The sketchines of the details and dates were only rivaled by the sketchiness of our chariot—a mid-2000’s Ford Freestyle they acquired in Colorado for the meager sum of $600. The Freestyle was then willed across the plains to Birmingham, and onto my door in Asheville where Jay, Nick, and Robbie piled out of the American-made automotive dodo bird. Jay, Nick and I had shared exploits on various ends of the time and space continuum. Robbie and I had never crossed paths, but we fell into a rhythm that felt at once familiar, strange, and sticky, like my favorite magazine. I quickly learned his title of Head Pig Farm “Critter Gitter” was not in name only. Robbie’s eyes darted to and fro any time we found ourselves in a critter-rich environment. I heard him verbally assault an alligator. The alligator was told he was lucky he was on the other side of the creek, or else he would’ve gotten got.
The sheer knowledge of Sasquatch alone contained within this worn group of men resembled the heady days of the fifties when Ginsburg and Kerouac were beginning their jaunt down the path to awesome shit. Before we hit the road to Florida, there was the pesky business of hosting a karaoke fly tying night. Announcements were made then retracted as locations were fleeting, until they settled on the dive bar beneath my office the day before the event. Chaos and string theory proved correct when it went off without a hitch. Well, besides the fight. Once hands were pried from throats, the evening was really quite pleasant. Carly Simon tunes were sung poorly with great frequency, and flies were tied by folks who had never before sat in front of a vice. Usually a fly tying event announced the day before warrants a showing of about three people. Pig Farm on the other hand is a living, breathing, drinking example of, ”If you bring the fun, the people will come.”
The next day, riding the high of a successful event, we adjourned to the river—the very frozen river. The fact that we really needed an auger did nothing to bring down our moods. We spent our afternoon throwing rocks at ice shelves from bridges and videotaping elaborate Rube Goldberg human chain reactions. Slingshots, BB guns, and blow darts were the constants, with a shotgunned beer always the first domino to fall. Eventually we found a run open enough to catch one fish. That fish may have legitimized the rest of the time we spent dicking around but to us the day was as it should have been sans fish.