Doug Blough

Reading my great-niece Katie Schiller’s account of her trips to Deep Lake, I’m reminded of two things. Firstly, I too am a Deep Lake veteran, and two: I’m starting to think this newspaper should be called the BLOUGH TRIBUNE. The Bloughs and Browns, Katie’s maiden name, have our fingerprints all over this fine rag.

As you can well see, I write a fine column myself and have since ‘92 — not every week like I used to, but like a pimple, I pop up when you least expect it. I now see great niece Katie is a Tribune contributor, and reading her column, it’s clear she has a natural-born writing knack. I was glued to my seat, not literally of course.

As you may have guessed, Katie is married to Braden Schiller, who just happens to be a fine staff writer. Wait a minute ... I’m not done — my great nephew Nathan Brown, Katie’s brother, is courting Lauren Lejeune. What the heck is the significance of that, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you; just keep your pants on ... literally! The cute Lauren also writes an entertaining column for the Blough Tribune.

Now about Deep Lake and my lone, personal experience: I was a cute-as-hell 12-year-old out here from Pennsylvania for my first Cody summer. I was not only cute, but one heck of a Little League player, which is the reason I stayed for the summer after my parents went home. I stayed with brother, Deep Lake Jess and his young bride Marti in a little rental inhabited by scorpions on a lane now a busy street, Cougar Avenue.

The year was 1967 when Jess said we were going camping at a faraway place called Deep Lake. It was me, Jess, brother Paul, his portly college friend, Tim Taylor, and a mule named Moses, (who I got confused with Tim on occasion). My first vivid memory is reaching the summit and looking far below at the lake destination. Moses lost footing as we winded down the trail and came inches from rolling down that cliff, as all the packs flew off his back and rolled down the steep decline.

The hike down necessitated crossing a swift stream and bossy Paul told me exactly where to cross. I didn’t care much for his advice and chose a tougher spot to accent my athletic prowess. Poor decision; I was being swept downstream when Paul reached out to save me. As he pulled me out, I also didn’t care much for his big, teethy smile and maddening chortle, so when I hit solid ground, I took a wild, haymaker swing that probably would’ve sent him to the promised land had I connected. Not only cute and a heck of a ball player, but I was strong beyond my years.

It was the first time I’d ever fished, and chose to torture my worm right where the stream fed the lake and darned if I wasn’t catching fish after fish — even one by the tail and another in the eye. Paul noticed my success in those roiling waters and “suggested” we change spots. I shoulda threw another punch. I’ve fished only a few times since, but I can still taste that delicious trout fried in tinfoil over a campfire.

Hiking out the next day, my last memory is stopping to do what bears do in the woods. Miles later when Jess asked where his hatchet I had been carrying was, I couldn’t remember the exact tree I had been leaning against. He wasn’t pleased by the cute;, strong, athletic kid’s carelessness.

I’m just thankful I made that trip and will likely be in Jess’ book about his decades of Deep Lake excursions. But you read it here first, in the BLOUGH TRIBUNE.