygiene myself and then crash.

When we hit my folk's driveway there was an obvious wrench thrown in the way of that idea. Fourteen cars were bumper to bumper all the way up to the garage that stood adjacent to the 200 year old Victorian house. The entire structure was pulsating with sound, and the clumps of frolicking high schoolers all over the lawn bobbed to its throb. "I guess your twin sisters came home from college for the weekend," Tim said with his dry drollery. "Bet it had nothing to do with my parents being in Chicago," I mumbled weakly.

Home vs. Salmon. The point spread is even odds. Tough bet to call.

--Rod Murphy, Jr.