But I digress…Dr. Fu

The Fish Whisperers were enjoying their annual visit to Yellowstone in 2007.  We had arranged for a couple of lakeside cabins in the shadow of the famous Yellowstone Lake Hotel.  I had arranged to have my boat on the lake this year.

My 22’ cuddy style Grady White was chosen by me on EBay after a night of too much Clos du Val Cabernet Sauvignon circa 2003.  A couple of sips, a couple of clicks and I was the proud owner of a 1986 fishing boat.  But I digress.

While we did spend one delightful day on the lake, some minor engine problems and afternoon waves larger than anything we had seen out of Dana Point, CA had the Fish Whisperers thinking that some stream fishing might be fun.

As usual, we found some time on this trip to reminisce about trips gone by.  Of note, was one fun day at Grebe Lake.  On this trip in 2006, despite my complaining, we hiked the 3 miles to this beautiful gem of a lake.  There we discovered the reclusive Grayling.  You might ask, “am I referring to the Fluvial Grayling, Yellowstone Greyling, or Montana Basin Grayling?”  Well, even I won’t digress that much.  They were really pretty fun fighting fish.

After pulling about 7 Grayling from Grebe Lake, the winds shifted so I decided to leave my fellow Fish Whisperers and head off to the northeast side of the lake in order to get a good back wind for casting.  The trek would be another half mile to the other side.

Did I mention this was Grizzly country? 

Anyway, about a quarter way around the lake I decide to take a shortcut across the edge of the lake.  Remember, I am wearing full fly fishing fashions with waders, boots, ankle guards…the works.  As I step off the bank of the lake I begin to sink very quickly in the muck.

Muck is the organic sediment that is an important part of a lakes ecosystem.  It is also black, sticky, slimy, stinking, yucky, and nearly impossible to escape once caught in it.  I was caught in it and still sinking.

I realized the more I struggled, the faster I was sinking.  Those of you who know me understand how quickly my long torso and long legs might be consumed by the muck.

I got smart and stopped wiggling.  The fact was that eventually Dana, Dennis, or John would soon notice I was gone and come and save me.  Simultaneously, I became acutely aware the air temperature was about 88° Fahrenheit.  That might not sound too bad, but (behold the underlying truth) in my physical condition I sweat at 44°, just thinking about exercise.

As I stood there with sweat dripping off my head, down my shirt, into my waders, I also realized that we were in Grizzly country

Remember playing “bobbing for apples” as a child?  That was the only image I could come up with as I sweltered in the cement solid muck of Grebe Lake.  A 900 pound Grizzly, just finishing its starter of berries and honey and suddenly looking out at the Lake and saying “Protein!”

As I attempted to shake off this possible scenario, I was reminded that this was not the first time I was “stuck in the muck.”  Back in 03, the inaugural year of the formation of the Fish Whisperers, I had fished about 4 ½ miles of the Madison River below Madison Junction.  Fly fisherman from around the world know the stretch.

Anyway I was fishing along the banks and saw a slight drainage of almost standing water and dark green sludge.  Rather than walking around it, I walked through it.  It was organic muck flavored with bison urine.  I was stuck and sinking, but was in plain sight of the road.

Dozen upon dozens of National Park visitors drove by admiring the unique technique I was deploying to sneak up on the tentative trout of the Madison River.  Several people were so impressed I became the subject of their vacation photos.  I believe that was a digression of a digression of a digression, but I digress.

While stuck next to the Madison my only fear was not Grizzly, but the actual Bison that had created this muckety toilet.  I could see this was a place for them to ford the Madison, it was a nesting place, and it was their territory.  For them to return and find me stuck waist deep would be likening the days the Romans would bury Christian’s neck deep in the Coliseum and turn the lions loose.

I managed to slither my way out of the muck that day on the Madison and discovered the following day that Bison are noble giants to be revered and respected.  You guessed it, digression ahead.

The day after my Madison muck episode, the Fish Whisperers chose to head to the North end of the park and hit Soda Butte Creek and Slough Creek.  Once we got to our destination we were on the water and into fish.

The other guys wanted to hike out about 2 miles to a feeder stream and I was still worn out from the mud bath and 4 plus miles I had walked the day before.

Shortly after they had left me I was consistently hitting nice 9” – 12” trout out of this hundred yard stretch of river.  While this stretch of river was just below a North South road in the Park, my amazing fishing abilities had cars slowing to a crawl to get a glimpse or a picture of my rendition of a “river runs through it.”

As I demonstrated my captivating casting skills, I had this uneasy feeling that I was being observed.  I am not talking about the people on the road, but a violating feel of threat came over me.

It was then I heard the shift of river bedrock about 20’ behind me.  There on the water’s cut bank of Soda Creek were 16 bison standing shoulder to shoulder staring at me, wondering what this “putz” was doing in their afternoon watering hole.

My first inclination was to run.  The pamphlets handed to me every year flashed in my memory banks, “bison can sprint at 35 miles per hour.”  Running, even with my long legs and incredible speed, was not an option.  I kept my line in the water and slowly walked downstream about 30 yards.  As I did, all 16 bison watched me and followed my movements with their eyes and head.

At some point the small herd felt comfortable enough to come down the cut bank, enter the stream, cool off, take a drink, and return to the open field of Yellowstone Park.

I returned to my stretch only to find whatever hatch was bringing the fish up had terminated.  All I could do was to change flies in the hopes of scaring up a few more fish and hope my fellow Fish Whisperers might find an ounce of truth in my story.

Several long minutes had gone by as I continued to profusely sweat in the muck of Grebe Lake.  It was time for action.

Between me and the Fish Whisperers, I remembered passing a small fishing camp.  I then saw a guy in the water in a float tube.

Now a float tube is a device that fly fisherman buy when they are presented with the situation of finding a nice body of water with huge fish jumping, just beyond their casting ability.  They go out and spend a few hundred bucks on the float tube, fins, paddles, rod racks, float tube baskets and other accessories.  They bring these toys home, open up all the boxes, inflate the tubes, deflate the tubes, put everything back in the boxes and never open them again.  On this day I actually discovered a fisherman who not only opened the boxes, dragged them all the way to Yellowstone, and packed them in three miles to Grebe Lake.

I carefully tried to get his attention by waving my arm at him.  He eventually saw me and politely waved back.  Then, very cautiously, as water was now about an inch from the top of my waders, I waved both hands and yelled “HELP!”  He politely waved back.

An older man on shore stood up and looked my way and waved to the man in the float tube to come to shore.  When the float tube fisherman landed, he, the older man, and another younger guy came walking my way.

The three of them stood lakeside about nine feet away from me when the older man, father of the younger two, said, “What are you doing?”  Surreally this felt a lot like a skit from a Jeff Foxworthy comedy.  I said, “I am stuck and cannot get out.”

The wise older man then began explaining how dangerous organic muck ponds can be, reminding him of a time in 1964 when fishing Colorado, sorry this was his digression, not mine, when he got stuck in the muck until a hunter came upon him and used the shoulder strap on his 30.06 rifle to pull him out of the muck.

After this delightful trip down memory lane, I asked if they could help me out.  I handed them the tippet end of my fly rod to which the one son said it wasn’t strong enough to pull me out.  (Can you hear the song “dueling banjos” playing right about now?)  I explained that I was passing the rod to him so we could then focus on extracting me from the muck.  Once they got me close enough, these 3 gentlemen were tugging away on my left arm.  Eventually I felt a little pop in my shoulder.  I said, “Stop.”  Assuming a slightly dislocated shoulder, I asked them to hold my arm while I attempted to remove my legs from the sticky black sludge.

As I got my right leg somewhat free, I crossed it over my left leg in order to face shore and head back to terra firma.  It was then I felt a pull in my groin.  Again, pull is a fun little ailment as you actually feel the tissue tear right before the pain sets in.

Focusing on getting to shore, I ignored the pain and finally sat on the ground thanking those 3 men immensely.  After they had walked away, I stoop up and felt the pain in my groin.  I could walk, but felt the tear on each step.  I then realized I was really dehydrated and knew I had less than 4 ounces of water back at our fishing camp.

On the way back to camp I ran into to my buddy, Dana Stewart, who had taken a break from the head-on wind to find out where I went.  “Hey man, what have you been doing?” he asked.

Needless to say I had a long and harrowing story to tell.  We all made it back to the Fish Whisperer mobile thanks to the guys being patient with my gait and sharing water with me along the way.  But I digress.

The night after bobbing on the lake, I was mentioning how bad my neck hurt.  Many years ago I believe I injured my neck on a trampoline in our backyard in Michigan.  I was diagnosed in 2004 with a pinched nerve in C4 and C5.  These are the cervical vertebrae that impact your upper body, arms, and wrists.

I explained the discomfort I was experiencing and Dana let me know about his back injuries as a result of years of wrestling and coaching wrestlers.  He found comfort at the offices of Dr. Fu in San Clemente, CA.

For several months after the Fish Whisperer trip, and many nights of tossing and turning in discomfort, I decided to give Dr. Fu a shot.  I did my homework and discovered Dr. Fu was a General Practitioner, Doctor of Osteopathic medicine, as well as a highly qualified acupuncturist.

My appointment began by filling out a 4 page medical history report.  After completing the form, I was brought in a typical examining room with soft music and what looked like a massage table.

In comes this diminutive Asian woman who introduces herself as Dr. Fu.  She gazed at Page 1 and looked up and down my body as a farmer might inspect a new cow arriving at the farm.  Page 2 was reviewed, followed by another gander of my excellent physique.  Page 3, she again stares at my body up and down, then shaking her head back and forth.  Page 4 she looks at me and in a heavy Asian accent says, “you fah.’ 

Hearing, but not really grasping what she said, I asked, “I’m sorry, what?”  She repeated, “You fah.  You have fah river.”  I struggled to understand what she said and repeated back, “I have fah river?”  “No,” she said, “no fah river, fah river.”  It then hit me, fat liver.  She was telling me I had a fat liver.

I said, “OK, but I was here for a neck injury.”  She said, “No worry, I fiss neck,” She then asked, “Doctor give you peoes?”  And catching on to her shtick, I said, “My doctor gives me pills, yes, I am on several prescriptions.”

Dr. Fu smiled and said, “Doctor fiss numbers, I fiss plobrem.”  I again was confused and she explained how the drugs I was taking are designed to keep my sugar, blood pressure, and cholesterol numbers in check.  She again said, “Peoes fiss numbers, I fiss plobrem.”

Then my first treatment began.  Dr. Fu placed 7 little needles in my back and one in each of my arms at the elbow.  This did not hurt at all.  She then hooked up a diode to two of the needles in my back.  She slowly increased the current in these diodes until I could feel a dull pulse radiating through my back.  She confirmed I could feel the pulsing and said, “Liesteel, I be back a while” and left.

An assistant came in and disconnected me.  I went to the lobby and Dr. Fu came up and told Sheila, the receptionist, “Mr. Clonin need fifty foe and sissty two."  I asked what that was and she said, “Its fifty foe and sissty two.”  Sheila handed me a bottle of dihuang and yeoyong da huang, AKA number fifty four and sixty two.

Two days later I returned for another treatment.  Honestly I did not feel any different, but I was not expecting to. When Dr. F was inserting the needles, she placed a need in my right arm at the elbow and I felt a slight jab and said, “OW.”  Dr. Fu asked, “why you say OW?”  To which I replied, “That smarted.”   She said, “I not hurt you.”  And I said, “Well, I did feel it.”  She shook her head and said, “You Big Baby.”

Over the next couple of days I did have a little discomfort in my right arm where she had poked me.  My last visit that week I told her about the discomfort.  Dr. Fu told me, You big baby, stop compraining.”  I did.

As my visits continued, I actually did feel better.  The pain in my neck was diminished and the diastolic on my blood pressure came down about 5 points.  I was convinced.

On my last visit I explained to Dr. Fu that it was not working and the visits had actually caused me to put on two pounds.  She stood there stunned and said, “I not do anything make you fah.”  I jokingly said, it was not her but Jeffe’s Mexican Grill across the street as I was going there for lunch after every visit.  Instead of laughing she looked me up and down again and said, "you don’t need runch.”  But I digress.