North With Doc -- Doc Moves the Troops

by Greg Knowles

Doc stood there with a grin and a suitcase. It wasn't that I didn't want to see him. It's just that whenever we get together, strange things seem to happen. Usually to me.

It was the first week in November. Once more I had waited too long to Christmas shop for my wife. I could tell because there were no clothes in her size on the racks, and several workers were putting up Valentine's Day sales signs. So I bought two pounds of chocolate in a heart-shaped box and had it wrapped in snowman paper. It would look good under the tree eight weeks later.

I'd just finished a small writing assignment, caught the noon news, had a hard salami and onion sandwich, and had settled down for a long winter's nap when the doorbell chimed. I expected another whiny high school kid selling magazine subscriptions, but it was even worse. Doc stood there with a grin and a suitcase. It wasn't that I didn't want to see him. It's just that whenever we get together, strange things seem to happen. Usually to me.

"Sorry I didn't call ahead," Doc said. "My dentist conference in Phoenix was so boring I decided to skip the last three days and, here I am."

I remembered all those times I'd offered Doc to stop by anytime he was in the neighborhood, knowing the chance was slim, with me in Tucson, Arizona, and Doc in Adel, Iowa. Seeing each other once a year while fishing Northwest Ontario is more than enough to cement our ongoing friendship, but I figured a few more days wouldn't hurt. Or would it?

"Come on in, Doc," I said. "Your room is down the hall, the second door on the left." After he'd stowed his toothbrush and slipped into Levi's shorts and an Iowa Hawkeye T-shirt, we sauntered out onto the patio to enjoy refreshments.

"So what do you want to do the next couple days?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Nothing special."

"We could run up to Mesa and drop in on Knobby Clark." Knobby's Fly-In Service in Sioux Lookout has been our fly-in fishing choice for almost 30 years now. For a bit less than 30 years, he has spent his winters in an Arizona home that's a short sand wedge from the fairway.

"We might be able to catch him in between rounds, but I think Knobby goes back to inventory his caribou herd over the holidays," Doc said.

"I guess I remember him telling us that," I said. "He may not want to see us again after we knocked a hole in one of his boats this spring."

"As I recall, you were driving," he said.

"But you were the navigator." We'd had the conversation before with no apparent winner, so I changed the subject. "Instead of heading north, you want to have lunch in Mexico tomorrow?"

"Sounds good. Maybe I can pick up something for the wife."

"You forgot to Christmas shop, too?"

"Didn't forget. Just haven't been motivated. I mean, after 35 years of marriage, what could I possibly buy her that she doesn't already have?"

"How about a set of margarita glasses, and a fake Rolex?"

"Good idea," Doc said. "Let's run for the border in the morning."

My wife came home from work, and we built a reasonable meal of grilled pork chops, canned veggies, and a green salad. Back on the patio with what remained of the wine, we enjoyed the soft, warm air.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon and the mountains turned purple, a trio of fighter jets kicked in their afterburners and blasted out of sight and hearing into an impossibly beautiful sunset.

"Where were those guys going in such a hurry?" Doc asked.

"Combat training," I said. "Davis-Monthan Air Force Base is just down the road."

"I bet those fly boys are destined for the Middle East."

"No doubt," Doc said. "Lots of ground troops, too."

"What do you think they do for the holidays over there?" my wife asked.

"Probably turkey, dressing, and all the trimmings," I said. "They try to feed them just like home.'

"But lonely for their friends and families," she said.