Read The Grasshopper Trap Online
Authors: Patrick F. McManus
The Grasshopper Trap (2 page)
One of the most common activities engaged in by outdoorspersons is falling. Oddly enough, almost nothing has been written on the subject. It is not surprising, then, that few hunters and anglers know how to fall properly, or, if they do, how to score the fall on a scale of one to ten. The assumption is that any fall that results in a full-body cast automatically scores a ten. That is false. The full-body cast in and of itself rates only a five. Other factors must be taken into account, including overall style of the fall, the hunter's conduct before, during, and after the fall, and whether the fallee merely lies there groaning or manages to come up with a comically droll statement with which to describe his injuries. No one who fails to come up with a comically droll statement should ever have his fall rated as a ten.
I have been falling for years, in streams, over logs, out of boats and duck blinds, off horses and cliffs, and even from moving vehicles, to name but a few variations I have
managed to work out. As a child, I was always falling. When I was five years old I fell out of a speeding bus. I can still remember my mother screaming as I bounced like a Super Ball along the icy roadway. “Not in your new snowsuit,” she shrieked. “How many times do I have to tell you!”
managed to work out. As a child, I was always falling. When I was five years old I fell out of a speeding bus. I can still remember my mother screaming as I bounced like a Super Ball along the icy roadway. “Not in your new snowsuit,” she shrieked. “How many times do I have to tell you!”
Among my fishing and hunting companions, I am considered one of the world's leading experts on falling. They have become blasé about even my most spectacular plummets. Last summer I slipped on a mossy rock in a trout stream and shot over a small waterfall. My friend Retch Sweeney was so concerned he almost paused in his casting.
Unable to come up with a comically droll statement, I yelled at Retch, “Quick, get me to a doctor before this starts hurting! I've crushed my right thigh! It's a pulpy mess!”
Then I discovered the pulpy mess was a banana I'd stuffed into my pocket. Since medical science has not yet come up with a cure for smashed bananas, I told Retch to forget about calling the doctor, which he may have been thinking about doing as soon as he tied on a new fly and tested it. “Heck,” I said, “I can fish with a crushed thigh. I'll just smear some banana on it to ease the pain.”
The type of fall I hate most is the one-legger. This is where one leg shoots down a beaver hole or an empty posthole all the way up to the confluence of your anatomy. Your other leg is still running about up on the surface. The problem with the one-legger is that it lacks style. The person doing a one-legger almost always omits the comically droll comment and goes right to serious cussing. I recall the time my stepfather, Hank, did a one-legger down a beaver hole while we were fishing along a brushy bank of the creek. Hank had a talent for creative cussing, but the one-legger inspired him to heights that must have approached those of
genius. He dredged up archaic curses from the distant past, combined them with current profanity, worked in a half-dozen anatomical references, embellished those with all the known vulgarities related to bodily functions, invented several new cusswords on the spot, and finally wove all these elements into a verbal tapestry brilliant in color and blinding in intensity. Hank never swore much afterwards, possibly because he knew he had achieved his ultimate in that field, or possibly because he was too occupied with his new hobby, which consisted of lurking about the beaver dam on the creek, baseball bat in hand.
genius. He dredged up archaic curses from the distant past, combined them with current profanity, worked in a half-dozen anatomical references, embellished those with all the known vulgarities related to bodily functions, invented several new cusswords on the spot, and finally wove all these elements into a verbal tapestry brilliant in color and blinding in intensity. Hank never swore much afterwards, possibly because he knew he had achieved his ultimate in that field, or possibly because he was too occupied with his new hobby, which consisted of lurking about the beaver dam on the creek, baseball bat in hand.
The only fall more lacking in pure aesthetics than the one-legger is the pack-flip. This is where you're going down a steep grade with a heavy pack and suddenly stumble. This causes the pack to flip over your head, and the straps pick you up by the armpits, whip you over the top of the pack, and slam you down on the trail. Sometimes this sequence is repeated over and over, as with those little toys that walk down stairs: whip ⦠SLAM! ⦠whip ⦠SLAM! ⦠whip ⦠SLAM! I once saw a guy who was packing out a hindquarter of elk do a multiple pack-flip down a steep, rocky trail. By the time they were finished, the hindquarter of elk looked to be in better health than the hunter.
In regard to style, it is important to maintain proper facial expression during the duration of the fall. I prefer a look of casual disinterest, at least until I have plummeted past the ten-foot mark. Then I employ the standard grimace. The important thing to remember about the grimace is not to do it too long or too hard. Otherwise, the grimace may last longer than the injuries. I've known outdoorsmen who, three months after they had recovered from a fall, still looked as if they were about to hit.
What to say at the start of a fall is an important aspect of style. Many outdoorsmen are caught unprepared in this regard and have to resort to such clichés as “Yipe!” or “Yawp!” Therefore it is a good idea to prepare some appropriate comments well in advance of any falls you might take. Brevity, of course, should be striven for. The start of the fall is no time to launch into something like the Gettysburg Address. (Even worse would be to
finish
reciting the Gettysburg Address.) Something like “Geronimo-o-o-o-o!” is about right. Even that is too long for a minor fall and may be too complicated to remember under pressure. I have had it come out “Oronagiroooo” which sounds dumb and ruins the desired effect. “Oops” is a good one for any simple fall of less than ten feet, unless you happen to be still leading a packhorse, in which case you might wish to come up with something a little less frivolous.
finish
reciting the Gettysburg Address.) Something like “Geronimo-o-o-o-o!” is about right. Even that is too long for a minor fall and may be too complicated to remember under pressure. I have had it come out “Oronagiroooo” which sounds dumb and ruins the desired effect. “Oops” is a good one for any simple fall of less than ten feet, unless you happen to be still leading a packhorse, in which case you might wish to come up with something a little less frivolous.
Having established my expertise in regard to outdoor falls, I would now like to examine in detail one fall of which I am particularly proud. As I mentioned earlier, many outdoorsmen are not truly cognizant of the proper method for scoring falls. The following letter, from Gene Floyd of Walla Walla, Washington, is a case in point. I had accompanied Gene and his wife, Jane, and Bill Smith on a black-powder elk hunt last December, during which I attempted to instruct Bill in one of the advanced techniques of falling.
“Bill was impressed,” Gene wrote, “with your falling-out-of-a-moving-truck trick, even though it was obviously your first attempt. He felt you did exceptionally well on the âscreams portion' but needed improvement on your form. Since you did display a somewhat individual style on overall performance, he scored you an eight. He briefly considered awarding you a nine but dismissed the thought when he recalled
your arms were rotating like blades on a windmill, and definitely should have been kept neatly tucked to your sides.”
your arms were rotating like blades on a windmill, and definitely should have been kept neatly tucked to your sides.”
I was shocked by the news that Bill had given me a mere eight. He is himself an experienced faller. Once, on an elk hunt, he stepped out onto an icy area being crossed by a large bull. Just as Bill was taking aim with his muzzleloader, the elk slipped on the ice and went down. While he was pondering whether it would be sportsmanlike to shoot an elk that had slipped on the ice, Bill's own feet slipped out from under him. He did a two-and-a-half gainer and landed on his back, firing the muzzleloader straight up in the air. “I figured the elk and I were even at that point,” says Bill. He then jumped up, reloaded, and shot the elk. What I want to know, though, is whether it is sporting to shoot an elk that is laughing so hard at the hunter's antics that it can hardly walk, let alone run.
My first mistake was to accept an invitation to go on an elk hunt with this Walla Walla crowd. None of them knew the first thing about hunting etiquette as it applies to visiting writers. As Emily Post has pointed out, it is not polite for the hosts to walk straight up and down mountains without even making a pretense of breathing hard. The approach recommended by Emily is for the hosts to feign approximately the physical condition of the guest, which in this case would have consisted of sagging against trees, making strange rattling sounds with the throat, and occasionally stopping to scrape leaf mold and dried pine needles off the tongue.
But the important matters here are the fall from the moving vehicle and the method of scoring. It was decided at one point during the hunt that we should get into Gene's four-wheel-drive pickup and move higher up the mountain. We had already done this several times previously, with the
four of us wedged tightly in the cab of the truck. I wouldn't have minded so much if I had been wedged against Jane, but Bill always managed to beat me to that position, and I ended up being wedged between him and the door. This time, however, Gene suggested that Bill and I sit on the open tailgate of the truck. The idea seemed sound enough at first, at least until the truck began clawing its way up a sixty-percent grade and over rocks the size of basketballs.
four of us wedged tightly in the cab of the truck. I wouldn't have minded so much if I had been wedged against Jane, but Bill always managed to beat me to that position, and I ended up being wedged between him and the door. This time, however, Gene suggested that Bill and I sit on the open tailgate of the truck. The idea seemed sound enough at first, at least until the truck began clawing its way up a sixty-percent grade and over rocks the size of basketballs.
Since I was holding my muzzleloader in one hand, the only really good grip I had was with the other hand on a tailgate brace. Also, I was sitting on a little domed rivet head, and I got as good a grip on that as I could manage. I was doing all right until an ice chest in the truck broke loose and tried to ride me piggyback. The ice chest caused me to lose my grip on the rivet head, and I could feel myself slowly vibrating off the tailgate. Then Bill reached out a hand to steady me, or so I assumed.
“Better hand me your rifle,” he said. “No sense in it getting all busted up in the fall, too.”
I handed him my rifle, even as I turned over in my mind his use of the word “too.”
Then I was gone. I executed a perfect three-bounce routine, including the difficult stunt of pressing one's nose between one's shoulder blades. I also managed to work into my routine the ice chest, which had followed me off the tailgate. If no rock of sufficient size was available for me to land on, I substituted the ice chest, a bit of creativity that Bill apparently overlooked in judging my fall.
When I regained my senses, I looked around for the truck, which I supposed would have stopped long enough to bury the body. But it was still clawing its way up the
mountain, Bill perched on the tailgate, a rifle in each hand. I don't know why he didn't fall off, unless he was sitting on a larger rivet head than I had been.
mountain, Bill perched on the tailgate, a rifle in each hand. I don't know why he didn't fall off, unless he was sitting on a larger rivet head than I had been.
As was reported to me later, when the truck finally reached the top of the mountain, Gene and Jane asked Bill where I was.
“Oh, he fell off about a quarter-mile down the mountain,” Bill said.
“I heard he was pretty good at that,” Gene said. “Did he get off a comically droll comment before he fell?”
“I'm not sure,” Bill said. “Does âOronagiroooo!' mean anything to you?”
I finally figured out why Bill scored my fall a mere eight. He was going by the Walla Walla system of scoring, while I am accustomed to the North Idaho system. In the North Idaho system, we give points not only for screaming but for the originality of what is screamed. We also go in for arm-waving in a big way. I once fell off a high log over a stream and, by fanning both my arms and my legs, managed to suspend myself in midair for a few moments. I started off in a northeasterly direction, changed my mind and shifted to due north, and then set a course for the far bank. I probably would have made it, too, if I hadn't been losing altitude so fast. I scored the fall a perfect ten, even though it was several years before I thought of a droll comment sufficiently comical to fit the occasion.
Alphonse P. Finley and I were standing on his front porch discussing the desirability of field-testing his new snow blower on my driveway.
“No! No! No!” Finley cried. “I know how you are around machines! Machines don't like you. They stop and never run again. They fall to pieces and blow up and make strange noises! My lawn mower has gone âpunkity punkity punkity' ever since I loaned it to you last summer!”
“Nonsense,” I replied. “That lawn mower went âpunkity punkity punkity' long before I borrowed it. Now be a good chap and get your new snow blower for me. You wouldn't want me to catch an infarction from shoveling my driveway, would you?”
“Hmmmm,” Finley said. “Let me study on that for a minute. Hey, I got an idea. Maybe you could go down to the store and buy a new snow blower of your own. How about that?”
“Are you crazy?” I said. “You know I fish and hunt. I've got guns and rods I have to buy. I can't be wasting my money on snow blowers.”
Just then a battered old four-wheel-drive pickup pulled up in front of my house.
“It's Retch Sweeney,” I said. “I wonder where he got the new pickup.”
“I would scarcely call it new,” Finley snorted. Al doesn't care much for Retch and frequently refers to him by certain crude anatomical names. “I wonder what that elbow is up to now,” he said.
Retch got out of the truck and walked toward us, beaming. “What do you think of my new truck?”
“It's beautiful,” I said. “It looks as if it would go anywhere.”
“Hmph,” Finley said. “It looks as if it's already been there.”
“Ah, it's just been broke in good,” Retch said. “When I get done fixin' her up, this baby will climb trees if I want it to. First thing I'm gonna do is put a wench on the front bumper.”
“You're going to put a
wench
on the front bumper?” Finley said. “That's certainly a novel idea. Why would you do that?”
wench
on the front bumper?” Finley said. “That's certainly a novel idea. Why would you do that?”
“Why, to pull logs out of the woods with, and to drag the truck out of mud holes when it gets sunk in too deep.”
“I see,” Finley said. “You would need a pretty husky wench to perform those chores, I should think. Or perhaps you mean âwinch'?”
“Winch, wench, what's the difference?” Retch said, turning around to admire his truck.
“In your case, probably not all that much,” Finley said.
“Still, I do rather like the idea of a wench riding around on your front bumper.”
“Still, I do rather like the idea of a wench riding around on your front bumper.”
Retch was too excited by his new purchase to pay much attention to Finley's needling. He invited both Al and me to go for a ride with him. “We'll run her up into the mountains and try out the four-wheel drive on some really rough terrain.”
I was a bit hesitant. One of the things I've learned over the years is that four-wheel-drives, like rubber rafts, will take a person into places he ought not to go. On the other hand, I couldn't disappoint Retch, and besides, I thought it might be fun. Finley, however, declined.
“First of all,” he said, jerking a thumb at me, “it's against my better judgment to associate with him in an enterprise in which a mechanical apparatus of any kind is involved. McManus apparently is surrounded by a powerful magnetic field that does strange things to machinery, like making it go âpunkity punkity punkity.'”
“Now, stop exaggerating, Finley,” I said. “Retch won't know you're joking.”
“I am
not
joking! Besides, gentlemen, I am going to spend the rest of this cold, miserable afternoon curled up in front of the fire with a good book.”
not
joking! Besides, gentlemen, I am going to spend the rest of this cold, miserable afternoon curled up in front of the fire with a good book.”
“It's all right, Finley, I understand,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “When I get old, that's how I'm going to spend my afternoons, too. Okay, let's go see what that truck of yours can do, Retch.”
“Hold it!” shouted Finley. “I'm going!”
Much to his amazement, Finley enjoyed riding around in Retch's four-by-four. We took the truck up into the mountains, plowing easily along through foot-deep snow. Al had never been in the mountains right after a fresh snowfall,
and was delighted with the beauty that surrounded us on all sides, the evergreens bundled up in coats of ermine, tall pines streaming with wedding veils of snow, creeks winding dark and shining through downy whiteness, and finally the mountains turning a delicate shade of pink in the pale light of the setting sun.
and was delighted with the beauty that surrounded us on all sides, the evergreens bundled up in coats of ermine, tall pines streaming with wedding veils of snow, creeks winding dark and shining through downy whiteness, and finally the mountains turning a delicate shade of pink in the pale light of the setting sun.
“This is marvelous!” Finley exclaimed.
“No kidding,” Retch said. “And I ain't even put her into low gear yet. Now let me show you what this baby can really do.”
“I was referring to the scenery,” Finley said. “Wait! Stop! You're going off the road, you crazy kneecap!”
“Cool your jets,” Retch said. “I'm just going to take her up this old skid trail and over the top of that knob.”
“Knob!” shouted Finley. “That's no knob, you clavicle, that's a peak!”
Retch and I chuckled. Obviously, Finley had no idea what a four-wheel-drive vehicle was capable of. He continued to shout, whine, and screech as the truck growled its way up the side of the mountain. We wound in and out among the trees, climbed over rocks and logs, and eventually clawed our way to the top of the knob. By now it was nearly dark. The skid trail, if indeed it was a skid trail, dropped sharply down the other side.
“By gosh, I bet this ol' truck can handle that grade even in the snow,” Retch said, gunning the truck over the top.
“No, no! It's too steep, you bellybutton!”
As for Finley, he was too paralyzed with fear even to speak.
Miraculously, the truck clung to the earth and, twisting and grunting, carried us along a narrow ledge with a drop-off to the right and an ice-covered cliff to the left. The floor
of the cab was awash in cold sweat by the time we arrived safely at the bottom of the canyon.
of the cab was awash in cold sweat by the time we arrived safely at the bottom of the canyon.
“How about that!” Retch said.
“Mumph,” Finley replied.
“Phimph,” I added, discarding a handful of upholstery.
“One problem,” Retch said.
“What's that?” I asked.
“It's too narrow to turn around down here. We're going to have to go back up the mountain in reverse.”
Finley moaned cravenly. “I knew I should have stayed home and read a book by the fire. Now I'm down in the middle of a frozen canyon in the dark and there's no way to turn around and I'm in the company of two maniacs! This is the ultimate!”
Actually, it was not yet the ultimate, for at that moment the truck's engine began to make a peculiar sound.
“Huh,” Retch said, his forehead wrinkling. “I never heard anything like that before. You ever hear an engine go âpunkity punkity punkity'?”
“Once or twice,” I said.
“Ye gods!” cried Finley. “It's McManus's magnetic field at work!”
Then the engine stopped altogether. The three of us got out and raised the hood. Retch and I prodded and poked at the engine in the routine manner and with the standard absence of any hope of determining the cause of the malfunction, let alone of repairing it.
Suddenly, Retch snapped his fingers. “I know what it is! It's the fuel pump! The fuel pump is shot!”
“Phew!” I said. “I was really worried there for a minute.”
“Yeah, me too,” Retch said.
Finley stopped whimpering. “You mean it's okay? You can fix the fuel pump?”
“No, can't fix it,” Retch said.
“Oh, you have a spare fuel pump then?”
Retch and I looked at Finley. “Sort of,” we said in unison.
“Thank goodness,” Finley said. “Look, I take back all the nasty things I said about you guys. I won't ever do that again.”
“Promise?” I said.
Retch and I went into action. We quickly removed from the engine compartment the tubing and reservoir tank of the windshield-washing unit. This activity caused Finley a certain amount of puzzlement, but there was no time to explain. It was growing colder by the minute, and both Retch and I were aware of the dangers of hypothermia.
Once the window-washer tube and the reservoir were extracted, we used the tube to siphon gas from the truck's gas tank into the reservoir. While Retch was reattaching the tube to the reservoir, I removed the air-filter cover from the carburetor.
“The way it works,” I explained to Finley, who was standing about rubbing his hands and stomping his feet, “is that we use the reservoir and tube to dribble gas directly into the carburetor.”
“Ingenious!” cried Finley.
“Yes, it is, if I do say so myself,” I said.
“But how do you fix it so just the right amount of gas is dribbled into the carburetor?” he asked.
Retch and I couldn't help but smile at the naïveté of the man.
“Well, it's like this,” I said. “One of us has to sit on the fender, with his feet in the engine compartment, and hold
the tank in one hand and the tube in the other. Then he squeezes the tube so just the right amount of gas goes into the carburetor. It works like a charm.”
the tank in one hand and the tube in the other. Then he squeezes the tube so just the right amount of gas goes into the carburetor. It works like a charm.”
“Oh,” Finley said. “Well, which of you two is it to be?”
“I thought you might ask that, Al, ol' buddy,” I said, “but the problem is this, you see. Retch is the only one capable of backing this rig up the side of the mountain and working it along that narrow spot without getting us all killed. And I'm too big to fit into the engine compartment, bad as that makes me feel. That leaves you, Finley.”
Possibly I have heard such wailing and gnashing of teeth before, but I couldn't remember when. I asked Retch about it, and he said he thought this was about the best wailing and gnashing he'd ever heard, but he wished Finley would get finished with it so we could start driving out of the canyon. A blizzard was in the making.
We showed Finley how to clamp one leg against the wheel well down by the generator and to prop one foot against the radiator cap so that leg wouldn't slip into the fan and get chewed up. We warned him not to allow himself to get bounced forward onto the battery, because battery acid can eat the rear end right out of a pair of pants and usually doesn't stop there. To his credit, Finley paid a good deal of attention to all this advice. Finally we instructed him on how to regulate the flow of gas into the carburetor, and at last we were ready to make our run up out of the canyon.
Retch and I got in the cab, and an instant later the engine roared to life. I shouted out the window to Finley and asked if he was ready. He replied with a stream of crude anatomical terms and something about a good book and a fire. I took this as the signal he was as ready as he ever would be.
The truck tore backwards up the mountain, whining,
bellowing, and kicking logs and rocks in all directions. There was a good deal of strain on me, because I had to keep yelling out the window, “More gas, Finley! Less gas, Finley!” And so on. Since all I could see of Finley was his rear end, kind of pinched down on the fender, I could never be quite sure if he heard me or not. I thought the very least he could do was to shout back a reply of some kind, just so I would know he had heard. But that's the way Finley isâinconsiderate.
bellowing, and kicking logs and rocks in all directions. There was a good deal of strain on me, because I had to keep yelling out the window, “More gas, Finley! Less gas, Finley!” And so on. Since all I could see of Finley was his rear end, kind of pinched down on the fender, I could never be quite sure if he heard me or not. I thought the very least he could do was to shout back a reply of some kind, just so I would know he had heard. But that's the way Finley isâinconsiderate.
Scarcely twenty minutes later we backed onto the main road and were able to drive forward, with Retch leaning out his window so he could see around the open hood. He complained of the cold, and said he hoped Finley appreciated the suffering he was going through just to get him back to his warm fire. I said I doubted he would, because that just wasn't the kind of person Finley wasâappreciative.
When we reached the highway and headed back to town, it occurred to us that we had driven over twenty miles on the mere two quarts of gas in the window-washer reservoir.
“You know what?” Retch said. “This is the best dang mileage I ever got with this truck.”
“Maybe you should hire Finley to be your permanent fuel pump,” I said, and we had a good chuckle over that little joke.
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