Montana's Most Cringe-Worthy Fishing Story

Descripción

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold [https://www.audible.com/pd/How-to-Unsuccessfully-Promote-a-Fake-Fight-in-Montana-Audiobook/B097YZKNBC?source_code=AUDFPWS0223189MWT-BK-ACX0-262264&ref=acx_bty_BK_ACX0_262264_rh_us] Several attempts were made at Beaver Lake; the largest lake in that area, aside from Whitefish Lake. Its shape was that of a wax “W” that had melted in the sun with stretches on each end extending almost a half-mile. The south section which was the base of the malformed letter, appeared the most accessible for parking and launching by raft, whereas the other side was marshy and had a gentle stream. This stream led to a lesser body of water; the Little Beaver Lake. Shaped like a human molar. The results of our fishing at Beaver Lake were terrible, but we had two divergent stories to tell. When we got to Beaver Lake, we were on the opposite end from Uncle Hal’s favorite spot, so I figured we could kick our way over there in the tubes… and we did! It took a long time but was very enjoyable. Once there, I loaded my weapon with a worm only to have it backfire… the dang pole was sticking again! I put a fake worm on, put the hook in the water, and manually extended the line as I kicked away. There were so many fish, but none were hungry. Well, at least they weren’t hungry for a plastic worm and I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want a real worm either, but that is their preference I suppose. On the way back across the lake, my pole was casting fine. Moody, I guess. That journey ate up the daylight quickly. (Calmes, 9/21/99) This entry was incomplete. Though comprehensive in expressing the recurring failures of angling, the entry fell short of going in depth about the coffee and water that I had just consumed. His reflections failed to acknowledge my irresponsibility of not urinating before putting on waders for a journey through water and time. His words offered no mention of my bladder. Why would he write about my bladder? Because I damn near lost it in the line of fishing. I lived to tell the tale, and so I must take you back to where this fishing story began. It would be a delightful start to the young afternoon. The sun peeked through the windows of the cabin, spurring a revolution of motivation. A cold passing dawn meant a noble time for the second round of scalding water sifting through fresh coffee grounds and a white filter. Sounds of near-boiling temperatures percolated a coffee pot that would nearly seal one man’s fate. I opened the cabinets to find the right lure. Two pinches of sugar. Two drips of cream. I weighed in on cinnamon, but the sun was out molding a shadow already. No cinnamon. Nutmeg was needed for this time of day. I sat in the Lazy Boy with my steaming coffee. The coffee first cooled with a steady breath at its surface to a manageable 135 degrees Fahrenheit. Next, the contents poured down my throat in anticipation of repelling some surfacing tiredness. MMMHHHMM. Further down the coffee dropped through the esophagus. Though some absorption would occur, most of the liquids were not so fortuitous. Andy was now awake and fit for a dramatic day at the lake. We had counted on a showing at Beaver Lake for quite some time, and today would be that day. Armed with fishing poles and tubes, he remained ill-informed about the status of coffee racing through my body. He had no idea that I had even drunk coffee. The liquids were now in my stomach facing the doomsday, hell-like, acidy conditions reminiscent of the Tarawa invasion. We loaded up “The Aloha” with our gear and headed down the bumpy road. The vibrations seemed to expedite the fluid’s momentum like a jigged bait for attracting bass. I took several finishing drinks from my thermos, full of the second cup of coffee, followed by a liter of water to remain hydrated. There would now be two fronts of fluid processing inward. We arrived at a dirt parking spot at Beaver Lake and dressed in impermeable waders. Little did I realize I was putting on a casket tailored to the burial and preservation of any unplanned call to nature. The original wave of coffee had seen enough processing in the stomach and thus flowed through twenty feet of turbulence in the small intestines. The second wave of fluids had newly reached the stomach and jumped around like the fish at the surface, risking suffocation for thirsty insects. Getting far out on a lake with a tube, waders, and fins was amazing. To be in frigid water without being wet felt free and exciting, like a duck. Inaccessible spots from shore became prime targets. Sometimes, a tube can even go where boats cannot. Andy ventured off to his own location, just as some coffee trolled off to my large intestines. As for the majority of fluids, they would smile upon the kidneys with great relief. One ultimate chance for salvation. The drawback to fishing in a tube is that it takes an eternity to get where you want to be. And much longer to get back. But I wanted the big fish. By the time I reached a location of near perfection, I sensed another nibble. The digestive system had fully mined that first wave of consumed fluids. I felt the abrupt coffee strike on my bladder. At least 12 ounces, but possibly more. The fight commenced. “Coffee on!” I yelled. The duck paddling began. The shore seemed so far. Perhaps two-hundred yards away. Staggered fishermen throughout the waterfronts were tiny figurines. So distant and small. The invisible speedometer showed five yards gained per minute. No duck would ever boast of such a pathetic velocity. The second cup of coffee and the liter of water had finished their joyride with much greater velocity and were putting up a marvelous fight. This had to be more than 12 ounces. This was a whopper. To relieve myself now would mean another thirty minutes swimming in 16 ounces of pee. To go now with no change of clothes would mean a drive back to the cabin soaked with urine. I entered those waters with a catch and release permit only. The aches in my abdomen worsened as shore approached like a glacier. A glacier going uphill against hurricane-force wind. The stronger I paddled, the worse my bladder expanded. Too much tension and it would break. But that coffee continued to fight tenaciously while I boldly reeled in that shoreline by the pedaling of my fins every chance possible. Thirty feet away. Twenty-five. The theme song to Chariots of Fire played in my mind as my feet kept kicking. Twenty. Fifteen. There would be no squirts of anticipation. The fishermen at the beach erupted with glee and waved me in, akin to flight deck attendants on an aircraft carrier. Ten. The music intensified. Three! Two! One! I rolled onto mother earth and somehow crawled and walked forward toward the bushes. Two large lumberjacks stood with arms crossed in my path, but once they witnessed my determination quickly gave way as would club bouncers allowing a VIP through. I unzipped. I showered the first bush found. My hands would not hold and aim. No. They were held high like the dramatic scene from Platoon. I fell to my knees after all the strain vanished. Arms still in the air. The outputs weighed in at a new Beaver Lake record of 19 ounces. There was no concern for onlookers as they were still cheering. For I had averted a medical emergency amidst the biggest battle of my angling career. No medevac needed. The coffee and water had just begun a new circle of life. Fade scene to black. [This fishing story was inspired by true events]. Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe [https://bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Cabin Fever Declares War on the President of Silent Treatment

Cabin Fever moments from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold [https://www.audible.com/pd/How-to-Unsuccessfully-Promote-a-Fake-Fight-in-Montana-Audiobook/B097YZKNBC] LETTERS TO OTHERS… AND MYSELF In middle school, I learned the power of the letter. I had some money to purchase a stick of Jolly Ranchers, only to find the wrapper fused to the individually wrapped candy. The candy was inedible. The dissatisfaction was unacceptable. I wrote to the corporate office of the manufacturer and disclosed what had happened. Except the details may have been overblown; much like this entire memoir. There was excessive use of a fictional distraught sibling whose only wish was to feast on a Jolly Rancher so that he could focus better on grades once again. There was “catastrophic emotional damage” that they needed to be mindful of resulting from their improper wrapping. This formal complaint was a product that stemmed out of boredom, more or less. The unforeseen result was that the company replied weeks later with a padded envelope. Inside were three sticks of Jolly Rangers; with a new wax-coated paper wrapping. The candy eased out of the wrapper like Christmas presents. A letter accompanied the envelope, thanking me for bringing the poor quality to their attention. They had transformed their wrappers in response to some of my “slightly doctored” details. It is amazing, the authority of letters. I had always read the letters that old historical figures wrote wondering, who the hell talks like that? The expressions were so over-the-top. We unearthed what that must have been like to live in an era without a phone on a small scale. You had to make your words count because the dialogue cycle routinely met gaps of weeks or months. A hand-written letter could never match the negligent content or pace of modern texting. Opening a long-anticipated letter from your loved one with only the words “wtf” or “lol.” Or even one-liners. Not even a postcard gets that much mockery of communication appreciation. One modern-day glance at all of my recent texts would surely fail at being decent individual letters. The combination of text mentality married with letter-writing could never materialize. I almost wish it did, for the sake of science. In Montana, writing letters became an event. So much time, patience, and care are required to produce a hand-written message. Even receiving one is difficult on the occasions when reading upon receipt is not viable. Care and preservation of that letter must occur. An email is simple. Read it or flag it to read later. Or simply delete it. To throw away a letter is almost like discarding a possession or a gift. With so much tangible care taken to craft one, the recipient becomes a de facto curator of the papers. Far more responsibility that a busy or ill-prioritized person cannot accommodate. With enough time that has passed, an entire generation has cycled through having never written or received letters. Letters were written to anyone that had an address. It was an all-out onslaught. Sometimes, we were writing to stay in touch. Sometimes, we were writing just to spread the hysteria and make people giggle. At times, the two entwined, and it was a grand event to be a part of. Letters rhymed, hosted pictures, communicated feelings, misled truths, told disconcerting truths, romanticized the mundane, showcased drawings, told fictional stories, and conducted shock-and-awe. Much like this memoir. Some letters had secret messages embedded within which called for a decryption device to reveal the true message. Secret statements of such unreasonable darkness that teasingly doctored words of such deep petulance. I even drafted a letter to myself so that Andy could give it to a friend. The intent? So she would think I was losing my mind. Why the hell would you want to do that? Because you have to make offerings to the Cabin Fever Gods from time to time. And those deities had an insatiable appetite. I listened to Led Zeppelin tapes while writing a short letter to Heather. I told her that Brad has been writing letters to himself and hanging them on his wall. I told her I took one down and sent it to her so she believes me. Brad wrote a letter to himself and I put it in her envelope. His idea. We laughed. (Calmes, 1/14/00 [https://www.audible.com/pd/Big-Sky-to-Big-City-Audiobook/B08GNXCNFN]) There are so many notes we did not write. Letters by each of us to the same person that told the exact opposite story. My five-paged hype up of snow abundance in Montana counters Andy’s seven-page rant of disbelief about how January is halfway over and there is still no snow. There was a wormhole of potential left on the draft board. Yet, we had a good run, nonetheless. The elements of a letter were married to its intended audience. How did you want the letter reader to respond? Was it shock? Was it to be informed? Hopefully, the content was a little funny and original. The most important question was, will they ever forget about it? Probably so, but piecing together unforgettable prose was a reasonable endeavor. There were consequences if recipients did not respond. The letters escalated and became incessant. We showed no mercy. Brian Ray Day. All I did today was draw a picture of Brian Ray, write him a letter, and listen to the radio, hoping to hear Dream Theater’s new single. (Calmes, 10/11/99 [https://www.audible.com/pd/Big-Sky-to-Big-City-Audiobook/B08GNXCNFN]) Brad wrote a hilarious Mad Lib letter for Brian Ray tonight. (Calmes, 10/13/99) Brad gave me a funny idea for Brian Ray’s card. It is a Christmas tree with a bunch of random definitions written all over it. I think it’s funny. (Calmes, 12/16/99) We tried letters. We tried Christmas cards. This man was a tremendous human being and a great friend that I had known since high school. He later developed into a key provider of free pizza while he lived in Nashville and worked at Dominoes. He was without a nasty bone in his short-statured body, but he was not responding. We had received no letters from him. A new theater of war was upon us. PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE WISE MEN We dashed through the snow. Babies were cold outside. Andy, the drummer boy, was becoming the angry drummer boy that hated painting. Yet, we found joy to the world because Christmas-time arrived in Flathead County. We required a Christmas tree, and Brian had still not written a letter back. It was time to kill two birds with one stone. Or chop two trees with one hatchet. Except, we only needed one tree and birds had nothing to do with our undertaking. I was excited to go out in the snow with a hatchet and hunt down a near-perfect Christmas tree. We wandered for a half an hour on Uncle Hal’s property but couldn’t find any, so we split up and headed out on State Forest land. Splitting up turned out to be a bad idea because every time I saw a tree that might be a candidate, Brad wasn’t there to confirm. I stood by a patch of trees that looked decent and shouted for Brad, but I thought he was too far off to hear me. I stood until I had a good layer of fresh snow covering me, then started off to look for Brad. After I lost the patch of trees, I found Brad. He had heard me calling but didn’t feel like answering. At the spot we met up was the perfect tree… but over about twenty yards was an even better one. By perfect, I mean that the ratio of branches to bare spots was nearly 50/50. It didn’t take long for the hatchet to bring the tree’s life in the wild to an end. We then had the non-luxury of carrying it the 200 yards back to the cabin. I nearly puked from sudden fatigue, but luckily there was nothing in my stomach to be regurgitated. The tree was about 18 feet long and not extremely light. We quickly organized the living room to make way for the tree, got the tree into place, trimmed it down, knocked it over, got it back into place, put on Christmas music, drilled holes in the bar spots, and filled them in with the trimmed branches, strung lights around it, then garland, then the ornaments that Grandma sent, then Brad took a picture of me putting the star that I had just made with Brian Ray’s face on it on top of our wonderfully tall and pathetic Christmas tree. Being that Brian Ray is a good friend and hasn’t responded to our letters, we are calling this a “Brian Ray Christmas.” See, we’re losin’ it. Brad’s been talking to himself in the shower. I’ve been trying to beat the demons out of my head by bashing it against the wood post in the hall. It works! (Calmes, 12/19/99) Obvious proof that if one messes around and does not respond to weird letters, they will wind up getting a Christmas holiday AND tree named after them. This war could not be fought with words like the Run Vs. Walk feud from before. This meant Andy and I had to set aside our differences in the hierarchy of foot travel and form an alliance. We had to adapt. The tactics grew fierce, and we had to show we acted beyond the bluff. We would get dirty if the call of duty demanded it from him and me. We heaved that mammoth pine through two hundred yards of deep snow back to the cabin. Then put a finely cut-out picture of Brian’s face on a star at the top of that towering evergreen. Just to prove a point. The escalation of force would not soon be over. LETTER COVERT OPS Motivation has an army of worthy adversaries. Besieging the fortified perimeter marched forces of constant seclusion and a cavalry of gray skies. Horse-drawn catapults quickly deployed, spitting out fireballs burning of boredom to weaken motivational defenses. Wall-breaching ladders lay in wait for a second-phased attack. The siege would last for weeks. Happiness supply chains broke down entirely. Surrender seemed imminent. It is from that darkest hour of despair that heroes rise against their aggressors. With the wall burning to near ruins, cabin fever arose from those ashes with such might and ferocity that the encirclement would soon be fully dismantled. Disbanded armies pillaged as spoils of war. And so ends a ridiculous introduction to further ridiculousness. What is the tally of eye-rolls now? My sources have it at 55. A new year sailed steadily upon us. A new millennium had passed without a hitch. We had written letters, Christmas cards, and even made a Christmas tree in Brian’s honor. Yet, the mission remained incomplete. The job left undone. He still did not respond. Brian Ray X-Mas X What else? My sled’s broke. Repairs’ come somehow. What else? Brian’s Xmas is over. Took down the tree today with dying needles falling off before we touched them. Yes. Not very cold still–teens is the number of the low. These new book journals are dumb. (Oliger, 1/16/00) Brian’s honorary Christmas came to a close, but by no means would an absence of the tree reveal an impending sign of our surrender. Party! I continue to live in my nocturnal way. I wrote a little in my band description and played a little guitar. Then I showered and got ready for the “Brian Ray Party 2000!” Being that he won’t return our mail, we’ve decided to write him letters responding to what his letter might’ve been had he sent them. To start the party, we got dressed up and played 3-D tick-tac-toe. I think I won, but it was too weird to be too sure. We then played Sequence. Brad freakin’ won DAMN IT! After the games, we struggled to think of things that Brian would’ve written in a letter. We’re going to send him the Christmas tree star too because we told him that it was his idea. The reason for this insanity is simply so maybe Brian will feel inclined to write us and find out what the hell we’re talking about. I hope it works… I want to hear from the guy. (Calmes, 1/22/00) Yes, we pitched a party to observe him for not writing us back. Yes, we wrote letters, feigning to be him, forwarded to ourselves. We found no other choice in lieu of his belligerent boycott. Mission accomplishment was essential. He needed to be learned. We would not back down from this oppressive neglect. The alliance emboldened by stout resolve. UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER Cinco de Mayo. Americans celebrate it as a French Invasion halted by Ignacio Zaragoza and his Mexican Army. Why do Americans celebrate it? Because margaritas taste amazing and because on May 5th, 2000, Brian formally surrendered by finally responding with a letter. After seven months of posted letters, Christmas cards, Christmas trees, and Year 2000 parties involving fake letters, I looked forward to how we could end this saga with an unprecedented bang. A letter to end all letters. Or perhaps something grander than even that. He stole that opportunity away from us. Post Office: Four letters for me! One from Mom, Wayne, Heather, and a person named… are you ready… named… you won’t believe this…. BRIAN RAY! ‘Bout time! Brian Ray kicks butt! (Calmes, 5/5/00) This conflict ceased. The feeling bittersweet. Such turmoil was not supposed to matriddelope this way. A series of salient battles must end in a manner worthy of being historical. I sought to be Genghis Khan, and this would become my Great Wall of China. An unstoppable force meeting a poponidoxical object. Such a war can never be over. 135 years earlier, on May 5th, the Confederacy was dissolved. They had war reparations to be paid. This war would have reparations of their own, with terms not yet disclosed. Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe [https://bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

4 de jun de 202216 min

The Ever-Slow Surrender to Cabin Fever

Cabin Fever moments from the Montana Memoir "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold [https://www.audible.com/pd/How-to-Unsuccessfully-Promote-a-Fake-Fight-in-Montana-Audiobook/B097YZKNBC] LOOKING THE PART/SMELLING THE PART It did not take long to look pathetic. I already looked pitiful, far before I ever set foot in Montana. But damn, did we take it to a far-reaching level from the get-go. Shaving became an extreme rarity. Haircuts did not exist. Not until the styles were tinged with cabin fever, at least. The choice of clothing was determined by smell and not by color coordination. Could I wear this another day? In defense of clothing re-use, I deemed it more as clothing efficiency. We had to take our clothes all the way into town and once we could no longer park “The Aloha” at the cabin, we had to haul those clothes back and forth a third of a mile through the snow. There was no condoning the omission of showering, though. The task requires minimal effort, and there was even hot water available to us. Showering got so uncommon that I would notate my shower days in my journal. That was devotion to the part if I must say so. Look the part. Act the part. Smell the part. Undergarments would still get changed and routine hygiene tasks were performed. We were hermits, but not animals, after all. As time flowed downriver, there came a level of shaming that took place between Andy and me should we make subtle attempts at restoring our appearances. That included showering. Shower shaming was rampant. In the cabin, if one of us showered, then there would only be one person left to stink everything up. And that was way too much of a burden to put on either. DRIFTING BEYOND THE EDGE The onsets of cabin fever snowballed. Being in the same place, day after day. With the same person. The weather turns and suddenly, outdoor adventures become infrequent. By the time the tumbleweeds of late October rolled in, the honeymoon of living free was rubbing off. It rained some. It snowed some. The air was becoming frosty. It is an extraordinary thing to get cabin fever. Time goes so, so slowly. The elements that surround you get more scrutiny than ever humanly conceived. More attention than they should, for sure. Unique relationships are forged with inanimate things. There is joy in the joyless. I had once fallen unto uncontrollable laughter over the inability to control a muscle spasm on my foot. Brad and I realized that we’ve gone completely mad. The intro to this entry is proof (Brad farts a lot. They don’t smell... or at least I can’t smell ‘em). He came up with the idea of buying laughter, then I went to write it in here only to add a bunch of other stupid crap. Earlier today Brad was thoroughly amused and laughed aloud as he watched his foot move involuntarily. I get a kick out of making violent movements with my head while looking into the mirror. (Calmes, 1/6/00 [https://www.audible.com/pd/Big-Sky-to-Big-City-Audiobook/B08GNXCNFN]) Violent movements looking into the mirror? That was absolutely genius, and I was ashamed I did not come up with that. The progression would get worse; October, November, December. What kind of sorcery would the new millennium bring? MANDATORY COMMUNICATION CEASE-FIRE We had to get creative to tolerate the existence of one another, day after day. One such method was forbidding communication between us for an entire twenty-four-hour period. Like an old-fashioned middle-east cease-fire, except the phenomenon was not out of any ill-sentiment. On the contrary, the truce was more of a scientific and fun-seeking adventure. Hypothesis? Could two people living in a cabin in the woods go a whole day without saying one word to one another? And if so, what tactics would be employed to accomplish it successfully? Quite challenging when real interaction was required, but fun as well. Last night Brad and I decided not to speak to one another today. We didn’t. It was difficult at times but overall, rather peaceful. I’m glad we did it. Brad would not have wanted to hear all of my negative thoughts that were alive today. (Calmes, 11/16/99 [https://www.audible.com/pd/Big-Sky-to-Big-City-Audiobook/B08GNXCNFN]) To not hear a single human sound all day was incredible. Complete silence is exceedingly undervalued. With more savvy, this truce might have happened more often. Perhaps a recurring theme. Instead of Taco Tuesday, it’s Talkless Tuesday. Mute Monday. Whisper Wednesdays. Thoughts-Only Thursday. Free Speech Friday. Silent Saturday. Sunday Shushday. As the months flew by, Andy had matured his sleep schedule to avoid me. Or maybe it was the other way around. There would no longer be a need for mandatory speech treaties. When I retired for the night, he woke up. When I rose, he went to bed. Eventually, Andy missed the sun so much that he begged frequently for me to wake him up earlier. I could not summon the willpower to do it. THAT NOVEMBER WAR OVER FOOT TRAVEL Much like World War I, the War over Foot Travel has a complicated origin. The sides were picked; the trenches were excavated. Andy wanted to begin running routinely to get himself in better shape. And I thought that he was being ridiculous for doing so since I enjoyed the slower-paced walk through the woods. We reached a philosophical crossroads over the best method of foot travel. And I had no problem telling him how superior walking was over running. I did it! I got up at 10 am and ran. I got as far as the skeet site before I had to stop. If I had pushed myself any further, I would’ve surely puked. I bent over to puke but held it back. Tomorrow I expect the same thing, but soon enough I’ll make it all the way up the ski hill. The snow will probably get here first, but then I’ll learn to run in the snowshoes. When I got back to the cabin, I went right back to sleep. Should I try to stay awake? I’ll sleep when I’m tired, I’ll be awake when I’m not tired, I’ll run at 10 am. Pretty simple. I thought for a long time about what to draw in the background of my profile portrait. Maybe a landscape with two different terrains? It has to relate to me. The black and white serves the purpose, but I sort of want to see more. I’ll leave it blank unless something outstanding comes along. I had some fun with my guitar, then continued with the descriptions on the backs of my photographs. I finished one album with one to go. I think Brad thinks I’m a fool for wanting to run. He might think that it is an attempt to be something that I’m not. When I had a routine at the gym in Nashville, he would question my reasons for doing it. I think everyone should take the extra step to stay in shape. The reason could be anything: To attract someone to you; to be able to defend yourself; to feel healthy; to achieve goals; to increase self-esteem; to have a positive experience. I don’t see anything foolish about any of those things. Brad feels that a man who runs is a man who doesn’t have time to walk. That makes sense, but I don’t agree. (Calmes, 11/8/99 [https://www.audible.com/pd/Big-Sky-to-Big-City-Audiobook/B08GNXCNFN]) I cannot explain how deeply amused and gratified I am each time this entry falls before my tearful eyes. His pride in getting up and running served as blood in the water. There was likely some temporary jealousy, or perhaps a short-lived notion that there was no need to run while out there. I was hiking every day and felt strong. Sometimes, the world needs a good, robust contrarian to spice up the moment. Once I could see him getting defensive upon my probing and digging his own trench, the line was drawn, and the war had begun. War had been declared. Brad and I talked about the walking vs running thing. He simply prefers walking over running. If he thinks less of me because I choose to run, that’s his problem. I definitely don’t look down on his walking. To each their own. I like running better because I can feel the change and I can judge the progress (stamina/distance). Brad says walking 15 miles is way healthier than running 15 miles. Maybe better on the knees, but who’s running 15 miles? He could’ve just as well said that he likes to walk because it fits his lifestyle. My lifestyle consists of sitting most of the day. Why do I let this topic weigh on me? I know that nobody’s way is any better than anyone else’s. I don’t like being looked down on, but it will always exist, so need to accept it. If I don’t accept it, bad things are born. (Calmes, 11/9/99) Before I headed out to run today Brad and I cleared up the walk/run thingy. I told him that I let it get to me, that I thought he looked down on my running. He thinks I misunderstood him. To clear it up, he said that walking is like baking and running is like frying… meaning that walking takes longer but is better for you. This doesn’t clear it up at all! It only makes it clear that he thinks running is bad. I mentioned that running fits my lifestyle and walking fits his. He finally admitted that he sees running as a task and we joked about the whole thing. If he knew I was writing about this, he’d think it was silly. To each their own. My legs have ached all day. It’s working! (Calmes, 11/10/99) Writing this is almost as fun as it was back then. Almost. He was undoubtedly right. I read of cultures that run everywhere and their bodies are highly efficient as a result. To where they actually run-down animals as a style of hunting. What a jerk I was! But it was war, and sometimes there is collateral damage. You have to roll up your sleeves and find pressure points. I got up at 1:30 pm as usual, stretched, then ran in the rain. I didn’t get as far as last time, but I could’ve pushed harder. I think it’s better to run with a partner. With a partner, I push myself beyond what I think I can take because I don’t want to be left behind. That’s why I asked Brad to run with me, and that’s what led to our misunderstanding. (Calmes, 11/13/99) Never before has being so blatantly wrong brought up so much overflowing pride. Sometimes, attempting to illustrate a state-of-mind like “cabin fever” is best left to the examples they cause. Will I run tomorrow? Sure. Then again, maybe not. I don’t know. Okay. Nah. No, I will… maybe. (Calmes, 11/18/99) Slowly the will was shattering. Breaking, but not broken. I crawled under the deck and was very uncomfortable and irritable. I am known for getting irritable when I’m hungry and it is nearly… no, it is totally uncontrollable. Brad knows this so as he was handing me logs, he said, “What if we were at a mall and since you didn’t get up until the afternoon, you still hadn’t had lunch at 5 pm so when you started getting out of hand I yelled out ‘Somebody get this man some lunch!’ Would that be legitimate?” Legitimate? I could ramble about this, but I’ll just say that I made some statements defending my sleeping in and my uncontrolled irritability. Brad laughed and said I must have a problem and that he was just trying to be funny. I would’ve laughed if he had just said, “What if we were at a mall and you were uncontrollably mad with hunger and I yelled out ‘Somebody get this man some lunch!’” That’s funny! I obviously wish I kept regular sleeping hours. I do! I’m up when I’m awake, I sleep when I’m tired! I already cleared that up. I do wish I was still motivated to run. Oh well, maybe someday. (Calmes 12/20/99) The war had been won. In the early winter of 1999, the papers were notarized in that cabin. Walking was far superior to running. No science to back it. No real territory gained or lost. No battlefields would be commissioned as historical markers. Wars of attrition rarely leave behind ‘Gods and Generals’ though I had successfully thrown in subtle insults about him sleeping in and getting irritable when hungry. He had stopped running, and I certainly had much to do with the withering willpower of cardiovascular enhancement. Though, once the snow resided in 2000, running became my prime source of movement outdoors. I thoroughly loved running through the woods. Of course, I never let Andy in on that. For that may have provoked a second war. Crazy Mountain Man I was hill hungry! I wanted to get to that big hill next to Kick-My-Ass-Peak. Well, by the invention of the walking stick, I made way to the top and who would greet me? Ravens. What a beautiful day and many ravens in some aerial show that entertained me well. I pushed on and ran. I felt like running out of control... Man! That’s some fun stuff. The snow was so… soft and man! Quality entertainment! (Oliger, 3/5/00) Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe [https://bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

3 de jun de 202214 min

Montana's Most Cringe-Worthy Fishing Story

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