“A thousand stories were carried out there. The crossroads for countless
souls who sought solace in the quiet of the stream and the fellowship of those
dedicated to the same destiny, and each one leaving a tiny bit of themselves
forever etched on the character of the other. All taking and giving in equal
amount. Then, almost as it started, it dissolved and was nevermore to exist;
only remaining a small spark in the memories of the few remaining. Each to
choose a divergent path and follow the breeze it whispered. And we all did.” James
Castwell, 2008
I knew him simply as Jim or friend, but back in those days on the old Au Sable
in the Jack Pine barrens of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula he was known
by some as Bay City Jim. The name came from his place of origin, Bay City,
Michigan along the shores of Saginaw Bay. Dressed in his signature felted
western hat, khaki-tan shirt, Orvis® Tackle-pac fly vest, carrying his
bamboo rod and smoking his Meerschaum pipe he cut a distinctive figure among
our band of rag-tag anglers. However, to me he was simply my best friend.
Over the years we sat on many streamside logs tinkering with our tackle, watching
the water, and exchanging small talk while we waited for the action to start.
We sat together in the gathering dark anticipating the sound of a trout slurping
down a big Hex mayfly somewhere out there in the darkness.
We tied flies together and taught others how to do the same. We filled jars
with little bugs that we scooped up from the river, and transported them to
his home in Bay City where we kept them alive in several aquariums in his
basement. I identified them and he photographed them. Then we tied imitations
of them, and fished them on the Au Sable.
We shared cold duck blinds together, tramped through the Quaking Aspens in
the fall seeking Woodcock and Ruffed Grouse, and the apple orchards of long
abandoned farmsteads looking for White-tailed Deer. We trudge together through
cedar swamps on snowshoes following cat hounds trying to shoot Bobcats with
a bow.
In the fall of 1971 we embarked on an odyssey that would forever change both
of our lives. Just after Labor Day we pack his station wagon with fly fishing
gear, hooked up the camping trailer, and, with another demented soul, struck
out for the Rocky Mountains to fish for trout. From Henry’s Fork of
the Snake in Idaho to the spring creeks of the Paradise Valley in Montana
we spent 10 glorious days fishing some of the most exciting water that we
had ever seen. Within 3 years both of our families were living in Montana.
Over the intervening years, like two mayflies floating downstream, our lives
diverged and converged, but mostly we gradually drifted apart. They lived
north of Livingston for several years, and then spent a brief stint in western
Montana before leaving the state for the coast of Washington. A brief encounter
a few years ago at a Federation of Fly Fishers Conclave here in Livingston
resurrected our connection, and shortly afterward I began to write a regular
column for FAOL.
Last fall I wrote Jim a note and spent some time reminiscing about our days
on the Au Sable, and asked what he thought about all that had transpired since
those days. His response, which is printed below, is the last communication
that I had from him.
“A thousand stories were carried out there. The crossroads for countless
souls who sought solace in the quiet of the stream and the fellowship of
those dedicated to the same destiny, and each one leaving a tiny bit of
themselves forever etched on the character of the other. All taking and
giving in equal amount. Then, almost as it started, it dissolved and was
nevermore to exist; only remaining a small spark in the memories of the
few remaining. Each to choose a divergent path and follow the breeze it
whispered. And we all did.” James Castwell, 2008
Thanks for the memories old friend. God speed.
The Chronicler
Originally published June 22, 2009 on Fly Anglers Online by By Neil M. Travis.