Pastor Ron is a Messenger of God and a Fisher of Men. So when he discovered that I was just an ordinary fisher of Trout, he expressed a certain degree of professional interest in finding out more about how we common folk spend our time.
“Jesus always did love fishermen,” he explained. “His closest friends were fishermen, and I really should learn more about it.”
So schedules were checked, dates were determined, and we penciled in “One Week From Saturday” for a day of introductory fly fishing.
“What do I need to bring?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I have everything we’ll need.”
But then I had a second thought.
“What size shoes do you wear?”
“Nines,” he replied.
“Oh,” I responded. “All my waders are fourteens. So you’re going to need to find some waders of your own.”
“Okay, no problem,” he assured me. “I’ll see you in church this Sunday.”
Sunday morning promised to be quite special, for Lemuel Wilson’s youngest daughter Kate was due to be baptized at the beginning of the morning church service.
A baptism is a holy event, filled with celebration that one more of God’s children has taken Him up on His promise. So when Pastor Ron and little Katie made their entrance up between the pulpit and the choir loft in their floor-length white robes and stepped into the Baptismal pool, they were both smiling ear to ear.
Prayers were offered, professions were made, the deed was done, and both came out of the water dripping wet, exiting stage right as the first hymn of the morning began. But three or four minutes later and smack in the middle of “Amazing Grace,” Pastor Ron surprisingly reappeared, all dry and dressed and looking sharp.
“How’d you do that?” I asked him at the end of the service.
“How’d I do what?” he replied.
“Get dried and dressed so quickly.”
He lowered his gaze and looked around with an uncharacteristically sneaky expression, then leaned over close to me so no one would hear and whispered, “I have a set of Baptismal waders that I wear under my robe. See you Saturday.”
As promised, Pastor Ron showed up at my house right on time the following Saturday morning, all decked out in a set of brand new fishing duds.
“Hardly slept a wink last night, “ he declared. “Just too excited.”
“Well, let’s not keep you and the trout waiting,” I replied, and a half-hour later we pulled in beneath the Hunter Bridge.
I pointed out the runs I intended for us to fish, explained where the trout might be positioned, and gave Pastor Ron a short introductory tutorial on the essentials of trout psychology, basic entomology, and classic fly fishing literature. Then I pulled out our fly rods.
As always, my rod was already rigged and ready for action. But the 4-weight I had selected for Pastor Ron was still completely disassembled, for I wanted him to see how everything fit together.
First, I attached the reel to the reel seat. Then I showed him the fly line and explained how to properly thread it through the guides in a tight loop that prevents it from falling back on itself if accidentally dropped. Finally, I nail-knotted a 9-foot 6X tapered leader to the business end of the fly line and tied on a small piece of bright orange yarn. Pastor Ron stared at the yarn skeptically.
“Is that what we’re going to fish with?” he asked.
“Oh no,” I answered. “The yarn is just for practice. I don’t wanna turn you loose with a real fly until we make sure you’re not going to hook yourself with a cast.”
“Oh.” He still looked suspicious.
We began the lesson in the grass. I demonstrated the importance of rhythm and pace, and how he needed to give both his back cast and his fore cast time to straighten out in the air before applying opposing force.
“No need to hurry it,” I cautioned. “Let your fly line do the work.” Then I handed the rod to him and told him to give it a try.
On his first attempt, he wrapped the entire leader and eight feet of fly line around his head and shoulders and arms.
“Okay,” he said as I untangled him. “Now I see the reason for the yarn.”
On his second attempt he did better, and after a few minutes Pastor Ron began to get his timing down and we agreed that it would be safe to tie on a real fly, hook and all.
Normally, I fish with a dry fly and a trailing nymph of some sort. But for now, I tied a single dry #18 Blue Wing Olive to his tippet as he slipped into his waders.
“Are those the Baptismal waders?” I inquired, as casually as I could manage. He looked around cautiously, as though afraid someone might be listening.
“Uh, yeah,” he confessed.
He held onto my shoulder with one hand as we stepped into the river. When in proper position, I made an upstream cast into the edge of the current to demonstrate how to manage the fly line, and halfway through my second drift the dry fly disappeared as something took the dropper.
Pastor Ron expressed excitement.
The fish was a lovely little brown trout, and once it was safely brought to hand and released, I said, “Okay, try it yourself.”
On his first attempt he dumped the fly line, leader, and fly onto the water’s surface three feet in front of us.
“Remember your timing,” I cautioned. “Now try it again, and don’t drop your rod tip this time.”
He did better, and after a few more casts, I felt it more or less safe to turn him loose on his own.
“Okay, I’m going to leave you by yourself now and move downstream a few yards,” I said.
Over the next 10 minutes I caught two more trout, both of them on the dropper. My fourth fish came on the dry fly, and I called upstream for him to make his way down to me.
“You move on ahead,” I told him as he arrived.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t want to get in your way.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
I hung back as he moved around me, watching while he worked his way downstream. After an hour, I had caught and released five more trout, all on the dropper, while Pastor Ron was still batting zero with his dry fly.
It was obviously time for a change.
“Let’s take a break,” I suggested as we moved up the bank and sat down in the meadow grass.
“This is really fun,” Pastor Ron said. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.”
“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I replied. “But now it’s time for you to start catching some fish of your own. Hand me your fly rod.”
He did as instructed.
“Most everything I’ve caught so far has been on the dropper,” I told him. “It’s harder to cast two flies at once, so I rigged you up earlier with a single dry fly. But now, I’m going to add a weighted nymph. If a trout takes it, your dry fly will disappear abruptly beneath the surface, and that’s when you strike.”
I pulled 30 inches of 6X tippet from my spool and tied one end into the bend of the dry fly hook, then attached a weighted #16 Fuzzy Worm to the other end as Pastor Ron watched intently.
“So let me get this straight . . . I still watch the dry fly, and strike either if a fish hits it or if it disappears.”
“You got it,” I affirmed.
“What if two fish hit both flies at the same time?” he asked.
“Now don’t go gettin’ greedy on me,” I cautioned. “That won’t happen! I’ve been fishing like this since I was little, and I’ve NEVER caught two trout at once. Never even seen it done.”
“Oh . . . okay. Sorry.”
“This run is usually good for a fish or two,” I continued, pointing with my fly rod to a big, barely submerged boulder halfway across the river. “Lay your cast just this side of that boulder and a little upstream, and then work it down the near edge.”
I remained seated in the grass as Pastor Ron eased out toward the submerged boulder. His first cast wasn’t quite long enough, so he stripped out a few more feet of fly line and promptly snagged a young willow on his second back cast. I eased down to the edge of the water and freed his line, carefully checking the flies, leader, and tippet for damage.
“Move a couple of feet farther out and shorten your cast a bit,” I suggested, as I headed back up the slope. I had just sat down once more when Pastor Ron suddenly became animated.
“I’ve got one!” he yelled.
“Okay, stay calm. Don’t give him any slack line! I’m on my way.”
The fish looked to be around ten inches long as it barely broke the surface—but it seemed to be acting rather strangely, as though being yanked from side to side.
“Be smooth with him,” I cautioned. “Don’t jerk on him.” But looking over at pastor Ron, I could see that he was doing everything correctly.
And then the trout jumped.
It was big rainbow, at least 17 inches long—much longer than I had initially judged. I looked back at Pastor Ron, who had a bemused, befuddled look on his face.
“There’s . . . ” he paused. Then, “There’s two fish!”
Sure ’nuff, there were two—count ’em, TWO—trout on the end of his line—a small brown trout on the dry fly and the big rainbow on the dropper.
It was the big rainbow who was controlling the show.
Dear Reader, I would love to describe to you how expertly I worked my way into position and then adroitly netted both fish at once. But the pure honest truth is that I don’t much remember what happened next—except that it was Pastor Ron providing guidance to me as I watched in sheer bewilderment, before somehow managing to get both trout into the net.
Thoroughly shaken at what I had just witnessed, I looked over at him as he stood there grinning like a Cheshire cat in his new fishing clothes and his old Baptismal waders. Then I looked up toward Heaven, and finally across the water to shore—halfway expecting to see the Lord Himself standing there grinning as well.
Pastor Ron patted me on the shoulder reassuringly as he helped me back to shore with his beautiful twin catch, where we worked the tiny hooks free before releasing them.
I didn’t catch another fish that day.
But I watched as my friend caught trout after trout, some on the dry fly and some on the dropper—all of them, mercifully, one at a time. And at day’s end as we stashed our gear back into my SUV, we looked at each other and broke into boisterous, uninhibited laughter as Pastor Ron whispered, “Must’a been the Baptismal waders.”
The following morning, there was yet another baptism scheduled at the beginning of Sunday services. This time it was the Muhlenberg brothers, Robert and Weaver, each of whom stood six foot-four and tipped the scales at around 260 pounds.
For his part, Pastor Ron might weigh in at 150 pounds with both front pockets full of rocks, and is, at most, five foot-eight, drippin’ wet. So this promised to be interesting.
But ever the optimist, I guess he figured that while getting the boys into the water would be his job, getting them back out would be in the Hands of the Lord.
Right on schedule, Pastor Ron appeared with the brothers Muhlenberg, and as they stepped down into the Baptismal pool, he cast a quick, all-encompassing glance outward across
the congregation.
His eyes accidentally fell on me.
For one split second an expression of sheer terror spread across his face, and most likely across mine as well, as we each quickly looked aside, lest we make lasting eye contact.
Because such a joyful and holy event as a Baptism should never be marred by fits of uncontrolled giggling.
The author always welcomes and appreciates your comments, questions, critiques, and input. Please keep in touch at Mike@AltizerJournal.com.