Fish Fries & Ski Daddling

My usual adventures of hunting and fishing were temporarily traded in for steep mountain slopes and a pair of skis this past weekend. Before this rare exchange, came a pile of perch and a lot of frying oil though.

My friend Aly and her now fiancé Ryan plus their roommate made their way north from Salt Lake City to Montana for a long weekend of outdoor adventures. Aly is historically and presently the most adventurous person I know and her fiancé is a perfect match to her eagerness to be in potentially bone breaking situations. They each enter a room with smiles across their faces and we shared a night of catching up over pulled elk sandwiches and too much wine.

As they settled in for the weekend, I asked if they wanted to give ice fishing a shot before we made our way to Big Sky on Saturday for skiing. They have both fished in multiple capacities but ice fishing was a fairly new endeavor and they delighted at the opportunity. With limited time on a Friday afternoon, we made our way over to a local pond that sat between a brewery and a tall mountain range. A handful of my local friends were there within a phone call with their sleds and rods and beer. Within minutes of showing Aly how to jig she pulled up the first fish, a hefty perch with a shiny slime draped over its green and yellow stripes. One thing all people should know about Aly before they hangout with her is that she is good at everything; if you like to win at things, don’t hangout with Aly. I mean that in the best way.

I have learned to lovingly trail behind her as I jumped off docks in our Michigan hometown and she backflipped off of them or I chugged a beer with watery eyes at college parties while she shot gunned one in seconds. Her winning streak was contagious on the ice that afternoon and the whole gang was pulling up keeper perch and rainbow trout for the next three hours. It was the most fish we had caught yet this winter and we took turns pushing knives into the back of the fish heads for a quick and ethical kill, then clipping their gills and piling them up on the ice.

We decided to have a fish fry and friends from Utah, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Massachusetts, and more came together while living and visiting in this little Montana town to cook a grand meal of fried perch filets and roe, pan seared whole trout in salt and pepper (a Matt simple special), frozen aisle French fries, and homemade tartar sauce. I took joy in the curiosity of my hometown friends as they peered over my Montana fishing friend’s shoulders

while they pulled the roe from the perch bellies and prepared the breading. We chopped lemons and dill and cleaned fish and poured heavy quantities of wine while the room filled with conversations about “where are you from” and “what the hell is skijoring?” and “have you eaten perch eggs before?” and so on. At long last we gathered around my friend Cat’s long wooden table and passed the meal around until each plate was full. We raised our glasses and feasted. I looked up from my plate only once to recognize that once again, harvesting your own meal will always be the most worthwhile plate to sit over with friends. We caught, cleaned, and cooked every single one of those fish from pond to plate. I felt pride and satisfaction ooze into our boozy and friendly room as we talked about the best catches and the tackle that enticed them. It was a gathering of variety over a collectively caught meal and that is an ageless human experience, one worth doing often.

The next morning, we woke with the smell of panko and oil still on our skin and dressed in layers. I hopped into Aly and Ryan’s van, thoughtfully named: The Raly Van and we drove it south to Big Sky where we’d be skiing that day. Aly and Ryan have been living out of their van for many months now and traveling across the western United States in search of both untouched snow and beautiful resorts to snowboard. Both of them and their roommate, Iris, snowboard and ski as if they could never get hurt. If an Olympic recruit was nearby, they might ask any one of them for a chat, while as they might ask me to stick to fishing.

Nonetheless, my pals invited me along for my first ski out west and while I had learned to pizza and French fry back in Michigan this would be my first western ski experience to date. I knew the basics but my fear of heights had kept me on the hard water so far this winter. After a hefty breakfast in the Raly Van kitchen we strapped on our boots and made our way for the lift. Aly giggled endearingly as I struggled to scan my pass through my jacket pocket and board the first chairlift. I sat down nervously and involuntarily hollered when it took off into the sky. The lift alone was twice as high as any I had been on in Michigan. I nervously sat straight up and attempted to hold a conversation with Iris who kindly reassured me I was good.

We came to the top of the first hill and I looked down over the slope. The run was longer than all of the runs combined at any ski hill I had been on before. It was also far steeper. I had no choice but to try. I began gradually slipping down the snowy slope and, like riding a bike, my muscles remembered to dig my skis into the mountain and turn. Soon enough, and without fail, I crashed. I crashed again. I crashed into trees. I crashed into the ski lift line. I crashed voluntarily because my legs were shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion. I crashed involuntarily, for the same reasons. I did, however, not stop smiling once.

I specifically remember moving down one of the runs and forgetting that I was in my body, I looked up and around me. In every direction was an awe-inspiring peak, dressed in pure white snow. As my eyes followed the far away peaks down to their foot hills I noticed endless emerald trees sprout from the mountain walls. The earth around me was quiet except for the mumbling mountain breeze. I looked over to see Aly effortlessly slipping through pines, in her element, undoubtedly. I saw Ryan and Iris swerving around the next bend in the route hollering and laughing. I focused back on my skis and saw the snow move under me like a treadmill track. Then, I crashed again.

It was an entirely new experience to ski out west. I felt lucky to be among the most talented snowboarders I know while trailing along behind them on the mountain. It was a convivial, painful, challenging, worthwhile adventure and that too, is an ageless human experience. One worth doing often.