(From “Diaries...) A Christmas Tale December 25: “And there were, in the same country, shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them and the glory of the Lord shown round about them. And they were sore afraid. And the angel, he said onto them, fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto ye, is born this day in the City of David a savior...” All 50 lines, memorized almost 50 years ago for an 8th-grade teacher in Colorado who didn’t subscribe to keeping church and state on separate pages, keep reverberating through my mind. And why not? It’s early Christmas morning and I’m alone–and the lone car–on the long, dark, winding road to the River. And today is a first. I’ve long-wanted a Christmas survey, but keeping a modem of peace in the family always necessitated staying at home on this most-revered of days. But this year there is a opportune break to routine. Necessary family commitments are all achieved on Christmas eve; I won’t feel guilty heading to the river just as Santa’s sleigh disappears over the horizon. A puzzling conundrum nevertheless remains. Why do I easily recall verbatim that whole Christmas story, memorized decades ago, but not what I had for dinner yesterday? Now that is a 64 dollar question. As the hazy yellow morning sun breaks behind me, the Christmas story gets re-filed to memory, hopefully to reappear just as vividly again next year when its time arrives. Instead, a famous line from a bad (meant in the “good” way) Clint Eastwood movie now takes my mental focus: “Do you feel lucky today, punk?” That’s the key question I will have to answer soon, before I roll up to the river and the cluster of shacks and yapping dogs which mark the put-in (for the boat) spot for the day’s survey. “Lucky,” means I’ll shove off quickly, counting only on my duping device (little empty, red gasoline can) to get me nine miles back to my car at day’s end. “Not so lucky,” and I’ll invest another hour before starting the float by driving down to my take-out and stashing my tiny motorcycle (‘Lil China) in the bushes. Weighing heavily on my decision is memory of the two hours I once spent on Christmas eve waiting for the first vehicle to come down this lonely stretch of road (see Fail-Safe Duping Device–December 24 above). On Christmas day there might be even less traffic! Nevertheless, I make the call without hesitation as I roll into Danny’s (pseudonym) driveway: I’m putting my trust in the power of that little red can today! As I step out, the smoke wafting from the chimney doesn’t lie. Danny’s home and booze hasn’t claimed him since I was last here. So I quickly roust him, hand over the Christmas goodies mamma has sent, and begin loading my little boat. Minutes latter I’m stroking the frosty oars downstream through a rising and surreal, but beautiful, morning mist. Six hours later I round the last bend in the river. There it is–the bridge marking the takeout. The trip alone has been uneventful. And I’ve just recorded the most adult steelhead ever for this early in the season. Life is good. Now my gamble begins. And traffic by all indications (on this stretch of river the road is nearby and most vehicles, while not seen, can be heard) is nonexistent. So I quickly unload my gear and stash the little boat in the same concealed spot where the motorcycle would have been left. Backpack and duping device in hand I step up onto the road. “Come on vehicles, make my day. I feel lucky!” is my unspoken mantra. And sure enough, within minutes not one, but two cars, are heard approaching and they’re aimed in my direction. Incredibly, both vehicles–SUVs–come simultaneously to a stop in front of me. There is clearly a lengthy, but unspoken deliberation from the lone drivers (no passengers). “Can I get a lift nine miles up to the next bridge?” I ask. An uneasy silence ensues, but after long seconds, one driver finally responds: “Sorry, we don’t have any room.” Over the next hour, this scene (and near-identical reply) gets replayed twice more. Not surprising, since I know that these folks from the Sea Ranch development on the coast aren’t atoned to picking up hitchhikers–Christmas day or otherwise. Then, just as I’m starting to doubt today’s hitchhiking decision, the first “local” is seen approaching. I know the duping device won’t disappoint me and it doesn’t. A pickup with throaty mufflers screeches to a stop just inches away. I’m quickly aboard in the back seat with a young couple from the reservation just up the hill. Within a minute, however, my exuberance evaporates. This guy is driving like a wild man! Now, mind you, I have nothing against 45 to 55 mph on this 30 mph (posted) road. A few hundred trips up here have provided the knowledge and experience to do it safely. But this dude is cruising a steady 60 mph, with bursts to 70 mph and regular tire-screeching left-side-of-the-road curves. I snug up the seat belt and pray. Then, I notice that neither of them is wearing their seat belt! Is there a death wish? And the stereo is blasting, the windows are down (and it is cold!), and the guy seems comfortable in his sleeveless t-shirt while my teeth are chattering. Finally pulling into Danny’s driveway has never felt so good. Then Danny gives me the bad news–these two are well-know local cranksters. In back-woods parlance that’s someone who “cooks” and uses methamphetamine. I should have known–and looked closer before getting in the truck. Oh well, save that thought for next time. Right now, not to worry, it’s Christmas, and life is good!