Peep Toes, Hooker Barb, and Bullshitting Buck

I was decluttering my closet the other day and came across an abandoned pair of peep-toe heels. Since the advent of this COVID pandemic, I doubt that my feet will ever again be put through the rigors of wearing heels to work – that is if I ever even see the inside of a university classroom again.

Seeing these cute heels cozied up alongside my pair of trusty trail worn Wescos, I couldn’t help but associate the sight of these two incongruously closeted partners with Hooker Barb and Bullshitting Buck.

It was the summer when I was working at a primitive fishing camp located on a remote and pristine high mountain lake. It was the kind of camp that had no running water, no electricity, and no telephone. The kind of place where the pack horses roamed on the mountain with the deer, and the dogs ran with the coyotes. And where men came to fish in stag parties with nary a thought of bringing any womenfolk.

After all, this camp was made for the tough, Bull-of-the-Woods, true-outdoorsy type. There should have been a sign posted on the half-submerged dock: “No Weekend Warriors need apply.”

Beer-bellied, plaid-shirted, and maybe missing a finger or three from setting chains and cables in the woods. Old-growth beards to match the old-growth trees that they had logged from the forest decades ago. They wore stag pants, brown-and-white cotton monkey socks, and heavy, lace-up boots that defied all logic as a footwear choice for the hot summer temperatures. Hadn’t any of these fellas heard of flip-flops or slides? Jeez.

The men came to the lake via trail or by air. You either hiked up one hell of a trail and up and over a pretty tough pass or, if you had some dough to throw around, you could always “cheat” and fly in on the float plane. The men arrived with their fishing “poles” – not rods – and fraying wicker creels, all with one hope: to catch the wily and elusive rainbow trout. Their backpacks and coolers were heavy-laden with beer, ham and cheese sandwiches, maybe an apple or banana for the more health-conscious, and, of course, worms for trolling with some variation of a Jack Lloyd flashing lure.

They unapologetically traveled stag – meaning No Women Allowed. They wanted the freedom to belch and fart without censure while they fished and talked about politics, sports, and maybe even “the one that got away” (a previous gal pal from days gone by) with their buddies — all while rowing and floating serenely on the blue-green water.

And then along came Barb. Barb didn’t hike up the trail. She had the luxury of arriving via float plane. I’m guessing that had she taken one look at the trail, we never would have met her. And she was with her new guy, Buck.

Buck was one of the Regulars, the kind who flew in once a year to re-connect with his Inner Woodsman. You could tell that Buck thought he was quite the catch. Graying at the temples and still in possession of a full head of hair, Buck considered himself to be one of the Bulls.

After five minutes of Buck’s bullshitting, any True Bull knew that Buck was not bona fide. He had never been a chaser, a coiler, or a choker setter — let alone a bucker, faller, or climber. Truth was, Buck worked for a non-profit in downtown Spokane, Washington and probably only donned his hickory shirt, stag pants, and corks when he came to the lake to catch some trout.

But not a thing wrong with this. Nothing at all. Buck just wanted to lay some claim to his Inner Woodsman.

This is the part of the story where I start to associate peep toes with Lady Barb. It was clear that Buck had not prepared Barb properly and truthfully for this particular foray into the wilderness. (Remember: Buck was a real bullshitter.)

When Barb stepped out of the float plane, she was wearing white jeans, a coral-pink top, and the cutest little pair of tangerine and white striped canvas peep toes. I am guessing that Barb thought that White Knight Buck was whisking her away to some quaint and well-appointed fishing lodge in the mountains . . . a place where she could book a mani-pedi in the spa after she had received a massage from a fully-bearded buckaroo named Billy.

And maybe Buck was happy to have led her along this particular garden path. Or maybe Buck was just a bit thick and clueless. Like I said, it was always really hard to tell with Buck.

The float plane took off, and I got their boat ready, all with Buck jawing away at me. "How’s fishin’ this year? How was the winter? Snow get pretty high? When did the lake thaw? Where are they biting this year?" This sort of thing.

Barb, clearly not feeling comfortable after a bumpy landing, asked me where the restroom was. After giving her a rather complicated set of directions as to how to find the outhouse behind the main cabin up the hill from the dock, that was the last we saw of Barb for a while.

I finally asked Buck, “Do you think your lady friend is okay?”

But Buck just kept yakkin’ about trout and worms. Barb eventually came picking her way back down the trail. I couldn’t tell if she had found Ground Zero, but I wasn’t about to ask her. It seemed indelicate.

Buck and Barb got in the boat tied to the dock and Buck started to get his fishing gear together. He was in the middle seat — Rowing Position — and Barb made the error of choosing to sit in the bow of the boat. “Damn, woman!” Buck growled. “I’m not gonna be able to row anywhere with your dead weight planted up there!”

Barb looked confused, so I explained to her that it was easier to row the boat if the main weight was at the stern, not the bow. Hence, the mid-boat transfer began – Barb trip-trapping her way to the stern, doing her best to balance and stay inside the boat – all while wearing those fancified high-heeled, peep-toe shoes. Nothing like adding a little Ginger Rogers action to your fishing trip.

But it has to be said: Buck was no Fred Astaire.

I have to hand it to Barb, as she was doing a damn good job of both trimming the boat and not tipping into the drink. It was while she was stepping over the middle seat where Oblivious Buck was sitting that she got snagged by the treble hook on Buck’s pole . . . right in her you-know-where: the fork between her legs.

All of Barb’s shrieking, wriggling, and wincing aside, I thought Buck was going to fall into the lake, he was laughing so hard. The good news was that Buck had only caught her by the white of her jeans and nothing further. Thank God, I thought. It would have made for a delicate backwoods surgery.

While Buck and Barb were doing their dangdest to remove the offending hook from Barb’s private area, Buck kept sputtering, “Damn! Is she a keeper or a spawner? A keeper or a spawner?”

I could tell that Barb did not have a fully-stocked fisherman’s lexicon in her brain, as she did not take any offense at the hint that she could be well past her prime as a Spawner — a fish that, if caught, was meant to be gently returned to the lake from whence it came. As I used to say when I was just a little tiny toddler: "Ignorance is bliss."

But I really had to hand it to Barb and give her an A+ for practicality. While Buck was sputtering and exercising his pocket-fisherman wit, Barb whipped her pants down quicker than a pat of butter melts on a hot skillet.

Smart girl. The hook extraction was more easily completed, and everyone was happy. They left the dock, and I can’t really remember them saying if they caught any fish that day or not when they came back to catch the plane.

As the plane taxied to the south end of the lake for take-off, I couldn’t help but admire Hooker Barb for the way she had handled the curves that Bullshitting Buck had aimed at her that day. Looks were clearly deceiving, and she was from a tougher stock than her peep toes might indicate.

Buck returned the next year for his Annual Bull of the Woods Reckoning. He arrived sans Barb. I wanted to ask him about her, to satisfy my curiosity as to whether or not they were still an item. If their love affair had lasted beyond that day of fishing. But I exercised restraint and gave Buck’s boat a shove away from the dock as I threw the line into the bow of the boat.

You learn a lot about people by the ways they approach fishing, boating, the woods, and choosing a mate. I’ve never been a big fan of bullshitters, but I have known a few who were quite entertaining for the few moments of conversation I have had with them.

As for Buck? I’m still laughing about the way that Hooker Barb whipped down her pants while Buck sputtered, “A spawner or a keeper?” The value of these hallmark moments being that you learn something valuable from them at another person's expense: Never date a bullshitter named Buck.

Thanks, Barb. I'm going to say that you were a keeper.