Papa Hemingway related writing stories to an iceberg: “There is seven-eighths of it under water for every part that shows. Anything you know you can eliminate and it only strengthens your iceberg. It is the part that doesn’t show.” This is my new Iceberg Theory, the duality of travel. I travel dichotomously, separating into two parts. There is the one who is here to fish and commune with his brother, his father, and there is the one who bites his tongue and looks to the hills, keeping seven-eighths below the surface. Unity. Tolerance. Love.
II
Red Canyon Lodge sits at the edge of Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area in the northeast corner of Utah. We have checked into our log cabin, which rests at the edge of a small lake, and has more amenities than my own rundown bungalow in Long Beach, California:: fully equipped kitchen, king sized beds, wood burning stove, Jacuzzi bathtub, and a view that would cost millions in Southern California. We do not rough it by any stretch of the imagination, and dinner at the lodge restaurant brings this point to rest. Bob orders chateaubriand and Dad orders salmon in a pastry crust. Dad is retired, and treats himself to this sort of luxury on our fishing trips. Bob makes more money in a month than I make in a year as a college professor. The wine he has brought along on this trip has mold on the labels, but the price tag, which he always leaves conspicuously in place, is sharp and clear. The cabernet that he pours into my glass has a price tag of forty-five dollars. I am always grateful that he shares, but I know the hamburger I’ve ordered won’t stand up to the complexities of a nineteen ninety-two Sterling Reserve.
“Notice,” he says, “that I’ve brought only California wines. I put all my French wine into my storage locker. I’ve just about had it with those arrogant bastards.”
When we arrive back at the cabin, Dad’s friend, John Evans, is there to greet us. John has flown here in the corporate jet and is waiting for us on the porch, smoking a cigar and drinking cognac from a disposable plastic cup. I’ve never met John, so Dad makes the introductions, then they fall into familiar conversations, golf game, the business, Dad’s retirement. John’s company makes a bankload renting irrigation equipment to farms in the San Joaquin Valley. He used to buy his raw aluminum stock from Dad when he ran the sales division at Kaiser Aluminum. “Bill,” says John, “you look good for an old man. We miss you. Things have changed since you left.”
I look John over, he’s in his fifties, round tan face, soft delicate hands that probably spend most of their time dialing cell phones, gripping golf clubs or Cuban cigars. The hands of a C.E.O.
“Why don’t you guys join me out here? The cognac is on the counter. The kitchen has every sort of appliance, but not a goddamn wine glass in sight. I could only find coffee mugs and a bunch of these disposable cups in the bathroom.”