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Authors: Richard Brautigan
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had said good-bye to them, after having drunk coffee in their house.
The smell of coffee had been like a spider web in the house. It had not been an easy smell. It had not lent itself to religious contemplation, thoughts of temple work to be done in Salt Lake, dead relatives to be discovered among ancient papers in Illinois and Germany. Then more temple work to be done in Salt Lake.
The Mormon woman told us that when she had been married in the temple at Salt Lake, a mosquito had bitten her on the wrist just before the ceremony and her wrist had swollen up and become huge and just awful. It couldâve been seen through the lace by a blindman. She had been so embarrassed.
She told us that those Salt Lake mosquitoes always made her swell up when they bit her. Last year, she had told us, sheâd been in Salt Lake, doing some temple work for a dead relative when a mosquito had bitten her and her whole body had swollen up. âI felt so embarrassed,â she had told us. âWalking around like a balloon.â
We finished our coffee and left. Not a drop of rain had fallen in Stanley. It was about an hour before sundown.
We drove up to Big Redfish Lake, about four miles from Stanley and looked it over. Big Redfish Lake is the Forest Lawn of camping in Idaho, laid out for maximum comfort. There were a lot of people camped there, and some of them looked as if they had been camped there for a long time.
We decided that we were too young to camp at Big Redfish Lake, and besides they charged fifty cents a day, three dollars a week like a skidrow hotel, and there were just too many people there. There were too many trailers and campers parked in the halls. We couldnât get to the elevator because there was a family from New York parked there in a ten-room trailer.
Three children came by drinking rub-a-dub and pulling an old granny by her legs. Her legs were straight out and stiff and her butt was banging on the carpet. Those kids were pretty drunk and the old granny wasnât too sober either, shouting something like, âLet the Civil War come again, Iâm ready to fuck!â
We went down to Little Redfish Lake. The campgrounds there were just about abandoned. There were so many people
up at Big Redfish Lake and practically nobody camping at Little Redfish Lake, and it was free, too.
We wondered what was wrong with the camp. If perhaps a camping plague, a sure destroyer that leaves all your camping equipment, your car ana your sex organs in tatters like old sails, had swept the camp just a few days before, and those few people who were staying at the camp now, were staying there because they didnât have any sense.
We joined them enthusiastically. The camp had a beautiful view of the mountains. We found a place that really looked good, right on the lake.
Unit 4 had a stove. It was a square metal box mounted on a cement block. There was a stove pipe on top of the box, but there were no bullet holes in the pipe. I was amazed. Almost all the camp stoves we had seen in Idaho had been full of bullet holes. I guess itâs only reasonable that people, when they get the chance, would want to shoot some old stove sitting in the woods.
Unit 4 had a big wooden table with benches attached to it like a pair of those old Benjamin Franklin glasses, the ones with those funny square lenses. I sat down on the left lens, facing the Sawtooth Mountains. Like astigmatism, I made myself at home.
Footnote Chapter to âThe Shipping of Trout Fishing in America Shorty to Nelson Algrenâ
Well, well, Trout Fishing in America Shortyâs back in town, but I donât think itâs going to be the same as it was before. Those good old days are over because Trout Fishing in America Shorty is famous. The movies have discovered him.
Last week âThe New Waveâ took him out of his wheelchair and laid him out in a cobblestone alley. Then they shot some footage of him. He ranted and raved and they put it
The smell of coffee had been like a spider web in the house. It had not been an easy smell. It had not lent itself to religious contemplation, thoughts of temple work to be done in Salt Lake, dead relatives to be discovered among ancient papers in Illinois and Germany. Then more temple work to be done in Salt Lake.
The Mormon woman told us that when she had been married in the temple at Salt Lake, a mosquito had bitten her on the wrist just before the ceremony and her wrist had swollen up and become huge and just awful. It couldâve been seen through the lace by a blindman. She had been so embarrassed.
She told us that those Salt Lake mosquitoes always made her swell up when they bit her. Last year, she had told us, sheâd been in Salt Lake, doing some temple work for a dead relative when a mosquito had bitten her and her whole body had swollen up. âI felt so embarrassed,â she had told us. âWalking around like a balloon.â
We finished our coffee and left. Not a drop of rain had fallen in Stanley. It was about an hour before sundown.
We drove up to Big Redfish Lake, about four miles from Stanley and looked it over. Big Redfish Lake is the Forest Lawn of camping in Idaho, laid out for maximum comfort. There were a lot of people camped there, and some of them looked as if they had been camped there for a long time.
We decided that we were too young to camp at Big Redfish Lake, and besides they charged fifty cents a day, three dollars a week like a skidrow hotel, and there were just too many people there. There were too many trailers and campers parked in the halls. We couldnât get to the elevator because there was a family from New York parked there in a ten-room trailer.
Three children came by drinking rub-a-dub and pulling an old granny by her legs. Her legs were straight out and stiff and her butt was banging on the carpet. Those kids were pretty drunk and the old granny wasnât too sober either, shouting something like, âLet the Civil War come again, Iâm ready to fuck!â
We went down to Little Redfish Lake. The campgrounds there were just about abandoned. There were so many people
up at Big Redfish Lake and practically nobody camping at Little Redfish Lake, and it was free, too.
We wondered what was wrong with the camp. If perhaps a camping plague, a sure destroyer that leaves all your camping equipment, your car ana your sex organs in tatters like old sails, had swept the camp just a few days before, and those few people who were staying at the camp now, were staying there because they didnât have any sense.
We joined them enthusiastically. The camp had a beautiful view of the mountains. We found a place that really looked good, right on the lake.
Unit 4 had a stove. It was a square metal box mounted on a cement block. There was a stove pipe on top of the box, but there were no bullet holes in the pipe. I was amazed. Almost all the camp stoves we had seen in Idaho had been full of bullet holes. I guess itâs only reasonable that people, when they get the chance, would want to shoot some old stove sitting in the woods.
Unit 4 had a big wooden table with benches attached to it like a pair of those old Benjamin Franklin glasses, the ones with those funny square lenses. I sat down on the left lens, facing the Sawtooth Mountains. Like astigmatism, I made myself at home.
Footnote Chapter to âThe Shipping of Trout Fishing in America Shorty to Nelson Algrenâ
Well, well, Trout Fishing in America Shortyâs back in town, but I donât think itâs going to be the same as it was before. Those good old days are over because Trout Fishing in America Shorty is famous. The movies have discovered him.
Last week âThe New Waveâ took him out of his wheelchair and laid him out in a cobblestone alley. Then they shot some footage of him. He ranted and raved and they put it
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