For the first time in ages, I took time off of work that didn't entail doing some freelance journalism, job interviews, hanging with family during the holidays or funerals. I actually took time off to relax and enjoy the time........................ Friday morning rolls around and after about three hours of sleep (cops are like that, work a night shift, load up and head out on vacation), I load my stuff up and the wife drops me off at dad's house. In the weeks leading up to this little jaunt to the New Mexico high country, I was kind of dreading it in a way. You see, I really wanted to take my truck, but because I have various projects going on right now and the urge to take the time off overrode my choice, we were heading up in my dad's late 70's CJ. We got to dad's house and the adventure began before we hit the road. Loading up a Jeep with camping gear, bags, fishing poles, the appropriate medicine for dopers out of control to hungry bears, and some recovery gear just in case, there was absolutely no room to be had except in the two front seats. For those of you that are familiar with the older Jeeps, you know that you are going nowhere fast. They were greatly underpowered from the factory and after about twenty years of service, you can get past by a fat lady running to the funnel cake booth at the county fair. Our first stop was in beautiful Springer, New Mexico for gas and lunch. After having the plastic denied at the diner, and eating outrageously overpriced food, we started up the mountains. In short order, we found our campsite, set up camp and it was time to throw a line in the water. For a little bit better picture, it had been about seven years since I delved off into Bill Dance land. Not only was I in fear of being swept by the infamous Oncorhynchus mykiss, but I knew that I could possibly be embarassed to the point of not returning. In short order, I found a little hole that seemed like it might possibly hold something and within ten minutes, I had landed my first rainbow in probably a decade. After that though, it was all over. I tried several different spots, even hung out with dad, who was doing the "cast, set, hook, reel" method of fishing. In no time at all, he had his limit and we called it a day. The next morning, we had decided to head off to a river that I had been reading about. I had kept up on the fishing reports and for the past several weeks, the reports said the fishing here was outstanding. This place happens to be a river that runs through a fish hatchery, so we had to check out the mandatory pond that every hatchery seems to have. This fish, after a quick conversation, informing him that I was venturing out into the wilderness and had planned on harvesting some of his kin for consumption, attempted to attack me. He quickly stopped once I informed him that I had no qualms jumping into his home and fighting to the death. This guy was one of his homies. Apparently he thought by acting like a shark, I would be second guessing my intentions. Once I informed him that I had seen JAWS approximately eleven billion trillion times and that great whites have bigger poop than him, he went the other way. I finally had enough of the posturing and it was time to venture off in search of success. Within fifteen minutes of first line in the water, I had a hit, but was unable to hook. Then things went to crap as my line stayed empty, but my dad, all of about 100 yards downstream from me was reeling them as fast as he could. After some tackle malfunction and a trip to the Jeep and some consultations with my fellow men of fishing, it was time for the screwing around to stop. It was time to get serious. Unfortunately I couldn't swing any flashbangs off the SRT guys, so I had to keep this expedition on the up and up. While diddy bopping down the trail, I ran into dear old dad. He had one on the stringer. SOB must of weighed about 2 pounds. He informed me that he had enough and that I could keep fishing as long as I would like. After about thirty minutes, I finally found a spot I could meditate intensely. With a grassy bank, bringing my body outline lower to the ground would be comfortable. Unfortunately, the sun was shining on my side, but I didn't have no sunblock. But I wasn't going to be dismayed. I was going into this to remind these scaly cold water residents that humans wasn't on the food chain just because we had the ACLU on our side. Within five minutes of line in the water, the game was afoot. Number one was definately a keeper. After a quick after action review of the first engagement, I had the plan of action. Across the river, approximately 10 feet, there was a nice shady area of the water. In extended for about 10 feet downstream, and about 4 feet out into the river. Utilizing the intelligence gleaned from my fellow warriors of the water, the weapon of choice was indeed salmon eggs. The preferred method of capture was casting the hook at the top of the shady water, letting if float through the shade and reel in, lather, repeat as necessary. Off and running I was. Within five minutes of the first catch, here comes #2. But he was a fighter and was able to elude capture about five feet from me. I respect those that fight. Then I repeated the method and if I didn't know better, I wouldn't have had better luck if I stepped into a whorehouse with a fistful of Franklins. Within an hour, I had almost emptied 3/4 of a jar of salmon eggs, landed 5, had another 3 get off and kept 2 out of the 5 that landed. The 3 let go were just younguns. The last one to become dinner swallowed my last hook in my posssession, plus I was getting look a little burnt from being in the sun and I was out of water, so I decided that I would escape and evade out of the area, vowing to return another day. On the drive back to the campground, about an hour away, we were driving through one of the little villages when my dad, who was co-driving yelled at me to hit the next right. He directed me down the street and we pulled up to this site. Dad informed me that the new trailer, which, if you can't guess is a double wide, just moved in. The trailer on the left belongs to my brother. Seems like the lot the double wide is on was for sale and my brother neglected to buy it, against the advice of several people. He was informed that this could be the possible outcome if he didn't buy the lot and sure enough it has happened. I guess I could print this off, send this to my brother's boss, return address "***** Village Council" Dear Dip****, Mow your ****ing grass!!!!!!!!!!!!! All in all, pretty good to get away for a few days. Lessons learned: 1. Roadtripping in a stock CJ sucks. 2. Two guys camping out of a stock CJ sucks. 3. Power of Persuasion to convince dad to buy something a little bigger and with fuel injection is fun. 4. The new department issued Glock 35 sucks for concealed carry, especially when you use that fancy concealed carry fanny pack as a tackle bag also.