THE BORN LESAR

Getting sick on vacation? Oh, come 'on

The underside of the top bunk in my bedroom at our fishing camp in Canada has 18 gray cross-members supported by two heavier vertical metal rods, all bolted and spot-welded together. Quite sturdily built, really. Trust me, I know it well.

I spent about 90 percent of my recent week-long 'vacation' on the bottom mattress of that bunk, trying to shake a viral upper respiratory infection that developed into pneumonia and largely prevented me not just from fishing, but from participating in life in any appreciable regard. Meanwhile, my five camp mates were enjoying some of the best fishing of their lives, as the walleyes were not just plentiful and well-distributed in the unseasonably cool waters, but feeding like they were participating in one of those gluttonous American Fourth of July hog dog eating contests. Ain't that the way it goes sometimes.

I knew I was in trouble the first night we arrived at camp. I fished for a few hours and that went well, but later that evening I developed a good case of the full-body shivers. That for me always means I'm gonna be sick, at least it has anyway since 1776 when in an earlier incarnation I spent the winter with George Washington and the rebel boys at Valley Forge. Or did I dream that last week? I can't be sure anymore.

I did try to fish a bit more the following day, but soon developed the usual viral symptoms -- headache, dizziness, fever, dehydration, and lack of appetite and energy -- or as I liked to call it in my college party days -- morning. I soon stayed back as the rest of the gang hit the water, and the only place I could find any comfort was in that bottom bunk. It was dark there, and enclosed, and except for the floor box fan, reminded me of the womb. Hey, I told you my mind was wandering at times.

On the second full day in camp, the gang decided to head for Ranger Lake, a distant body of water that takes about 45 minutes by boat to reach. Completely devoid of any homes, roads, outbound camps or any other sign of people, it's my favorite place to fish every time I get to western Ontario. The guys couldn't really wait for me, 'cuz it takes a calm day to reach Ranger, as the long lake we need to cross to get to it becomes rather treacherous when it's windy. But it was cool that morning, and rather than shiver and shake on the trip, I took a pass. Back in the bunk. Hope for sleep, count the top bunk cross members again. Still 18.

Only once more during the week did I muster the ambition to fish. I felt pretty good heading out one late afternoon, but we ended up trolling in a river stretch that was shielded from the breeze. As the 85-degree heat settled over us, I mostly melted like the Wicked Witch of the West after Dorothy throws the bucket of water (I personally think it was really hydrochloric acid) on her. Enough of that, I knew, and I took my fishing gear back to the cabin and waited either for our Saturday morning departure time or for Satan to stop by my bunk to make a deal for my mortal soul (he probably would be surprised how cheaply he could have had it).

Getting sick on a vacation is kinda like finding out on your wedding day that your bride knows where all the groomsmen's birthmarks are, or getting a copy of a book called 'All the Secrets to a Happy and Prosperous Life' and finding out it's written in braille. There's really nothing or nobody to be angry at -- it just happens -- but it takes a while to accept that you've waited so long just to get away (in this case three years because of COVID) and you're going to enjoy it about as much as a double root canal on both your top back molars. A person can only sleep so much, and while I spent probably 20 of every 24 hours over a 4-day stretch in that bunk, my mind occupied itself with every manner of semi-conscious meandering one can imagine. I dreamt once that I was pinned down by enemy fire in a jungle war zone, another time that I was in my last semester of college and it was final exam week but I hadn't attended any classes and didn't even know where some of the rooms were located. I tried to keep my distance from the rest of the guys, so I'd drag myself to the cabin couch only when they were out on the lake. At one point, I finally felt good enough to sit out on the deck and read, but it started to rain within three minutes. One has to try to find the positive side of situations, I've always thought, so I was at least happy that I did not lose the usual number of expensive lures that I usually do, and from this trip I would not only return home without the usual extra 10 pounds around my waistline, but with less blubber than I arrived with. Oh, yeah, one other positive note. The young guys in camp didn't bring along enough beer, and they were more than happy to find out I wasn't gonna drink mine. Bless their helpful souls.

One thought that crossed my mind as I wiled away the long hours in my bunk was that some other dude would be arriving on the weekend to begin his week-long vacation. I surely hoped his week would go better than mine, and that he'd flop into this bunk at night exhausted from catching fish and enjoying a week away from whatever stress he regularly endures. I mean, just 'cuz my week didn't go as planned, why should I wish the same upon the next fellow?

I've been to Canada probably 20 times or so now, and each time I take a look over my shoulder as we leave and just appreciate the tranquility of the place and snap a photo in my mind's eye just in case, for whatever reason, I never make it back. This year, though, I have to say I was glad just to get the heck out of there, and that may be the saddest part of the whole experience.

Ain't' that just the way it goes sometimes.