Youthful debauchery tale sets literary trend

Dave Wood, Woodworking Columnist

Back in the turbulent 1960s, a counterculture cat named Richard Brautigan wrote a book called "Trout Fishing in America," a book about trout, drug-taking and all sorts of other fun stuff.

For a time, Brautigan, with his wispy locks and floppy hat, looked out from many dust jackets and was widely quoted in "newspapers" like the Berkeley Barb. He became, briefly, an American Icon, and had his fifteen minutes of fame, as Andy Warhol would say.

Trout fishing and drug taking. Big deal. Chuck and Toad and I were way ahead of Brautigan on the trout and drugs scene. And much younger.

The year was 1950, we were high school freshman and we were going to open Wisconsin's trout fishing in a big way. In years past, we'd get up before sunup and pedal our bikes over Speerstra Hill and wait for the sun, then wet our lines in tiny Ervin Creek.

Once I even caught a brookie. It measured 6 1/2 inches, too short, so I broke its back, stretched it to the required 7 inches and brought it home in my blind grandpa's old creel.

But now we were 14 and very cool. Chuck had persuaded his father to drive us way out to Fly Creek with all our camping gear. We'd spend the night in the army surplus pup tent and be ready to go at the crack of dawn.

Chuck's dad dropped us off in Arnold Olson's pasture, near the creek, and we hastily set up our tent and built a campfire and began to heat beans. But before the beans, it was time for cocktail hour.

Here comes the drug portion of the story.

After school that Friday, Chuck and Toad and I agreed that now we were in high school, we needed something to drink as we camped. A quart of Philips Peppermint Schnapps resided in a cupboard beneath the Wood family's kitchen sink.

So while my parents were still at work, we found a one pint pickle jar and filled it from the bottle. The schnapps bottle had gone untouched since Christmas and so that was a problem.

But simply solved when Toad suggested I fill the bottle to the brim with tap water.

And so there we were, in Arnold Olson's pasture, with Van Camp's bubbling in an old pot, with us passing the pint jar. Real smooth. Real tasty. Real inebriating. The jar finished, we scraped the burned beans off the bottom of the pot and ate, not exactly our fill.

Into the tent we went to smoke a pack of Marvels Toad had swiped from his old man, who thought folks were darn fools to pay 20 cents for a package of Luckies when you could get a pack of Marvels for 15. Besides, they gave a real kick because they were made with very dark Wisconsin tobacco.

If I recall there was lots of giggling. But that ended when the rains came. If you've ever seen "The Rains of Ranchipur" starring Lana Turner and Richard Burton, please know that the famous flood-earthquake scene in it was nothing compared to the deluge that assaulted Fly Creek this night.

And wind, which eventually blew the pup tent down with us tangled in it, in our skivvies. We soaked until about 3 a.m., when Chuck, who got Bs in school and was much smarter than Toad and me, suggested we seek shelter at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Olson.

"But I can't find my pants!" I whined.

"Neither can I," whimpered Toad.

But Chuck prevailed and we skittered up the driveway in our Fruit of the Loom ensembles and banged on the door. Arnold Olson came to greet us, also clad in Fruit of the Loom.

We explained our situation and told him the names of our parents. Soon Mrs. Olson was there, too, as we hunkered down, trying to hide our pelvic regions, if you know what I mean.

Arnold Olson showed us to a very nice room, with a great big feather bed, which we stuffed ourselves into and drifted off.

Only to arise the next morning with the first troublesome headaches of our careers as Sybarites. After milking, Arnold Olson came in from the barn, brought us some old jeans and chambray workshirts to make us presentable for breakfast, which was sumptuous-home-cured bacon, fried eggs, potatoes, peach sauce, all of which sopped up the remaining residue of schnapps in our na‹ve little bellies.

And then we fished, not in Fly Creek, which had overflown its banks, but in a few sinkholes in the Olson pasture. I caught another brookie. Only 6 1/2 inches, so I had to give it The Treatment.

Then Chuck's father came at noon to pick us up. We slopped the tent, the sleeping bags and our clothes into the trunk of his 1937 Ford '60' (The Great Depression was still raging in Whitehall) and home we went.

We left the empty pint jar on the banks of Fly Creek.

Eat your heart out, Richard Brautigan.

Would anyone out there on the banks of the Kinnickinnic or Rush Rivers have a fish story for Dave? Call 426-9554.