Mustangs Rule
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- Joined
- Feb 4, 2021
- Messages
- 947
0n December 1, 1969, the first military service draft lottery was held in America since 1942. Based on my poor draw results, I decided to start spending my savings.
During college, I pinched every penny I earned working summers for an industrial construction company. Among other project’s, this company repaired and replaced equipment in a chemical manufacturing plant that made Agent Orange.
I found that out many years later.
Come June of 1970. I had a diploma in my hand from a state university in my native New England, Rather than new career thoughts, what was going on in my head was a “I’m Going to Vietnam” war movie starring me.
The term “Officer and a Gentleman” came about with the British Naval Discipline Act of 1860 which defined the term in reverse by stating what conduct was unbecoming of an Officer and a Gentleman.
Anyway, I liked the term and decided to become one.
When my application to Naval OCS was accepted, my draft board got a phone call from my Navy recruiter informing them that I was in process, so I was left alone.
At that time, new naval ensigns could either look forward to the best or worst tour of duty. The worst I thought, was serving in the “Brown Water Navy” by patrolling the huge Mekong River Delta, basically being sitting ducks in an RPG capitol.
How long my final acceptance would take was an unknown. At least 6 months, was all I was told. And so great limbo was upon me and my meager savings were begging to be spent.
My first purchase was a Fenwick Fiber-glass #6 wt. Backpackers Flyrod, considered not the best, but still one of high quality. Next, I bought a Plueger Medalist fly reel, a working mans reel.
I fished the small local streams for Native Brook Trout while hiking bits of the northern Appalachian Trail, purposely avoiding larger rivers which had been infected with an invasive species, rainbow trout.
From a Boy Scout Store, used canvas backpack I named “Brownie” and also used Boy Scout pup tent without a floor or mosquito netting. And a brand new mess kit which I used to cook the small brook trout I was catching. One day my world felt too small
Going by a British Motorcycle Dealer, I saw a “Sale Sign” and dropped in. There was one brand new BSA 650cc motorcycle left of last years model, on sale for $999.
I spent the next two weeks building some panniers for my BSA out of marine grade plywood. I named my new adventure vehicle “Green Buffalo” since she was pained in a classic British Heather Green. I included in my equipment a Savage 22/20 gauge Camper Special. That was pricey, but seemed important just in case I might be attacked by a rouge ruffed grouse.
And so away I went,,,not wearing a black leather biker jacket but instead a used, thick, warm, Scottish tweed wool ¾ length coat. It buttoned up tight and had a big collar. My hat was sheepskin. No helmet laws yet.
I brought along a big bag of quarters, nickels and dimes to phone my USN recruiter every week to make sure I did not miss an early call to attend Officers Candidate School
Also in my motorcycle pannier was a letter from him stating that I was an applicant in waiting tor Naval OCS. Good to have a reference.
I was going to become an “Officer and Gentleman” but right now I was a Big Boy Scout riding A brand new kick start only “Beezer” as BSA motorcycles were then called.
My travels took me over much of my Native New England. The Northern Appalachian Mountains were our Rockies.
Next, only three years earlier in 1967 The Adirondack Parkway also called the North-way was completed. A 176 mike toll free highway that went from Albany, New York to the Canadian border. During the fall a few years earlier it had won the Most Beautiful Highway in America award.
Three quarters of the way up, I headed west into the Adirondack Mountain Park in New York State. 9,400 square miles, bigger than Yellowstone, Yosemite and Gran Canyon NP combined.
I was hiking/camping in my first wild places, with Native brook trout, Ruffed grouse and yes even black bears. Good reason to bring along some 20 gauge slug shells
The war in Vietnam would wait a few months. I had fish to catch, grouse to cook over red hot Eastern hardwood coals and other adventures to have.
Often when I wanted to be backpacking for a week or so, I would find a place to leave my motorcycle. Usually it was at some dairy farm I saw near a trail head.
I would pull in, well shaved of course, explain who i was and what I was doing. I would offer the letter from my USN recruiter as a reference.
Then I would ask for the privilege of leaving my new BSA motorcycle there, camping a night or two on their land before going into the back country. I offered to do chores in return for this favor and having been raised on a dairy farm myself was a big boost towards being welcomed.
The reception I got everywhere was beyond amazing, often being invited to sleep inside and share meals.
Good Heavens did I meet such wonderful people that late summer and fall. A war was on, and there I was a future Officer and a Gentleman, a young Knight Riding my Mechanical mount, seeking some peace, before expecting to go off to war.
I am grateful that at 78 my memory is still sharp. I think about all these many people and places and want to write about them all now.
One old farming couple stands out.
They had a three story gambrel farmhouse. They had me stay in a room on the second floor, looking out over their farm. It had been the room of one of theirs sons. Hanging on the wall were vintage memorabilia, from his school years and military service.
At breakfast they spoke of him, He had served in the Korean War and was killed. They were happy to have me stay there. I had mixed feelings.
Right at this moment another old couple and their well kept farm stands out eve-so strong in my memory.
Their farm came into the corner of my eye while driving past it. I stopped took it all in. A classic three-story Saltbox style farmhouse. Painted deep maroon. The long slope of its roof properly facing the north wind.
The Pickett fence, the well-kept barns, the grove of trees in fall color, and winding through their pasture was the most ideal trout stream ever. The water came out clear and cold from a forest marsh that looked like ideal rough grouse habitat.
And singular in that open pasture was one maple tree at the edge of a perfect pool maybe 8 feet around covered with a floating circular do-nut of the brightest red fallen maple leaves.
I turned around then drove up to the farmhouse and offered my now well rehearsed self-introduction.
An hour later I was pitching my boy scout pup tent under a larger maple tree, near a fire pit. This was their own family picnic spot
I been given permission to either hunt grouse in that ideal second growth forest, or fish for brook trout in the stream that drained it. The choice was mine.
I held off deciding till morning.
After setting up camp, I went over said hello again and stacked some firewood on the porch. The first nips of New England autumn cold would soon be here, but not yet. The farmer showed me his herd of dairy cows, Holsteins and some Guernseys. We talked butter fat, and then I helped clean up his DeKalb milking machines. They were the kind used on my grandparent’s farm
We shared a cup of tea on the porch watched the sun get low and said goodnight
It was in a beautiful valley in the Northern Appalachians, sun was already up, the silence was too sweet to disturb with gunfire, even just one shot.
I chose the Fenwick Flyrod, instead of the 22/20 Savage.
The air was dead still. The deep springs fed creek, where it came out of the woodlands was so clear. I cupped my hand in the water to drink. Then I heard the drumming of male Ruffed Grouse. They do that marking the Fall Equinox and shorter days.
For a a moment I reconsidered my choice, hunt or fish, then I recalled something I heard or read somewhere once.
“Our time spent fishing was not counted against our allotted time on earth”
A silly simple thought passed through my mind. “If I did a lot of fishing in Vietnam, would that keep me safe”.
I did not buy flies. As a going away gift a friend gave me a small Aluminum case filled with flies his dad tied for him. All were Brook trout flies that originated in the Northern Appalachians and Adirondacks.
My friends dad was a tail gunner during WW2 Now 56 years later ,I still have that case full of those hand tied eastern brook trout flies plus his dad’s brass Bolo tie with a flushing Ruffed Grouse on it.
The pasture stream was only a several feet wide at first, but it grew cutting deep into the earthy pasture. The banks overhung offering ideal shelter for brook trout that do not like sunlight.
I chose a Lady Beaverkill dry fly.
Smaller trout attacked it. Sudden explosions broke the water. With the barb ground off the hooks I released the fish easily.
Such beautiful fish, so full of colors from all the minerals, so firm of flesh from a natural high protein diet. The flesh of the stocked rainbow trout in larger streams felt mushy.
Approaching the pool the difficulty of the cast became obvious. Dry branches were blocking the way, to the pool center free of leaves.
It was the most perfect cast of my life. The opening of the pool exploded, By trophy Brook trout standards my fish was a runt. But he was a huge fish for that small pool. Fat with a hooked jaw, dynamic colors and almost orange meat. Brook trout are a delicious char.
Early afternoon, I went into the woodlands and easily shot three Ruffed Grouse with the Savage 22/20.Virgin birds!
We had them for supper, well plucked, their buttered skin was crispy and golden.
The next morning saying goodbye, after eggs and coffee, after a hearty handshake from the old farmer, his wife held my hand with both her hands and thanked me for my visit and said, “Please stay safe” !
MR
During college, I pinched every penny I earned working summers for an industrial construction company. Among other project’s, this company repaired and replaced equipment in a chemical manufacturing plant that made Agent Orange.
I found that out many years later.
Come June of 1970. I had a diploma in my hand from a state university in my native New England, Rather than new career thoughts, what was going on in my head was a “I’m Going to Vietnam” war movie starring me.
The term “Officer and a Gentleman” came about with the British Naval Discipline Act of 1860 which defined the term in reverse by stating what conduct was unbecoming of an Officer and a Gentleman.
Anyway, I liked the term and decided to become one.
When my application to Naval OCS was accepted, my draft board got a phone call from my Navy recruiter informing them that I was in process, so I was left alone.
At that time, new naval ensigns could either look forward to the best or worst tour of duty. The worst I thought, was serving in the “Brown Water Navy” by patrolling the huge Mekong River Delta, basically being sitting ducks in an RPG capitol.
How long my final acceptance would take was an unknown. At least 6 months, was all I was told. And so great limbo was upon me and my meager savings were begging to be spent.
My first purchase was a Fenwick Fiber-glass #6 wt. Backpackers Flyrod, considered not the best, but still one of high quality. Next, I bought a Plueger Medalist fly reel, a working mans reel.
I fished the small local streams for Native Brook Trout while hiking bits of the northern Appalachian Trail, purposely avoiding larger rivers which had been infected with an invasive species, rainbow trout.
From a Boy Scout Store, used canvas backpack I named “Brownie” and also used Boy Scout pup tent without a floor or mosquito netting. And a brand new mess kit which I used to cook the small brook trout I was catching. One day my world felt too small
Going by a British Motorcycle Dealer, I saw a “Sale Sign” and dropped in. There was one brand new BSA 650cc motorcycle left of last years model, on sale for $999.
I spent the next two weeks building some panniers for my BSA out of marine grade plywood. I named my new adventure vehicle “Green Buffalo” since she was pained in a classic British Heather Green. I included in my equipment a Savage 22/20 gauge Camper Special. That was pricey, but seemed important just in case I might be attacked by a rouge ruffed grouse.
And so away I went,,,not wearing a black leather biker jacket but instead a used, thick, warm, Scottish tweed wool ¾ length coat. It buttoned up tight and had a big collar. My hat was sheepskin. No helmet laws yet.
I brought along a big bag of quarters, nickels and dimes to phone my USN recruiter every week to make sure I did not miss an early call to attend Officers Candidate School
Also in my motorcycle pannier was a letter from him stating that I was an applicant in waiting tor Naval OCS. Good to have a reference.
I was going to become an “Officer and Gentleman” but right now I was a Big Boy Scout riding A brand new kick start only “Beezer” as BSA motorcycles were then called.
My travels took me over much of my Native New England. The Northern Appalachian Mountains were our Rockies.
Next, only three years earlier in 1967 The Adirondack Parkway also called the North-way was completed. A 176 mike toll free highway that went from Albany, New York to the Canadian border. During the fall a few years earlier it had won the Most Beautiful Highway in America award.
Three quarters of the way up, I headed west into the Adirondack Mountain Park in New York State. 9,400 square miles, bigger than Yellowstone, Yosemite and Gran Canyon NP combined.
I was hiking/camping in my first wild places, with Native brook trout, Ruffed grouse and yes even black bears. Good reason to bring along some 20 gauge slug shells
The war in Vietnam would wait a few months. I had fish to catch, grouse to cook over red hot Eastern hardwood coals and other adventures to have.
Often when I wanted to be backpacking for a week or so, I would find a place to leave my motorcycle. Usually it was at some dairy farm I saw near a trail head.
I would pull in, well shaved of course, explain who i was and what I was doing. I would offer the letter from my USN recruiter as a reference.
Then I would ask for the privilege of leaving my new BSA motorcycle there, camping a night or two on their land before going into the back country. I offered to do chores in return for this favor and having been raised on a dairy farm myself was a big boost towards being welcomed.
The reception I got everywhere was beyond amazing, often being invited to sleep inside and share meals.
Good Heavens did I meet such wonderful people that late summer and fall. A war was on, and there I was a future Officer and a Gentleman, a young Knight Riding my Mechanical mount, seeking some peace, before expecting to go off to war.
I am grateful that at 78 my memory is still sharp. I think about all these many people and places and want to write about them all now.
One old farming couple stands out.
They had a three story gambrel farmhouse. They had me stay in a room on the second floor, looking out over their farm. It had been the room of one of theirs sons. Hanging on the wall were vintage memorabilia, from his school years and military service.
At breakfast they spoke of him, He had served in the Korean War and was killed. They were happy to have me stay there. I had mixed feelings.
Right at this moment another old couple and their well kept farm stands out eve-so strong in my memory.
Their farm came into the corner of my eye while driving past it. I stopped took it all in. A classic three-story Saltbox style farmhouse. Painted deep maroon. The long slope of its roof properly facing the north wind.
The Pickett fence, the well-kept barns, the grove of trees in fall color, and winding through their pasture was the most ideal trout stream ever. The water came out clear and cold from a forest marsh that looked like ideal rough grouse habitat.
And singular in that open pasture was one maple tree at the edge of a perfect pool maybe 8 feet around covered with a floating circular do-nut of the brightest red fallen maple leaves.
I turned around then drove up to the farmhouse and offered my now well rehearsed self-introduction.
An hour later I was pitching my boy scout pup tent under a larger maple tree, near a fire pit. This was their own family picnic spot
I been given permission to either hunt grouse in that ideal second growth forest, or fish for brook trout in the stream that drained it. The choice was mine.
I held off deciding till morning.
After setting up camp, I went over said hello again and stacked some firewood on the porch. The first nips of New England autumn cold would soon be here, but not yet. The farmer showed me his herd of dairy cows, Holsteins and some Guernseys. We talked butter fat, and then I helped clean up his DeKalb milking machines. They were the kind used on my grandparent’s farm
We shared a cup of tea on the porch watched the sun get low and said goodnight
It was in a beautiful valley in the Northern Appalachians, sun was already up, the silence was too sweet to disturb with gunfire, even just one shot.
I chose the Fenwick Flyrod, instead of the 22/20 Savage.
The air was dead still. The deep springs fed creek, where it came out of the woodlands was so clear. I cupped my hand in the water to drink. Then I heard the drumming of male Ruffed Grouse. They do that marking the Fall Equinox and shorter days.
For a a moment I reconsidered my choice, hunt or fish, then I recalled something I heard or read somewhere once.
“Our time spent fishing was not counted against our allotted time on earth”
A silly simple thought passed through my mind. “If I did a lot of fishing in Vietnam, would that keep me safe”.
I did not buy flies. As a going away gift a friend gave me a small Aluminum case filled with flies his dad tied for him. All were Brook trout flies that originated in the Northern Appalachians and Adirondacks.
My friends dad was a tail gunner during WW2 Now 56 years later ,I still have that case full of those hand tied eastern brook trout flies plus his dad’s brass Bolo tie with a flushing Ruffed Grouse on it.
The pasture stream was only a several feet wide at first, but it grew cutting deep into the earthy pasture. The banks overhung offering ideal shelter for brook trout that do not like sunlight.
I chose a Lady Beaverkill dry fly.
Smaller trout attacked it. Sudden explosions broke the water. With the barb ground off the hooks I released the fish easily.
Such beautiful fish, so full of colors from all the minerals, so firm of flesh from a natural high protein diet. The flesh of the stocked rainbow trout in larger streams felt mushy.
Approaching the pool the difficulty of the cast became obvious. Dry branches were blocking the way, to the pool center free of leaves.
It was the most perfect cast of my life. The opening of the pool exploded, By trophy Brook trout standards my fish was a runt. But he was a huge fish for that small pool. Fat with a hooked jaw, dynamic colors and almost orange meat. Brook trout are a delicious char.
Early afternoon, I went into the woodlands and easily shot three Ruffed Grouse with the Savage 22/20.Virgin birds!
We had them for supper, well plucked, their buttered skin was crispy and golden.
The next morning saying goodbye, after eggs and coffee, after a hearty handshake from the old farmer, his wife held my hand with both her hands and thanked me for my visit and said, “Please stay safe” !
MR
