Bob Greenberger’s Tent

As mentioned in my last column (see TRR issue no. 3), for many years, the Croton Watershed Chapter of Trout Unlimited held an annual outing on the banks of the East Branch of the Delaware at Shinhopple, New York. Those of us who owned canoes would float a section of the river, stopping at different pools and runs to try our luck with the trout. This group eventually became known as the “Croton Watershed Navy.” We would head back to the Peaceful Valley Campground around dinnertime to compare notes on the day’s fishing. At this point, Tony Jansic would bring forth an innocent looking plastic gallon water jug. This gallon container was filled with dry martinis, Tony’s favorite after fishing libation, which he liberally dispensed to one and all. Others in the group simply preferred bourbon from an old tin cup. The frustrations caused by trying to catch those East Branch Browns tended to disappear after one of Tony’s martinis. Two would render any of us incapable of tying proper knots to repair the leader used on that day.

At one of these outings, Bob Greenberger had brought along a brand new tent. As the “happy hour” drew to a close, Bob decided to put up his tent before darkness settled in. He selected a site and removed the tent from its box. At this point, Bob realized that he had left the directions for erecting his new tent at home. No matter. Right on the box it stated in large print that erection of this tent was a simple matter. In much smaller print were the three dreaded words, “some assembly required.” Bob went right to work, fitting tent poles together and sliding the poles through various loops in the fabric. Nevertheless, after 15 minutes of labor, Bob’s results did not resemble anything like the pretty tent pictured on the box.

Several members then decided that Bob obviously needed some help. Unfortunately for Bob, none of us were familiar with the type of tent he had purchased. Even worse, the amount of martinis and bourbon consumed had put Bob’s would-be assistants in quite a giggly mood. One after another, various suggestions were tried. None worked. Each successive failure brought forth louder and louder laughter as the tent simply refused efforts to erect it. There are those who claim that the “Tangler,” seated nearby, laughed so hard and so long that he fell off his chair and lay supine, unable to rise. I insist that I do not recall this occurrence.

At length, despite the dubious assistance and advice from his pals, Bob Greenberger had to surrender to the inevitable. Thus, the next morning, as the sun peeked over the Eastern ridge above the campground, Bob emerged, somewhat stiff, from his car, where he had spent an uncomfortable night. While this was an unhappy experience for Bob, he gave those of us who attended this outing a reason to remember it, and him, always. What would life be without memories, both bitter and sweet?