By Laura Drake
Lately, if it weren’t for hard work and deadlines, I’d have no life. I’m watching everyone around me leave on vacation, reading blogs about trips (yes, I’m talking about you, Natalie) while I sit here, pouting, my nose skinned up from the grindstone. Yes, I have RWA National to look forward to, and it’s going to be amazing, but that’s not a vacation.
My vacation won’t happen until October, but it’ll be worth waiting for. Every fall, the ‘Kennedy Meadows Hookers’ hit the road on a fly fishing trip. Before you get the wrong idea, let me explain.
My husband and I used to belong to a motorcycle club. No, not the Hell’s Angels kind – the old guy, BMW long-distance motorcycling kind. There we met wonderful lifelong friends. Every year, a bunch of us went up to Kennedy Meadows (remote valley in the Sierra Nevada Mountains) for Memorial Day, to camp and hang out together. Wow, we have some legendary memories. One year, a few of us women agreed to bring fishing tackle, and the Kennedy Meadows Hookers were born. We had a wonderful time, catching the beautiful little Golden trout that practically jumped on our hooks. Well, as all great things do, those trips ended: people retired, moved away, passed away.
But the three most die-hard fisherwomen, Pam, Chris, and I, missed the camaraderie of those trips. So we planned a trip every fall, to Mammoth. We hiked and fished gorgeous little streams, amid the blazing poplars and golden meadows. We stayed in a rented condo, cooking comfort food at night, drinking wine in the Jacuzzi, giggling like high school girls on a sleepover. Other women came and went, but the core group hung together.
Last year, on the last day, I slipped on the edge of a bank, and broke my leg in two places. I thought I just sprained my ankle, so I iced it – by getting back in the stream and fishing. I wasn’t going to miss the Jacuzzi that night, so they loaded me on a luggage carrier, and wheeled my butt down there. Yes, wine was involved. Told you, we have legendary memories from these trips.
This year, The Hookers are heading to Oregon, to take on the rivers up there. I’m sure we’ll store up some more great memories, and hopefully, no more broken bones.
The fish better be afraid. Very afraid.