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It was late afternoon and Paul and I were sitting in our camp chairs at the edge of an empty lake, little waves lapping at out toes, as we savored the first beer of the day. We were literally in the middle of nowhere, my truck parked behind us, our tents set up on the sandy beach and the kayaks beached off to the side. It had been a long and dusty ride back in to this seldom visited part of Lake Mohave, but the payoff couldn't have been better. We were all alone; had been since we pulled in two nights ago. True, the fishing had stunk but the campsite was one in a million. The star-filled skies at night complete with coyote serenade. The crystal clear water. The moon like landscape of the Mohave desert. Up on the gravel ridge above camp, a line of Gamble's quail trotted along. A ground squirrel rustled in the bushes. Vultures hovered effortless above us in the stiff breeze off of the lake. Not too many places left in the world where you can drive up to a lake and just park and be completely alone. We were feeling quite content and not just a little pleased with ourselves.
And then the Romanians arrived.
The silence was broken by the sound of the twin inboard motors of a 30 foot cruiser as it roared around the point of the cove and turned directly for our beach. We watched with irritation as the pilot expertly cut the engines at just the right time and the big boat cruised gently into the sandy beach. A lady in a bikini and a black lab hopped out and secured the bow while the captain, a big burly man with a healthy beer gut, surveyed the scene with his hands on his hips. He looked at us. He looked at our fishing kayaks. He looked at us again.
“HEY YOU GUYS! THERE'S A BIG BOIL OF FISH RIGHT OUT THERE! FISH EVERYWHERE MAN!” He then reached down into his live well and pulled out a massive striped bass.
We both jumped out of our camp chair in disbelief and looked at at the lake. The man started laughing uproariously. “NO MAN, I'M JUST MESSIN' WITH YOU. THERE'S NO BOILS. NOT TIL AUGUST OR SEPTEMEBR. WE CAUGHT THIS ONE EARLY MORNING. WAY UP LAKE! “HA! YOU SHOULDA SAW YOUR FACES! YOU COME TO DINNER TONIGHT. WE EAT THE FISH!””
The big man disembarked from the boat with surprising agility and strode up the beach to greet us. We shook hands and he introduced himself as Orlando. “THIS IS BEST BEACH ON THE LAKE. THE OTHERS? TOO MANY PEOPLE. YOU SHARE WITH US, WE SHARE DINNER!”
As good as his word, a couple hours later, he waved us over. “Come, my friends. Have some dinner with us!”
We followed him back up the beach to his camp and introductions and beers were exchanged. Orlando was a big burly guy with an oversize personality that reminded me of John Belushi. I capitalize his dialogue because that is how he talked—with gusto and boundless enthusiasm. Elena was his wife/girlfriend who sat aside in a chair with a book and only committed to the conversation in quips. And Sergio was a stern, tall, muscular man who had appeared out of nowhere. A quiet man with a thicker accent, he was doing all the cooking. Apparently, he had driven in on the same trail he had and had quietly made camp unobtrusively back in the shrub. They were Romanians, we quickly discovered, who were living in Las Vegas.
Ah, Romanian mafia, we thought. Orlando could've have been the big boss and Orlando was the muscle. Not that we cared at the moment as they passed out cheap beers and Sergio produced the hot fried bass with fresh pico de gallo and tortillas. If I have had better tasting fish in my life I don't remember it. And something that good is not something you would forget. “HAVE MORE! HAVE MORE. HAVE ANOTHER BEER!”
The conversation quickly turned to fishing. They say love is the universal language, but I disagree. For men it is fishing. Though for these guys fishing and love were synonymous. They were passionate. On this lake they were primarily interested in the big stripers but when we told him we were focusing on largemouth—and had been skunked so far—they proceeded to tell us what what we were doing wrong. Being what passed for locals in this place, we listened intently to their advice. Seems like we were in the wrong part of the lake. We needed to be on the other side and near the places where the lake constricts.
“WE TAKE YOU THERE TOMORROW! WE'LL PUT YOUR KAYAKS ON THE BOAT AND TAKE YOU ACROSS. OR YOU CAN DO STRIPER FISHING WITH US IN MORNING!”
As the beers flowed, the phones came out and Orlando started scrolling through his fish pictures. Bass tournaments (I CAME IN THIRD!), to ice fishing in Northern Nevada. (WE ARE FROM COLD PART OF ROMANIA. WE LIKE THE SNOW) Orlando was especially proud of his phone apps. “YOU NEED ONX OUTDOORS. BEST APP. WORTH THE PRICE. AND THIS WIND APP. LOOK. IT PREDICTS THE WIND AND THE DIRECTION. VERY HELPFUL. STARLINK! YOU NEED STARLINK. NO CELL SIGNAL OUT HERE!”
Sergio took me aside and started showing me pictures of tuna fishing in the Sea of Cortez in Mexico. I asked him if he had seen any whales down there. He then proceeded to tell me a story about hooking a whale in a twenty foot boat We talked sharks and manta rays and the current political climate in Mexico. “I no longer feel quite safe down there,” he confessed..
We started talking about where we were from, where we had fished, where we wanted to fish. Turns out they had originally settled near Vail, a place that Paul had also lived near. They started comparing notes-- talking about places they knew—Beaver Creek, Minturn... “MINTURN! NOBODY KNOWS MINTURN,” Orlando roared uproariously. He thought it was the funniest thing. Turns out they lived in similar places at similar times. It was a small world, I observed. “YES! YES! SMALL WORLD!”
Suddenly on this empty beach in the middle of the Mohave desert, a couple meat cutters from Arizona and a couple of Romanians from Las Vegas, were all best friends. And why not? We had this beautiful place, interesting company, delicious food and cold beer.
And it was, indeed, a small world.
