I walked down the hall and stood on the linoleum floor in
the kitchen. At 7yrs old I wore only
pajama pants, and the spring air had the floor cold to my bare feet. Having just woke up to get ready for school
it seemed odd that my dad, who normally left before daylight each morning, was
sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and doing the newspaper crossword puzzle. With one eye squinted
closed against the bright over-head kitchen light and confused, I asked what he
was still doing at home. He looked at me
with a smile just short of laughter and said, “My job got rained out today and
I’m going fishing. Wanna come along?” I
couldn’t believe my ears! “But what about school”, I asked? “I’ll leave a note for your mom that you’re
with me”, was his reply. I ran to the
kitchen window and peered out into the grey morning. You couldn’t see the rain right off. But the puddles in the lane were showing a
light sprinkle. “When are we leaving”, I
blurted! He laughed and replied, “Let me
finish this coffee while you get dressed.
Then we’re outta here.” In a blur I was gone.
With the
gear loaded behind the bench seat of the pickup, in short order we were on the
road. It was just me and him, and life really didn’t get better than that for a
7yr old boy growing up in the country. Especially for a weekday when all my
friends would be standing in the rain waiting for the bus to arrive, while I
would be fishing. We crossed over
Jonestown Mountain and crossed over fishing creek. At Hickory Joe’s restaurant
we turned left. Then in just a short piece we were there. Today we would be fishing Forks, the location
where Huntington Creek and Fishing creek merged. I had been there before on
several trips, and knew the place. But
today would be different. Today I would be fishing on my own. We would both
have a rod and would both wade separately.
That also meant I would be on my 1st solo run for doing all
my own rigging and baiting.
When the
truck stopped I bailed with a purpose.
And after a few minutes of hopping on one leg in an attempt to get my
hip boots on without getting my socks wet, I was ready. The green rubber felt
cold through my jeans, and the spring rain was pretty chilly through my
baseball style wind breaker and hooded sweatshirt. I popped open the top spring
of my nylon shoulder creel. The ones
with the 12” ruler marked off on the snapped top flap. It held a small box of #10 loose hooks, a
spool of 2lb leader, some barrel swivels, a plastic container of assorted
split-shot, a case pocket knife, and a jar of Mikes Natural color salmon eggs.
I was set. I pulled my rod out from
behind the seat. It was a 5ft ultra-lite Abu Garcia rod with a Mitchell 308
reel & was already rigged. I adjusted my Case machinery ball cap, and
waited for my Dad to lead the way. Following him down the muddy bank and along
the trail through the short river bottom flat full of briars, I carried my rod
backwards as he did to avoid the rod getting tangled. And I thought it odd that
when I slipped twice going down the bank in the hip boots, he never turned
around to ask me if I needed a hand? No matter though, since after all it
wasn’t like I was a kid anymore.
At the
bank, we stopped to rig up. I watched as
he selected his sinker, and likewise chose the same size. Then I skewered my salmon egg, making sure to
pass through the egg sac as he had shown me before. We both waded through a shallow eddy, and
stopped short of a seam of deeper flowing water. He said we would fish this run and pointed me
to go upstream from him about 20ft. I pushed my way upstream on the slick rocks
as he watched on. And when I had steadied myself against the current and looked
back at him, he simply smiled and turned to cast his line. I did likewise.
Through
that morning, we never really left that spot. My dad seemed to hook fish pretty
regularly, and soon began to drop many of them back in the water. I had hooked
one fish of about 10” pretty much accidentally, since it took my egg as I was
reeling in to make another cast. It just
didn’t seem like a catch at the time, but the feeling of the occasional flop in
my creel was still comforting. Then
after most of the morning had gone by and I was pretty much soaked through, I
felt the unmistakable TAP-TAP-TAP of a fish and lifted my rod to set the hook.
This fish was a little better, and my dad quickly moved in to help net it for
me. Soon, with a little coaching on his
part I had the weight of a 14” rainbow in my creel. After some congratulations he asked if I was
ready to go yet. I stood there wanting
to say no. But I was soaked through to
the skin, my hands were half numb from the cold rain and creek water, and I had
slipped at one point so my downstream boot was filled knee-high with
water. I nodded and gave an apologetic
smile in return. He gave me a nod of
agreement and turning for the bank said, “OK Bud, lets head for the truck.”
After helping me drain my boot on the bank, he suggested I grab hold of the
back of his belt going up the bank.
Thank God I thought to myself, because I was pretty concerned about that
climb given my previously rough decline.
Sitting in
his truck with the heater running full blast and the windows fogging heavily,
he grabbed a bag from behind the seat. Out of it he pulled a red scotch-plaid
painted Stanley thermos and an extra cup.
He poured us both a cup of warm coffee and handed me a peanut-butter and
jelly sandwich on my mom’s home-made bread.
The sandwiches were awesome in our hungry state, and my 1st
personal cup of coffee tasted unbelievable. I instantly forgot about my cold
and wet situation as we talked and recapped each fish. We talked for a good
hour and I drank down 2 cups of that coffee before finally wiping the windows
clear and heading back over the mountain to home.
That event in my life happened 45
years ago, yet is still as clear to me now as the day it happened. It was the 1st
day that I felt like I fished “with” my dad. It was my 1st cup of
coffee from my dad’s thermos. It was my 1st trout caught
intentionally & completely on my own. Yet the two most important things I
took from that day are with me still. First-&-foremost, it is the earliest
recollection that I can recall distinctly looking at my dad and thinking how
much I loved the man. And lastly, with that one day of fishing in the rain he
took a 7 year old boy and made him a trout fisherman. It’s been 13 years now
since my dad left us. And much longer since I last cast a salmon egg to trout.
That spinning rod has been replaced with a fly rod over the years, yet the
feeling still remains the same as it was 45 years ago. Each time I’m out with
rod-in-hand casting to trout I think about him, because he’s the reason I still
find myself longing to stand in water. And oftentimes still I’m that same 7
year old boy, standing in the creek soaking wet and cold with one leg of my
waders filled to the knee. Knowing that
while I truly want to keep fishing it’s time to head for the truck, and a warm
cup of coffee.
Thanks Dad.
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