I think his driver's license says John, but I can't say for sure and I have always called him Whitey. He is retired, but occasionally fills in behind the counter at the local Orvis store, where I met him a few years ago.
Every year he balls his trailer and burns gas to a campsite north of 260 on Country Road 1325. The trailer-lined dirt circle with its industrially stocked chow tent and monstrous fire pit is base camp for dirty smelly fishy men, and is just another excuse to go to the mountains and drink and act retarded. After you wake up late and slap off a headache and eat a breakfast that would make a Waffle House line cook jealous, you might even have time to go wet a line.
Sticking with our usual modus operandi, Aaron and I set off for the mountains well after dark and arrived clanking and groaning around 3am, raising the pop up camper with as little hammering and pounding as possible. It was kinda cold, not like freeze-your-eye-lids-shut-and-your-fingers-to-your-man-parts-while-trying-to-pee-in-the-dark-without-falling-over cold, but a welcome 26° as we climb into sleep for a few hours, The travel over, and now on mountain time. Participants we are for the second year.
The Camp - photographic evidence:
For our breakfast, Aaron and I scrambled up some eggs, and made some kick-ass sauteed potatoes with jalapeno-smoked bacon, diced and blackened chicken breast and bell pepper topped with a cheese sauce and a tortilla on the side. We don't fuck around when it comes to grub, and neither does anyone else in camp if you haven't gotten the drift.
The Fishy Stuff - photographic evidence:
Silver Creek is a few mile long stretch of skinny, slow moving water that comes down from Silver Creek Hatchery, where the Native Apache trout are bread to be stocked in White Mountain Lakes.
The person who comes up with the best name for him will win something sweet.