As part of my investiture into the club, I was pleased to learn that the road trip included a stop along the way for a meal. The Cracker Barrel was chosen, where I had the highly touted chicken dumplings. I promptly took three trips to the rest room, and ingested an equal number of Immodium tablets, spending the next two hours in the truck with my own acid smells and sounds. A wretched journey! What a great way to start a tournament. I was particularly concerned, as I had just been informed - say admonished - about the “rules.” While in a tournament, one cannot, as I understand this stuff, leave the boat, regardless of the intestinal distress. To help make the next two hours of this pilgrimage, and hopefully little else, pass more quickly, I mentally planned my various strategies for using the back of the bass boat, should a physiological crisis occur. (I think there should be future articles on how to undress this concern, or a change in the rules?)

I am pleased to say, I arrived without further event. Smith Mountain is like a long-horned cattle skull, with the Blackwater River forming the southern horn of the reservoir and the Roanoke River the northwest horn, set deep in the Appalachian mountains. The colors were glorious - the water splashed with red, yellow and brown leaves. The lake also brought a special treat - fog. As the temperatures set new record lows for Roanoke, mid 20s, Thursday and Friday, the water belched fog every morning until around 9:30. Wearing all the clothes I brought with me, I prevailed. Others might suggest I just survived. But, I discovered a new reality - one can never overdress for Fall fishing.

Our two-day club tournament carried over to Sunday, when we joined by a 94-boat regional tournament. I have never seen that many boats launched. As I pulled into the marina, with its two-boat ramp, the traffic director met me. I was ordered to the left queue, had 60 seconds to put in the drain plug (two boats failed that test and had to be put back on trailers to keep from sinking), undo the transom saver and straps, and align the trailer in the dark for backing up. Needless to say, it took me two tries to get the trailer aligned, with my partner then dropping me into the water. It was almost like an aircraft carrier launching jet fighters in the night.

As I slowly turned my boat into the fog, Christmas appeared. Ninety-four boats with their tall white tail lights, attended by the green and red navigation lights, lit up the haze. As the fog swirled and the boats moved by electric motors, the collage of colors adjusted in and out of focus, in an ever-changing composition - a Serrate painting. From a loudspeaker a local dialect announced the rules and then launched 94 boats in numerical order, one every 30 seconds. The boats went rocketing down the river in the lifting fog at over 60 miles per hour, headed to the favorite fishing holes. I quietly used my electric motor to sneak over to nearby docks for an hour of fishing, moving only after the fog lifted. Maybe God hates cowards, but I was not prepared to go 60 mph in opaque light.

At end of day, when it came time to recover the boat, I fumbled. I could not get the boat far enough forward on the trailer to hook up the bow. As I climbed into the water up to my knees with my gym shoes on - in front of God knows who - a voice from the diesel pick up truck next to me says, “Son, your trailer is in too far; pull it up six inches.” I did, and the boat came on board the trailer just right.

Wish I could say that about the rest of the day. Fishing was less than impressive. I fished for four straight days, with the biggest fish being 11 3/4 inches -- a monster by my new standards! My fishing partner caught the tournament’s Big Fish - entitling him to the $10.00 “Big Fish Award,” for a whopping 2.8 pounds.

The most intriguing part of this inauguration was the motel. I had never stayed at a place where everyone backed their boats to the front door, plugged in the chargers, and went to bed by 9 p.m. I should have followed suit, rather than having that fourth beer while watching the baseball game. 5 a.m. came too early.

The fishermen attacked the highly touted continental breakfast at the motel, comprised of coffee, orange juice and sugar-covered doughnuts. That was it. I thought I was back at work in an early morning squad meeting of the United States Park Police, getting briefed on the protocol for a demonstration in Washington, D.C. As a granola and fresh fruit guy, I ate alone in the back of my truck, hoping not to be discovered.

I do look forward to the next out of town tournament. After all, I have now been initiated. But, clearly my fishing and boating skills need to be enhanced. And, for me, where better to learn than at the foot of the masters in a Virginia Federation bass club?