We pulled off into the gravel roadside parking area just in time to witness the bright moon setting behind the bare trees and the sun thinking about rising in the pink eastern sky. We were the first ones on the river that day in early March . . . just the way we had planned it.
We had made the two-hour drive in the dark to this small, scenic river in western North Carolina that had become our go-to trout stream. It was cold, and the mist was still rising off the water as we began to “wader up” in the pale morning light.
My son doesn’t get to fish as much these days and we wanted to be the first to hit our favorite runs and pools before any competition arrived. It didn’t matter to me if I caught a trout that day. I just wanted him to have fun and catch some fish. I guess that’s just the dad in me.
My grown son was responsible for me becoming a fly-fisherman. Although he didn’t realize it at the time, he had introduced me into the world of fly fishing late in my life at a time when I needed a spark . . . some zeal and zest to re-energize my soul and bring back the passion of living.
I had become burdened with life’s responsibilities and didn’t realize that I needed a lifeline. A random invitation to join him on a “blue line” fishing trip for wild brookies one day 12 years ago snapped me back. That trip triggered something in me that is hard to explain.
I have now become immersed in everything fly-fishing; the rods, the lines, the flies, the rivers and streams, the books and authors, and the history of the sport. At age 70, my zeal and zest are back, and I am now consumed by the sport.
So, this particular day in March was not unlike many we had shared. My son is my fishing partner. I fish alone when he is working or has family commitments. But my favorite memories are fishing with him. We try and stay close together when we are wading the river, so we can share in each other’s successes and failures.
My personal best rainbow trout was taken with him on a fly he had tied the night before. His personal best brown trout was taken with me on the net. He is there to pick me up when I stumble on the rocks in the river current. I am there to snap a picture of a particularly nice catch of his, so he can share with his bride.
After a successful morning of fishing, we will share a stream-side meal consisting of ham and cheese sandwiches on white bread with brown mustard (which have congealed overnight), chips and small sweet pickles. We keep a flask handy to toast the catch if we are in the mood. This meal is my son’s favorite, so I make it happen.
I guess this story is not about one particular fishing memory, but of a decade of memories created between a father and son who share a similar passion. It’s about early morning car rides to the river, where the hopes and dreams of a father and son are discussed; 5:00 a.m. gear checklists before we roll; biscuit stops in small towns along the way; and which river sections we want to fish that day. We talk about financial commitments, career moves, schools for the kids and where he wants to be 30 years from now.
And finally, how we want to introduce my granddaughter to the sport at an early age, so she won’t have to wait a half-century to make her own fishing memories. And yes, her 3-weight rod is ready for her in my home office.
MEMORIES . . .
All of us have special memories from our days of hunting and fishing, which we have no doubt shared around campfires or inside sporting lodges.
Now, in our new Memories feature, we would like to share your fondest hunting and fishing experiences with all of our readers. Just write up your memory, keeping it between 250 and 1,000 words, and email it to us. You can even include up to six photographs. Email your story to: Chuck@sportingclassics.com