I was just 6 years old when my folks decided that it would be nice to have a place where we could get away on the weekends. We spent a few weekends investigating several places before they settled on a small cabin on Blue Lake, which was a couple hours’ drive from our house in the city. Blue Lake was a picturesque little jewel of a lake set among the mixed hardwoods and pine forests in northern Minnesota. Looking back it seemed a bit strange since my dad was not a fisherman or a hunter, but he enjoyed the solitude that Blue Lake provided and my mother took her knitting and her books to fill the weekend hours. They both reasoned that it would be a good for my sister and I to spend time away from our suburban home. In time my dad discovered that the lake had a good population of panfish and he bought a spinning rod and a small aluminum boat and started fishing. My dad bought me a fishing outfit and we spent hours together catching bluegills, perch and an occasional small bass.
In the early years we would spend weekends at the cabin during the summer months but the year that I turned 12 years old my sister and I spent the entire summer at the cabin with our mother and dad would come up on weekends. It was during this time that I began to explore the lake and the surrounding area. Blue Lake was a natural lake fed by springs on the bottom and a stream that entered the lake across the lake from our cabin. One summer evening I was out on the lake with the boat tossing bass plugs toward the shore. As I was drifting by the inlet of stream I saw a man wading just upstream from where the stream entered the lake and occasionally he would swish a long rod back and forth in the air. He appeared to be fishing but I had never seen anyone fish like that so I dropped my anchor and sat watching him. After a few minutes he appeared to hook something because his rod bent over and I saw a fish splashing on the surface. As I watched he landed the fish and then it looked like he let it go and then he resumed swishing that long rod back and forth. It was getting dark and my mother would be worried about me if I didn’t get home before dark so I reluctantly lifted the anchor and rowed for home.
For the next few evenings I anchored off the mouth of the stream and waited to see if the man with the long rod would come down to fish again but I did not see him again that week. When my dad came up on Friday night I couldn’t wait to tell him about what I had seen.
“That’s fly fishing,” he said. “I don’t know much about it but it involves catching fish on a lure that’s made of fur and feathers.”
Wow, I thought, catching fish on a lure made of fur and feathers.
“I understand it’s quite complicated,” he continued, “and expensive. You’d better stick to fishing with lures and bait.”
The following week I decided to see if I could find the man that I saw fishing in the inlet and see if he really was ‘fly fishing’ like my dad said. I took the boat over to the inlet and tied it up on shore and began to walk up the stream. A short distance up the stream hidden among the trees I saw a small log cabin. As I approached I saw a man sitting on the porch petting a big black dog. The dog noticed me and came bounding across the lawn toward me.
“Hunter, get back here you’ll scare the boy to death. Don’t worry; he wouldn’t hurt you, except he might lick you to death.”
The big dog ran up to me his tail wagging furiously then he wheeled around and ran back to the man who was coming down off the porch.
“Sorry about the dog,” the man said. “He likes everyone but his manners ain’t the best.” He stuck out his hand and said, “My names Joe and this here is Hunter.”
Shaking his extended hand I said, “My name is Billy. My folks have a cabin on the other side of the lake.”
“Oh, that must be the old Miller place. Old man Miller built that place back in the 40’s and we fished together back in those days. Lost interest in the place after his wife died.” His voice trailed off and he stood looking down toward the lake.
“Well, you’re probably not interested in all that, what brings you over on this side of the pond?”
“I’m looking for a man that I saw fishing down where the stream enters the lake. My dad said that he was fly fishing. It looked like fun, but my dad said it’s complicated and expensive.”
A big smile slowly spread across Joe’s face. “Well, you’ve found your man. Now I don’t want to contradict a boy’s dad but fly fishing isn’t really complicated or especially expensive.” He took a step back and looked me up and down. “How old are you?”
“Twelve,” I said.
"Well that’s old enough. How would you like to learn how to fish with a fly?
“Wow that would be great! But I don’t have any fly fishing stuff, and my dad said it was expensive,” I stammered.
Joe raised his hand. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll come over and talk to your folks and if it’s OK with them I will teach you how to fish with a fly. I have some stuff that I’m not using and you can use it to learn.”
I don’t think my feet touch the ground as I ran most of the way back home to tell my mother about Joe. The following Saturday Joe came around to talk to my dad and they sat on the porch for a long time. I hid around the corner but I couldn’t hear what they were saying except I heard them laugh several times, which I took to be a good sign. After he left I slipped out on the porch where my dad sat in the gathering darkness.
“Nice man,” my dad said. “If you want to learn about fly fishing I’m sure that he can teach you. He said if you were still interested in learning you could stop over next week and you could talk it over.”
Dad continued talking but I wasn’t listening. All I heard was that Joe was going to teach me how to fish with a fly. The only thing I regretted was that I had to wait until Monday to get started. I don’t remember much about the rest of that weekend but I do remember that I was wide awake before the sun came up on Monday morning.
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It was barely 8 o’clock as I hurried down the road toward Joe’s cabin. Mother thought I should wait until later, but I was too excited to wait. Now I just hoped that Joe wasn’t still in bed and maybe it was too early. All my apprehension vanished as I approached Joe’s cabin and saw him sitting on the porch drinking a cup of coffee. Hunter saw me instantly and came bounding off the porch to greet me. Over the coming weeks this would become a regular ritual.
“It was getting late,” Joe said. “I thought maybe you had decided not to come.” Joe smiled and winked. “I don’t suppose that you drink coffee but there is some hot chocolate on the stove if you’d like a cup.”
Joe’s cabin was one large room. A massive natural stone fireplace dominated one wall, and there was the head of a large deer hanging just above the mantle, and on both sides of the fireplace there where book shelves, each shelf groaning under the heavy weight of numerous books. Off to the side there was a neat little kitchen with an old fashioned wood stove, and ancient electric refrigerator, and a small table with two chairs.
“It’s not much,” said Joe, “but it’s comfortable.”
Hot chocolate in hand we went back out and settled down on the porch. On the front wall of the porch there were some wooden pegs and there were several long rods resting on the pegs. They looked like the one that I saw Joe using when I saw him at the inlet. Those are fly rods I thought, and suddenly I wondered how I would ever learn to use one of them.
Breaking into my revere Joe said, “Now about fly fishing. It’s more about desire than anything else. Oh, you need a bit of coordination and a keen sense of wonder is helpful, but desire is the key to becoming a fly fisher.”
Well, I had desire, I thought. Boy did I have desire.
“Now before we can actually go fishing you will need to learn the basics.”
Joe finished his coffee and got up and took one of the rods down from the pegs.
“This one should do for a beginner like you. Let’s go see how coordinated you are.”
With Hunter bounding ahead of us we walked down to the stream where there was a little dock. On two sawhorses next to the dock was a beautiful wooden canoe and alongside the canoe was an old wooden row boat. I recalled seeing someone gliding along the lake in a canoe with a big black dog sitting in the front when my dad and I were out fishing.
“Now this is a fly rod,” Joe said holding the rod out in front of him. “It’s not a fly pole, or a fishing pole, it’s a fly rod. It’s just a tool, but it’s an important tool. These rods can be quite expensive but the most expensive rod in the world is worthless unless you know how to use it. An expensive rod will never make you a good fly fisher. The value of the fly rod is not in the price but in what you can do with it and the enjoyment you get from using it. If you learn that you will know more than most of the people that call themselves fly fishers.”
I nodded my head in agreement, but it would take many more years before I truly understood the wisdom of those words.
Although it has been over 60 years ago now what transpired over the next few weeks are indelibly etched in my mind.
The next few weeks were some of the most wonderful years of my young life. To say that the following years of fishing with Joe transformed my life in unimaginable ways would be an understatement of monumental proportions. This transformation not only changed my way of catching fish but changed my view of life.
On that first day Joe and I walked out onto the little dock and he stripped off about 20 feet of fly line and handed me the rod.
“Make a cast,” he said.
I looked at him like he was crazy. Make a cast. How could I make a cast when the only type of casting that I had ever done was with a spinning rod.
“Just show me how you think you would make a cast with a fly rod. Don’t worry about whether you think it’s right or wrong. Just show me how you think you would cast this fly line.”
The line was just lying on the dock behind us so I whipped the rod forward violently. Some of the line went out but most of the line remained on the dock. Joe took the rod, stripped in most of the line, flipped the tip of the rod forward and as the line jumped off the dock he flicked the rod backward stopping it just at the level of his shoulder and then flicked the rod forward and the fly line smoothly flowed out and settled on the water.
“It’s not force, its timing. You are not casting the weight of the lure but the weight of the line. You can’t start to cast until the tip of the line is moving, and you can’t push the line, you have to let the rod do the work. If you provide the power and direction at the right time the rod will do the rest.”
Handing me the rod Joe slipped around beside me and took my hand in his hand. Placing my thumb on top of the grip he brought my arm up quickly. I wanted to allow my arm to continue backward but he stopped it when the rod was nearly straight up. After a very brief hesitation he pushed my arm down quickly and then again, as I tried to push my arm down toward the surface of the water he stopped it, and the fly line flowed out smoothly and settled on the water. With Joe’s help I had made my first successful cast with a fly rod.
We spent the rest of the morning working on the basics of fly casting, and by the time we quit for lunch I could make a fairly decent forward cast and a roll cast. Most importantly I understood not only how to make a cast but why certain things had to happen if the cast was going to be successful. If I hurried too fast on the back cast the line either failed to come forward smoothly or I heard a sharp pop which indicated that I had come forward too hard and too fast. If I waited too long the line would drop behind me and I risked hooking something behind me or having the line come up and hit me in the back of the head. In any case the cast was not going to do what I wanted it to do. What a glorious morning it had been.
“Hungry?” Joe asked.
I had been having so much fun that I had really not thought much about my stomach which was quite an accomplishment for a 12 year old boy. I nodded my head.
“Well, have a seat on the porch and keep Hunter company while I whip something up.”
Joe disappeared inside and after a few minutes he called me inside. Joe motioned me to sit down and I slid into my seat and reached for a fork.
“I don’t know how you do things at your house but we always thank God for His provisions before we eat here.”
Joe bowed his head and I followed.
“Father we thank you for your bountiful goodness toward us, and thank you for allowing us to enjoy the earth that you created, and for your salvation that you have afforded us through your Son Jesus Christ. In whose name we pray, Amen”
After lunch we sat on the porch sipping on ice tea and talking about fly fishing.
“Today I showed you the basics of how to cast a fly with a fly rod, and of all the things you learned what do you think is the most important?”
Now I had learned so much this morning that it took me a moment to try to answer Joe’s question.
“Well,” I began, “I think it might be the importance of timing.”
“Yep, timing important for sure but there’s one other lesson that you learned that’s even more important. What’s the purpose of fly casting?”
“To cast the fly,” I replied. I knew that Joe had said that several times but that seemed so obvious that I didn’t believe it was the most important thing that I had learned.
“It may seem silly but lots of very good fly fishers forget that the main purpose of fly casting is to cast the fly. The most important thing to remember is that the purpose of fly casting is to deliver your fly to the fish in such a manner that the fish will think your fly is something that is edible, and unless you are in some type of casting competition that is the only thing that really matters. In life, as in fly fishing, never forget the purpose. When you forget the purpose behind what you’re doing it will quickly lose its meaning.”
It wasn’t until years later that I understood the Joe found fly fishing to be a metaphor for the big lessons of life.
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“Why don’t you come back this evening around 7 and we can go out and see if we can fool a few fish. Tell your folks that I will bring you home after we get done fishing but it may be after dark.”
I was at Joe’s place at least a half hour early just to make certain that he didn’t leave without me. Joe was waiting on the porch when I walked up.
“I think that these hipper waders should fit you,” he said.
The waders looked new and I didn’t find out until later that Joe had made a special trip into town that afternoon to buy them. We loaded our gear in Joe’s car and drove a few miles upstream to a small parking lot hidden back in the trees. Waders on and fly rod in hand Joe and I headed for the stream. After a short walk through the Alders we stepped out on the edge of a big pool. Joe walked toward the head of the pool and settled down on a big log. I sat down next to him but I wondered why we didn’t just start fishing.
“This is the hard part for most fishermen but it’s the most important thing that any fisherman can do.”
“What’s that, sitting on a log?”
“No,” Joe laughed. “Watching, taking time to see what’s happening before we start beating the water to a froth. How would we know what fly to use or what the fish are doing unless we take time to see what they are eating? A little time spent sitting still is never time wasted.”
So we sat watching the water. I wasn’t certain what I was looking for but I was certain that Joe did. After we had sat there for a few minutes I began to see a few insects fluttering over the surface of the water. As I watched they became more and more numerous and when one landed on Joe’s waders he picked it up and held it out for me to see.
“This is a caddis fly. Kind of looks like a moth but it hatches from the stream and trout love them.”
I looked at the fly that Joe was holding between his thumb and forefinger and couldn’t believe that any respectable fish would possibly be interested in such a small bug. Actually the caddis that Joe was holding in his hand was a large one, about a size 14, but at the time it seemed real small to me.
“We’re going to catch fish on that tiny fly?”
Joe chuckled. “If we’re skillful enough we will catch a lot of fish on an imitation of this small fly.”
Joe took a box out of the vest that he was wearing and when he opened it I stared in amazement as the contents. I had never actually seen an artificial fly and Joe’s box was packed full of them. He picked out a couple of them and placed them in my hand. Joe closed the box and put it back in his vest. Taking the flies from my hand he proceeded to show me how to tie the fly on the end of my leader.
“This is a clinch knot,” Joe said. “You need to practice this knot so that you can tie it without thinking about it. There are some other knots that you will need to learn but for now this is the most important one.”
Once the fly was secured on my leader Joe tied the other one on his leader. From his vest he took out a small red tin and pop off the lid. Inside was something that looked like the lard my mother used to make pie crusts.
“This is Mucilin. We use it to make these flies float.”
He rubbed his finger around on the top of the Mucilin and then worked kind of rubbed it around on the fly.
“Don’t need to use too much of this stuff, in fact, too much will make a mess out of the fly.”
With my fly attached to my leader and properly waterproofed with Mucilin Joe opened his fly box and took out another fly like the one that was on my leader and affixed it to his leader. After he prepared it with a careful application of Mucilin he settled back down on the log and continued to look at the stream. I wonder what he was waiting for but it didn’t take long for me to find out. As we sat watching the water I saw a splash and then another one. Soon there were splashes everywhere.
“Those are trout that are attempting to catch those caddis flies. Now you need to pick out one of those fish and cast your fly out there just above where you see the splash, and if you get it right you just might fool him into thinking your fly is a real caddis fly. Watch me and I will see if I can show you how it’s done.”
Joe eased off the log and waded a short distance upstream. He pulled some fly line off his reel and made a couple false casts and then dropped his fly just above where I had seen a fish make several splashes. His fly settled on the water a foot or so above where I saw the last splash and it had only floated a short distance before it disappeared in a splash and Joe lifted his rod and he had the fish hooked.
What transpired over the next couple minutes is still etched in my memory just like it was the other day. The trout was a nice rainbow and he cartwheeled over the surface of the water, and I can still hear the high pitched squeal of Joe’s reel as the fish raced up and down the pool. As exciting as it was for me I remember how cool Joe was. He had a big smile on his face and although that fish thought it was in control there was no question that Joe was controlling the entire situation. The fish rushed up stream and Joe lowered his rod and pressured the fish from the opposite side and when he turned Joe moved his rod the other way constantly keeping the fish off balance. When it jumped he lowered the rod tip so, as he explained later, that the fish would not land on a taut leader. Under the unrelenting pressure Joe gradually took up his fly line on his reel and when the fish was quite close he reached around for the net that hung on a clip on the back of his vest and with one deft movement he scooped the trout up. There in the mesh of Joe’s net was the most beautiful fish that I had ever seen.
“This here is a rainbow trout. There are a fair number of them in this part of this stream.”
Joe never removed the fish from the water. He tucked his rod tucked under his arm and reached down and slipped the fly out of the fishes jaw.
“Boy, he sure is a big one,” I said.
“How big do you think he is?”
“Wow, I don’t know. At least a couple feet!”
Joe laughed. He laid his rod down on the bank and, still keeping the trout in the water he took a tape measure out of his vest and handed it to me.
“Measure him and let’s see how close you are.”
Taking the tape measure I pulled out the tape and held the tip on the fish’s nose and stretched it down to the tip of his tail. Sixteen inches.
“Fish usually get smaller when you actually measure them. Now let’s let this fellow get back out there and get something more to eat.”
Joe lowered the edge of his net and the fish shot out and quickly disappeared. I wanted to ask Joe why he had let it go since my dad and I always kept all the fish we caught on the lake, but before I could say anything Joe asked me if I wanted to try to catch one. Naturally I forgot about my question as I picked up my fly rod.
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Joe explained how I needed to pick out one of the fish that was making the splashy rises and concentrate on placing my fly about a foot above that spot. I picked out a fish and Joe waded along beside me as we got into position.
“We want to be below the fish but not directly below him,” Joe explained. “Below and just off to one side is ideal. That will allow you to put your fly above him and you will not have to cast directly over him.”
I was trying to keep from shaking as I stripped off some line from my reel and tried to remember everything that I had learned during my casting lessons earlier in the day. I wish I could say that my first cast settled just above that rising trout and that it floated down perfectly and disappeared in a splashy rise. In reality that first cast was a disaster. I got the back cast right but I slapped my forward cast down on the water so hard that the fly sunk.
“Well now that you’ve gotten that out of your system let’s try to actually catch a fish,” Joe laughed. “Aim above the water and not at the water, and if you do that the fly will drop softly on the water.”
I repeated my first attempt on several other fish but Joe continued to coach me in his calm patient manner until finally I began to get a hang of it. Finally I dropped my fly above one of the splashy risers and it disappeared in a splash. I jerked back and the fish came flying out of the water. Needless to say I didn’t land that one.
“Now we need to work on setting the hook,” Joe said. We waded back to shore and he picked up his rod.
“I’ll see if I can fool another one and you watch how it’s done.”
Joe waded into place and made several casts before one of the fish rose to his fly. I watched as he simply lifted his arm and the fish was hooked. After the lesson I managed to hook a couple fish but by the time it was nearly dark I had not landed a single fish. As we walked back to the car in the gathering dark I was asking Joe when we could go fishing again.
“Well, I think we should spend a couple days on the lake. You can get some practice hooking and landing some bluegills and perhaps some crappie. What do you say I pick you up tomorrow about 10 o’clock?”
“OK,” I said, although I was somewhat disappointed that we weren’t going to be fishing for trout.
For the rest of the week Joe and I fished the lake every day, and in the process my casting began to become natural and I was actually hooking and landing most of the fish that took my fly. We caught a boat load of bluegills and crappie and one evening I hooked and landed the biggest bass that I had ever caught. When we tied up the boat on Saturday evening I was feeling pretty confident that tomorrow night that Joe would say that I was ready to go back to the stream and try my hand at hooking and landing an actual trout.
“Are we going to fish the stream tomorrow?” I inquired as Joe dropped me off at our cabin.
“No, not tomorrow,” Joe said. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and that’s God’s day.”
“Oh,” I stammered. “See you Monday then?”
“Yes. I’ll see you Monday.”
As Joe drove away in the gathering darkness I began to realize that Joe was indeed different than anyone else that I had ever known, and it was a good kind of different.
Monday morning found me sitting on the porch at Joe’s cabin. I was anxious to ask him about what he did on Sunday, but I was somewhat afraid to ask. My family had never looked at Sunday as anything other than a weekend day. It was one of the two days that my dad did not have to work, and we treated it like any other day. I settled down in one of the Adirondack chairs and started scratching Hunter’s ears.
“What do you see?” Joe said as he gestured out toward the woods and stream in front of the cabin.
“Trees, grass, the stream,” I said, even though I thought it was a rather funny question.
“How do you suppose they got here?”
Now that was a question that I had never thought about, and I didn’t really have an answer. In those days no one taught about evolution in school and without any religious background I was really at a loss for an answer. Joe sensed my confusion and he picked up a big black book that was sitting next to his chair and began to read.
“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”
For the next several minutes Joe continued to read about how God created everything from the grass of the field to the animals that ate it. He read about how God created people; a man and a woman and He put them into a perfect place called Eden.
“If your folks will let you come to church with me you can learn more about God”
Later that evening I asked my folks if I could go to church with Joe on Sunday. My father said he would have to talk to Joe before he would say yes. The coming Sunday morning found me sitting next to Joe in a little country church, and that was the beginning of the most important transformation in my life. Before long my entire family were seated in that country church every Sunday when we were at the cabin and at a local church in our neighborhood back in the city when we were not at the cabin. It was Joe’s greatest contribution to me and my family.
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To be continued
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On Monday Joe stopped at the house early to pick me up for what he told me was going to be a special trip. We drove for a couple hours and then when Joe slowed the car and turned off the road I thought he was driving straight into the woods. The two track road that we were following was nearly obscured by the trees but it was apparent that Joe had been here before. We snaked our way along, crossed a small creek, went up a steep hill and when we dropped down the other side there was a big meadow and Joe pulled the car off the track and parked under some large pine trees. As I got out of the car I could see the remains of a fire ring and again I was reminded that it was obvious that Joe had been here before. Joe motion for me to follow him and I quickly fell in behind him as he cut across the tall meadow grass.
Down the middle of the meadow was a line of brush and as we approached I could hear water running. We pushed through the brush and step onto the banks of a crystal clear meadow stream.
“What do you think?” Joe asked. “Think we can find you a trout here?”
The creek was about 10 feet wide, flowing over brilliant clean gravel, but it seemed that it was too small and clear to hold many trout.
Again Joe motioned for me to follow him and we began to work our way upstream along the banks of the creek. A short distance from where approached the water we came to a place where the water flowed over some bigger rocks and formed a small pool. As we stood at the tail of the pool a fish made a splashy rise about half way up the pool. As we stood watching several other fish repeated the performance. Clearly there was more to this little creek than was immediately apparent to my untrained eyes. We returned to Joe’s car and a few minutes later we were standing back at the tail of that pool with fly rods in hand.
I was anxious to take a crack at those fish but Joe suggested that we sit down for a few minutes and see exactly what was happening.
“First let’s see if we can figure out what’s making them rise.”
As we sat there I noticed some insects that Joe had told me were caddis flies skittering around the surface of the water. I remembered that first time I tried to catch a trout that the fish were eating caddis flies and the rises were splashy.
“Could they be eating caddis flies?” I said tentatively.
Joe smiled and nodded. It was obvious that he was pleased that I remembered. He opened one of his fly boxes and held it out.
“Do you see anything in here that looks like one of those caddis flies?”
“Let’s see if we can catch one so we can see what they look like,” I said.
“You’re a quick learner,” Joe said, his smiling getting even bigger.
The caddis flies were hard to catch as they skittered over the surface but I finally managed to catch one in my hat. Holding the fly in my fingers we compared it to the flies in Joe’s fly box. In one of the compartments were some flies that looked almost exactly like the caddis that I was holding in my fingers.
“I think that one should work,” I said pointing to the flies in the box.
“Looks good to me too,” Joe said, “so let’s give it a try. Now in order to avoid tangling with the trees we will need to use a roll cast. Do you remember how that works?”
I wasn’t sure so Joe said he would show me. After he tied his fly on his leader he shook out some line on the water, raised his rod and without lifting the line off the water he made a normal forward cast. The line slid off the water and turned over sending his fly out toward the center of the pool without ever going behind him.
“Now once you have done this there is one other cast that will allow you to avoid those trees.”
As the line floated down passed us Joe let the line straighten out below him and the he simply lifted his rod tip and lifted most of his fly line off the water and then flick the rod tip back upstream. The fly popped off the surface and shot back upstream.
“See,” Joe said, “you can use the surface tension and the current to allow you to make a cast without ever lifting the fly off the water.”
It took me a few tries but with a little gentle coaching from Joe I was soon making a fairly decent roll cast. Finally I made a good cast and as the fly settled on the water it disappeared in a splashy rise. I would like to say that I gently raised my rod tip to hook the fish but my strike launched that brookie right out of the water like a small missile. A few seconds later my first trout, an 8 inch brook trout was squirming in Joe’s net.
“This is a brook trout,” Joe said. “These are the only trout that were here when our ancestors came here.”
I thought this was the most beautiful fish that I had ever seen. The back was green and there were some red dots that had what looked like a blue halo around them. His fins were red with white edges.
“Can I keep it?” I asked.
“Well, in this stream there are lots of these small brook trout, and it can certainly afford to let us keep a few for dinner.”
Joe showed me how to kill the fish quickly with a sharp blow on the back of the head, and then he took a length of cord out of his vest and strung it through the gills of the fish. He took his knife and cut a willow stick and jammed it into the bank and secured the cord to the stick. Then he slid the trout into the water.
“This will keep him cool and fresh. Now let’s see if you can catch some more. We need a few more to make a meal.”
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I caught a couple more brook trout from that little pool before Joe suggested that we move on upstream. The little creek continued through a series of riffles and pools, each one producing a couple more brook trout. As we went farther upstream I began to hear a noise that sounded like the rushing of water coming over a big waterfall. That did not seem likely on such a small stream, but the farther up the stream we went the louder and more pronounced the sound became. We came upon a place where a dense growth of willows nearly obscured the stream, and the noise of falling water seemed to be immediately behind this bushy curtain. Pushing through the willows I was confronted by a large pile of sticks and mud and along the top edge of log jam water was flowing over the edge and plunging down into the stream at its base. I had never seen a beaver dam before although I had read about them and seen some pictures of them.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a beaver dam,” Joe said. “Come on, let’s get up on top.”
We worked our way around the end of the dam and pushed our way through some brush before we broke out on the top of the dam. The dam was about 50 feet long and the beavers had backed up a sizeable pond with their industry. At the far end was a beaver lodge just like ones that I had seen in pictures. The surface of the pond was pockmarked with the rings of rising fish. Joe motioned me to follow him and we slowly picked our way along the top edge of the dam until we had worked our way to about the middle of the dam. Here the dam was about three feet wide and we could stand there without having to balance ourselves on the edge.
“Well, let’s see if we can catch some of those trout that are rising out there. We need a few more for dinner.”
Joe and I hooked and landed a few more brookies that were similar in size to the ones that we had been catching downstream, and our stringer of fish was beginning to be pretty respectable.
“Let’s catch a couple more,” Joe said. “Then we should be headed for home.”
Just as Joe spoke my fly disappeared in a swirl and as I raised my rod tip I was suddenly aware that this was a fish that was more substantial than the small brookies that we had been catching. Joe noticed the bow in my rod tip as the fish headed for the bottom.
“Wow, looks like you’ve hooked one of the big boys.” Keep your rod tip up and let him run."
I watched my fly line slice through the water and listened to the high pitched whine of the reel as the fish ran against the drag. The fish boiled to the surface and then dove again. I gingerly raised the tip of the rod and the fish thrashed on the surface again.
“Tip your rod off to your right,” Joe counseled, “and see if you can reel in some of your line.”
I tipped my rod off to my right and began to turn the handle on the reel. The fish turned and began to come our way and then he turned and tried to run the other way.
“Let him run,” Joe said. “He’s still not quite ready to give up.”
Joe instructed me to tip my rod tip in the opposite direction and begin to reel again. Each time I got the fish a little closer until he rolled over on the surface and Joe reached out with his net and slipped him safely inside. Suddenly I realized that I had not been breathing and I let out a gasp as I saw the fish slid over the rim of the net.
Lying securely in the mesh of Joe’s net was the largest and most beautiful trout that I had ever seen.
“Now that’s a brook trout to be proud of,” Joe said. “Let’s see just how big he is.”
Joe lifted the trout out of the water and pulled a tape measure out of his vest. With the trout still in the net he slipped the hook out of the corner of his jaw and stretched him out so he could measure it.
“Twenty-two inches,” Joe said. “This is probably the grandfather brook trout in this pond. He probably weights over three pounds.”
As I stood looking down on what was the largest fish of any kind that I had ever caught a rush of emotions swept over me. On one hand I wanted to keep it and take it home to show my parents. This was the day before anyone carried a camera in their vest and if I let it go the only ones that would ever know that I ever really caught it would be Joe and I. On the other hand this was a big trout and it would be a shame to kill such a wonderful fish. How long had he lived behind this beaver dam? Were there anymore like him or was he the only one that had survived long enough to reach that size?" I ran my hand down his broad side and felt him quiver under my touch.
“Let’s let him go,” I said. “He deserves to live.”
Joe said nothing but he lifted the fish out of the net and lowered him back into the water. He worked the fish back and forth forcing water through his gills and suddenly, with a swish of his tail, he shot away into the depths of the pond.
We picked up our stringer of fish and made our way back across the dam and began walking back to Joe’s car.
“I’m proud of you,” Joe said. “I know you would have liked to keep that fish, and I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did, but that was a noble thing to do. You’ll make a good fly fisherman.”
I think I blushed a little, but I was very proud that Joe thought that I had made a good choice and that I would be a good fly fisherman.
Back at Joe’s cabin he showed me the proper way to clean our catch. He made a slit just in front of the gills on the underside of the jaw, stuck his thumb into the slit and pulled down toward the tail of the fish. In one move he removed the gills, the front fins and all the insides. Then he ran his thumb down the backbone to clean out the dark colored material that runs along the backbone. Later I would learn that the dark colored material along the backbone was really the fish’s kidneys but to a twelve year old kid it looked like a glob of blood. Joe then tossed the cleaned fish in a pail of clean water. Later that evening Joe fried them in an old cast iron frying pan with lots of butter, and along with my family I enjoyed my first meal of fresh caught brook trout.
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Faster than quicksilver slips through your fingers the summer slipped away. My mother mentioned that we would be going back to the city next week so that we could get ready for school and suddenly I realized that I might not see Joe again until next summer. When you’re a 12 year old the school year seemed like an eternity. Looking back that summer had been filled with more first time experiences than any previous summer, but I was not ready for it to end. Upon hearing this pronouncement I dashed out of the house and ran all the way to Joe’s cabin. Out of breath I ran up onto the porch and banged on the screen door. Hunter came bounding to the door with Joe close on his tail.
“Is there an emergency?” Joe asked as he stood looking at me as I gasped for breath.
“No,” I gasped “but my mother said we were going back to the city next week. I won’t see you again until next summer.”
"Well now, I don’t think that we live so far apart that I can’t see you occasionally. Besides, you need to get your education if you ever expect to amount to anything.’
Joe always made sense and his calm demeanor never failed to calm my fears.
“Now since our days here for this year are growing short I need to show you how to tie flies. I promised that I would show you how before the summer was over so it seems like now is a good time.”
We went inside Joe’s cabin and into a small backroom. This was Joe’s fly tying room and except for fly tying stuff there was nothing else in the room. There was a large window on one wall that faced north, and Joe had his fly tying bench set up in front of the window. He said that he liked to tie his flies in the natural light whenever he could. He thought he could tell the colors better under natural light. I noticed that there were two vices and two chairs and Joe motioned for me to sit down in the one chair and he sat down in the other one. By sitting next to Joe I was able to watch exactly how he did each step from putting a hook in the vice and adjusting it just right so it held the hook without breaking it or allowing it to move around when you were trying to tie your fly. By the end of the morning I was able to turn out a pretty good woolly worm!
The week passed all too quickly, and when the time came to head back to the city there was more than a few tears as I waved good-bye to Joe. After we got down the road a short distance my father mentioned that Joe had dropped off a large box a couple days ago and that he did not want me to open it until we got home. I couldn’t wait until my feet hit the ground at home to grab that box and rush up to my room. The box was filled with fly tying material, tools and a book on fly tying. Inside the book was a note from Joe.
“This should keep you busy during the winter. I don’t expect to have to provide you with flies next summer. Joe”
That box of fly tying material and equipment was another contribution that Joe made to my life that had a favorably lifetime impact. During the coming winter months after I had finished my homework and finished my chores I spent every minute of free time perfecting the skills necessary to tie flies.
Joe and I communicated by writing letters and an occasional phone call. He always reminded me that my school work came first and he expected to hear that I was getting good grades. I could almost hear him saying, “Fly fishing is a sport, a recreation and nothing more. You always need to remember that. Honor God, provide for yourself and your family by working, and then you can truly enjoy everything else.”
At Christmas time my folks invited Joe to come for Christmas dinner. Joe came on Christmas Eve and we attended services at our church. Joe stayed overnight in our spare room and after church we sat up and talked about fishing and tying flies until my mother reminded me that the next day was Christmas. I don’t believe that “visions of sugar plums danced in my head” but I do know that my dreams were filled with fly fishing and flies.
The next morning there was the usual pile of brightly wrapped gifts under our family Christmas tree and leaning up against the wall was a plainly wrapped box with my name on it. I knew it had not been there the night before so it had to have been placed there after I had gone to bed. The gift tag just had my name on it and nothing else but when I ripped off the paper and opened the box I knew where it came from. Inside the box were a rod tube and a box with a fly reel and line. Inside the rod tube was a cloth sack and a new bamboo fly rod. I sat cross-legged on the floor with the rod across my lap. It was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen and it was inscribed with my name just above the grip.
“Looks like Santa knew that you needed a good fly rod for next summer,” Joe said. “It’s only a little over three months until the opening of trout season.”
I looked up at Joe and he only smiled, but I knew where that fly rod and reel came from and it wasn’t Santa. I wanted to jump up and hug him but somehow I thought that would just embarrass him if I did. Later that day before he left for home we stood outside by his car and made plans for getting together for the opening day of trout season.
“Thanks for everything. You made this the most special Christmas ever.” Joe just smiled.
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Looking back I am amazed how quickly that winter disappeared, but as I marked the days off my calendar until the opening day of trout season it seemed like it would never come. Letters between Joe and I and the occasional phone call just heightened the excitement and anticipation of that magical day. In the late 50’s we did not have the Internet or the Weather Channel on television so I grabbed at any snippet of information that I could get concerning the long ranged weather forecast for opening weekend. As the day approached the weather forecast for the North Country held out only a minor hope of favorable weather. A storm could be moving down out of Canada bringing north winds and even the possibility of snow.
Finally, after what seemed at the time to be an eternity, the day arrived. Joe arranged to pick me up the day before the opener, which meant that I had to take a day off school, which was an additional treat for a soon to be 13 year old kid. I didn’t sleep much that night and I had all my gear assembled in a pile near the front door at least an hour before Joe was scheduled to show up. I tumbled out of the front door as I saw his vehicle come around the corner and was standing at the curb when he pulled to a stop. We soon had all my gear stowed in the car, I kissed my mother and dad good-bye and we were off for a grand adventure.
The miles flew by as Joe and I drove north. We had a winter’s worth of talking to do, and I had lots to talk about. What did he think the weather conditions would be like, would we find some hatching insects, would we catch lots of trout? To each question Joe just smiled and said, “We’ll see.”
I had never been up to the lake this early in the season and I was a bit surprised that it looked quite different than it did in the summer. The closer we got I noticed that there was more and more snow still lingering in the woods. The trees were all bare and brown, and nothing was even slightly green. As we drove passed the lake I could see that much of the surface was still covered with ice. It appeared to me that everything was dead, so unlike the vibrant greens of summer.
Joe had been up to his cabin the previous week to get things ready for our opening day visit. He also had done a little scouting around the local trout waters. Before long the heat of the big wood stove in the front room was permeating all the corners of the cabin and Joe was busy preparing dinner on the wood cook stove in the kitchen. Hunter was lying on the rug next to the wood stove and I sat looking out the window at the stream across the road. Unlike the inviting clear water that I was accustomed to seeing during the summer months it rolled along gray and cold.
“Will we find any trout tomorrow?” I said.
“Oh, we’ll find some trout, but the real question is will we be able to give them something that they might want to eat. Right now come and eat dinner, and we’ll talk about our strategy later.”
Full of fried chicken, dumplings and hot apple pie with fresh whipped cream on top I slid into one of the big overstuffed chairs in the front room. I was surprised how quickly it was getting dark outside; again I was expecting that the days would be long like they are in the summer. When you’re young you think that certain things never change, and I guess that in my mind that it was always summer ‘up north.’ We never went to our cabin in the winter so I had never seen what it was like here in the winter or even in the early spring. Joe broke into my thoughts as he came in and settled into the other big chair and began to talk about tomorrows fishing.
“This will be the 50th year that I have opened the trout season from this cabin. My dad built this place and he taught me how to fish with a fly when I was even younger than you are now. We came here every April to open the trout season. I spent some time fighting for Uncle Sam back during the war but the first year that I came home Dad and opened the season here again.”
Joe paused and he got that faraway look that I had seen him get before when he started talking about some old memory.
“That was Dad’s last season,” Joe said his voice low and quiet. “The next season I opened the season alone, as much in tribute to him as anything. Since then I have continued that tradition until this year when I have someone to open the season with me. Now I get to pass the torch to another generation. I guess now I have come full circle.”
Our conversation turned to tomorrow’s fishing, and later, as I snugged down beneath the quilts, I could hardly contain my excitement. What a day tomorrow would be.
Indeed, that first opening day was a great day. After a hearty breakfast we loaded up in Joe’s car and drove several miles further north where we struck off down a barely discernable two-track forest road. After several miles we turned off and parked the car. Beyond the trees and down a gentle slope a crystal clear stream flowed through the alders. We donned our waders and fly vests; assembled our rods and marched off to do battle with the streams inhabitants. Nothing was showing when we first arrived but within an hour or so the first mayflies of the season began to dot the surface followed closely by eager trout. The sun was warm on my shoulders and the smell of spring was in the air. What the trout lacked in size they made up for with eagerness, and to a boy not yet thirteen years old the combination was intoxicating. The memory of that first opening day is as sharp and clear in my memory as if it were yesterday.
Looking back on that opening day it somehow seems impossible that 40 opening days have come and gone and once again I’m at Joe’s cabin getting ready for another opening day. It seems equally hard to believe that Joe has been gone 10 years now. The fire is burning in the old wood stove and I just finished eating dinner. In one of the big overstuffed chairs in the front room my son is soaking up the heat and looking forward to opening day tomorrow. It will be his first. Joe left the cabin to me as his final gift. I walk outside into the cold spring air and stand for a moment on the porch. Tack sharp stars sparkled in the clear cold air and the call of a great-horned owl was the only sound to break the silence. I thought of all the nights that Joe and I had shared this porch and of all the fly-fishing adventures that had started and ended here. What blessings I had known from that causal encounter that had taken place so many years ago.
“What are you doing Dad?”
I turn to see my son standing in the doorway.
“Oh, I was just thinking about Joe and of a time and a place where I was once but where I can never go again.”
“Where was that Dad?”
“It was a kingdom; yes a kingdom that existed long ago and far away.”
I scooped him up in my arms and taking one long last look across the road and the dark lake beyond I turned back toward the lights and the warmth of the cabin and the anticipation of yet another opening day.
Originally published June 06, 2011 on Fly Anglers Online by Neil Travis. Combined from 8 parts.