On cold, dark nights during
winter—after work, dinner, dishes, bath and bedtime—now and again I descend to
the basement. Down the stairs, past the finished area strewn with toys, through
a door and into a slice of cellar left untouched. It’s unheated, dimly lit, and
all mine. A shrine to my hobbies, almost every inch of the room is covered with
something outdoors-related. A cement-floor sanctuary to unwind, tinker, and prepare
for trips and seasons to come.
A simple workbench is the heart
of the room. Above it a pegboard adorned with dozens of wooden plugs and
plastic lures—some more worn than others, but each tell a story. They hang upside
down by their rear hook in two neat rows; organized first by type, then by
color. Some nights I’ll swap out old, rusty hooks for fresh ones or take random
lures off the wall and inspect them like a kid does his army men. It’s reassuring
in a way to handle artificial lures in winter while thinking of tides I’ll cast
them come summer. Some nights I’ll hover over the bench and snell hooks or tie
leaders and tuck them in individual baggies. Better to do it now than rushing
before a fishing trip.
Next to the workbench is an old,
fold-out wooden desk. It’s been furnished into a fly-tying station with a daylight
lamp, making it the brightest spot in the room when it’s on. The desktop has
open cigar boxes stuffed with various spools of thread, wire, and lead. It’s flanked
by plastic organizers on either side with drawers chockfull of tying materials.
Oftentimes I’ll sit at the vise, usually with a bourbon, or lately tequila, and
fill voids in my fly boxes of proven patterns that I lost too many of. While
tying this winter, instead of listening to playlists, I’ve been enthralled with
an audiobook, Black Elk: The Life of an
American Visionary, by Joe Jackson. It’s a fascinating biography of the Sioux
healer and holy man, and a sad reminder of some dark times in our nation’s
history.
A collection of fishing rods stretches
the entire length of another wall. A few of them are long, one-piece surfcasting
rods, so it’s helpful to have a full walk-out door at the head of the room with
easy access to my truck—a far cry from the situation when living on the third-floor
of my in-laws for two years (the cooking was top-shelf, but getting a 10 footer up two flights at 2 a.m. took practice). Most of the rods have reels attached and rigged from
the last time they saw action. Near the door on the floor is a large Jet Sled laden
with stickers and packed to the gills with ice fishing gear. It has a hole in
one of the back corners, but I haven’t sprung for a plastic welding kit to fix
it. The ice gear hasn’t seen much activity this winter, but I’m not packing it
away just yet. Eventually it will hang in the rafters out of sight until next
November, when optimism is once again renewed for a proper hardwater season.
On the opposite wall are two metal
shelving racks full of tackle boxes, plug bags, storage bins, camping equipment,
and a cache of artifacts I’ve found at ancient Native American campsites and
villages around the area. Much of it is debitage, sharp-edged waste material
left behind when indigenous people knapped stone such as flint or quartz into
tools. But some of the pieces are broken or unfinished projectile points and
scrapers that weren’t quite good enough to make their way upstairs into my shadowbox
table with the showpiece stuff. There are nights I’ll just go through this pile
of flakes and chipped stone, sorting and studying them, and thinking how cool it
is that someone else held them thousands of years ago.
Yet another section of the room is taken up
by a bait freezer, buckets, nets, walking sticks, coolers, and a clothing
rack on wheels from which hangs fly fishing packs, waders, wetsuits, and a
myriad of bibs and jackets. In the corner, from the ceiling, hangs my
fishing bike; an old beater that is spray-painted black and customized with two rod-holders,
basket, and rear rack. It doesn’t get used as much as it could, but the bike is
ready to spring to life for a Canal trip or a ninja mission to a private stretch
of shoreline.
The room is not big by any means,
yet its space is certainly maximized. Not much bare wall space is left—some of
the last of it used for a framed photograph of my largest bluefish, caught and
released on a September night 14 years ago. The plug that fooled that fish, a
white Atom 40, is wired to the frame below the picture, full of teeth mark battle
scars. On nails in the concrete block hang lanterns, chaffed leaders, and antique
cookware, and sprinkled around the room are retired flies or lures, fishing
keepsakes from a time gone by.
In spring, summer, and fall,
there are plenty of nights I run down to the basement only to grab gear and go—I
won’t think twice about tinkering with tackle or tying flies. But in winter,
when the cold is numbing and wind is honking, on occasion I get the urge to
spend hours in the place carved out for the things I love to do. Whether it’s a
garage, trophy room, attic, tying room, or mancave, every outdoorsman has a
special spot they store the things they are passionate about. I’m fortunate for
mine.
