There’s a place up in the Sierras, somewhere in the folds of California’s forgotten beauty, where I learned to fish, learned to survive, and learned the fine art of shitting in the woods—badly. The road there wound past the ghost of Willie Nelson’s old IRS-seized house and followed the roaring Kern River, a stretch of water so fierce even the rafters knew better. Tradition dictated a stop at some hole-in-the-wall steakhouse on the way up—thick, bloody slabs of meat the size of your head. My uncle Lee once ate his practically raw, like some carnivorous tribute to the old gods.
Once we got to Brush Creek, we unpacked. No tents, just sleeping bags and whatever poor bastard last moved the wooden bench from point A to point B. First order of business—fishing. My first time there, I tied on a Royal Wulff, wielding my fiberglass Fenwick like some twelve-year-old Hemingway, and on my very first cast—bam—fish on. My organic dad (never really called him that, but it fits) lit up, proud. But I barely reacted. Took the hook out, let the fish slip back into the creek, and stood there like I was waiting for something. My organic dad couldn’t understand it. “You caught your first fish! Why aren’t you smiling?” But he didn’t get it. When you grow up in a house that feels like a battlefield, joy doesn’t come easy. Asking me to smile was like asking a war vet to dance after he’s seen the bodies drop.
Still, I kept fishing. The beauty of Brush Creek wasn’t just the fishing, but the escape. I could slip out of my dad’s line of sight, scramble over granite ledges, nearly die a couple of times trying to reach some mythical “better spot” just across the river, and not have to talk. One day, I held in my shit for as long as possible, not wanting to defile nature, but nature had other plans. When it hit, it hit like a shotgun blast. I squatted against a rock, and before I could even pray, it exploded—splattering my own leg, pooling in the mud, a crime scene of digestive failure. In the panic, I had to sacrifice my sock, wiping myself down while swearing I’d never, ever take a shit in the woods again.
Nights were spent watching the sky, satellites carving slow lines across the dark, the constellations tilting as the Earth spun. It was peaceful until something cracked in the woods—too loud, too close, too something. But getting up to investigate meant stepping into the abyss, so you just squirm in your bag, bladder full, waiting for morning.
One night, after a long day of fishing, my uncle cooked up a feast, and we sat around drinking, playing cards, killing moths with a lantern because we were idiots, and laughing harder than we had in years. My organic dad actually looked happy, like whatever weight he carried had been peeled back just enough to let him breathe. He enjoyed teaching me knots, casting, the art of the catch—not just because he wanted me to learn, but because, out there, away from everything, I wasn’t just a kid and he wasn’t just a father. We were people.
But the wild never lasts. Packing up meant heading back to Los Angeles, back to the real world, back to a house that felt different than the open air of Brush Creek. And when we walked through the door, my dad’s wife was there, pissed she’d been left out. The glow in my dad’s face drained immediately. Next time, she said, she’d be coming. And just like that, the last great man’s trip was over before it even started.
