Spit on the Frying Pan

Years ago I took an Ichthyology class from a guy named Al Ebeling. Last night I came across a paper about him and got to remembering those days.

Richard N. Bray, Gregor M. Cailliet, and Daniel C. Reed “Alfred Wallace Ebeling (1931–2022),”Ichthyology & Herpetology 111(2), 335-342, (14 July 2023)

It occurred to me that I really can’t remember anything in particular I learned in that class. I do lecture on fishes these days in my class, but where did that information come from? Was it Professor Ebeling’s class or some other source? I have to admit, it was a bit alarming to think of spending 2 quarters in a class sequence and unable to recall a single fact from that time. Okay, it was 35 years ago, but give me something! Just a single fact!

But there are things I do remember. I remember his humble character. I remember his dry self-effacing sense of humor. I remember his economy of words. I remember the ball of spit that would accrete at the corner of his mouth as he’d lecture.

Reading this paper it occurred to me that I must have missed some of Professor Ebeling’s learning objectives. I was blinded by ambition in those days; in a hurry to be done so I could get on to the next thing. A perspective that seems foolish now, for in my haste I clearly missed out on some of his teachings. Thankfully this publication has preserved them:
“Al took up backpacking to escape the university bureaucracy. His favorite spot was a small cluster of alpine lakes in the southwestern Sierra Nevada Mountains, a three-day hike from the trailhead. He invited his students to join him on these trips and he taught us what to fear in the Sierras. It was not bears, mountain lions, Giardia, or rattlesnakes: it was constipation. The remedy was prunes, which are heavy, but he insisted that we all carry some in our backpacks.”

In addition, there were methods and protocols I never saw first-hand:
“Al fly fished until after sunset, and we would cook dinner in the dark. He would hold his small Mallory flashlight in his mouth while frying up the trout; his drool would make its way down the light and sizzle in the frying pan.”

This morning I sit in my office mentally rehearsing a lecture I’ve given many dozens of times. When does the courage to go in cold come? And what’s the point if 35 years from now all the words and facts have faded? I don’t know.

What I do know:
They are watching.
And it’s the memory of the spit on the frying pan that will stand the test of time.