As November cold fronts signal the onset of all-too-near winter, it only seems fit to reminisce on — fishing. Here’s my tale.
I was a produce buyer in the late ’90s, and as anyone will attest today, it is a stressful job: tracking inventory closely, doing all I could to avoid out of stocks, to minimize shrink. Working closely with our produce inspectors in the warehouse, writing purchase orders nonstop all morning, then doing what I called my wet work — mop-up tasks in the afternoon such as correcting quantity errors; pricing those morning purchase orders; compiling my truck passings (confirmed, loaded orders) for accuracy; verifying truck locations and ETA; and joining impromptu, often unplanned, meetings; and fielding calls, so many as the phone rang nonstop all day. Calls from vendors, from stores, from customers, from bosses.
I compare it to being a Wall Street stockbroker, except they get paid a lot more.
So, it was a great relief to get ahead enough to take a rare, mid-weekday off to join my brother for a day of fall fishing. He knew a well-kept-secret spot in the Colorado mountains nearby that he said should be a great run — a time of year when good-sized trout were just waiting for us. Even if I got skunked, I saw it as a glorious opportunity: a rare day away from my desk, away from the stress.
Once on the river, my fly rod and I quickly forgot about all the worries of work.
As fly fishing goes, I’m a novice, but after I got a few pointers from my brother and his experienced pal, I had some luck as we spread out. And what a day it was.
I tied a weighted nymph fly on my leader, and it seemed every second or third cast I landed one fat trout after another, each weighing several pounds. The constant rush of the Colorado River in Glenwood Canyon drowned out the sound of the nearby highway, and I fought to keep my balance as I traversed the boulders along the gravel banks.
Instead of my eyes glazing over a computer monitor, I studied the swirling current for just the right spot to cast into, or watched the beautiful trout slip gently back into the freezing water, their tails snapping as I released each catch.
Time rushed by as well, so much so that I forgot all about the sandwiches I packed.
It was already late in the afternoon when I climbed the embankment to rest. My 40-year-old arms and body were already sore from catching so many fish, trout so big that every single one was bigger than any I had caught in my entire life. I closed my eyes in the relaxed moment. Nirvana.
Just then, some loose gravel spilled nearby, tumbling down the hill.
A large, bearded man was carefully making his way down the hill. He seemed friendly enough and before long he stood beside me, admiring the river before sitting down to join me.
He was a truck driver and had stopped on the highway above to take a break and was watching me fish for a few minutes. We exchanged small talk. Being a produce guy, I love truckers. Where would we be without them, I said in passing. The more he spoke, the more my interest grew.
A truck driver? What’s your cargo? Your destination?
It turns out that he was hauling a load of fresh produce from California. He talked about some familiar picks (or pickups) he had on the West Coast that Monday and how his load was fully cubed (or loaded for maximum efficiency), and he was headed — for our company to unload the following morning.
Of all the people to run into. It was my driver. My truck.
I leaned back on the pile of gravel and had a good laugh. As did he. I mean, here I was, trying to get away from the chaos, trying to immerse myself in flies, leaders, the roar of the river, the thrill of the catch and putting work as far out of my mind as I could. And I did.
At least for a while. The next morning it was back to controlled chaos, the stress-pot of the buying desk, the nonstop phone calls and the crowded, produce receiving dock. Oh well.
Fishing was a much-needed break away from it all, and as we shared an early cup of coffee on the dock as he was getting unloaded my driver could attest: I wasn’t making up any fish stories.
Armand Lobato’s more than 50 years of experience in the produce business span a range of foodservice and retail positions. He has written a weekly retail column for nearly two decades.
