Friday, January 2, 2009

Fly Fishing With Dad


I realize there are countless stories about fly fishing, perhaps the most famous of all being A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean. Many fly fishermen will claim to have been inspired to start fishing because of the book, or more likely the film starring Brad Pitt that was made from the book. Many fly fishermen refer to this particular movie as simply, “the movie”. The old timers may even blame this movie for ruining many fishing holes due to over crowding by the upstart fly fisherman. While I admit the movie inspired my fly fishing adventures to some degree, my interest started much earlier than when I first saw “the movie”. My dad was a fly fisherman who grew up in Idaho. He told me and my brother Matt tales of catching steelhead and cutthroat in the rivers near his childhood home. As a kid I even tied a few flies using an old fly tying kit my dad had in his garage, but that was only the beginning of my interest in the sport. My dad moved us to Texas when I was only six, and Texas not being a top fly fishing destination, he never taught us how to fly fish. His work got in the way of his outdoor hobbies, but he still managed to take me and Matt to the area lakes now and then. That too stopped after my parents got divorced. Matt and I have always cherished the times we spent on my dad’s old sky blue, outboard motorboat. It wasn’t much of a boat, but those memories don’t fade easily. I can still remember the mornings waking up before the sun and seeing my dad pack us sandwiches and sodas in a cooler and filling up his green Thermos with coffee. The excitement was palpable. We would spend the day at the lake fishing with our kid-sized Zebco rod and reel combos rigged with worms or minnows under red and white plastic bobbers hoping to see them quickly plunge beneath the surface. In the evening we would arrive home proudly displaying the days catch to our mom before my dad filleted them at the kitchen sink and fried them up in hot oil. At night I would have a hard time falling asleep, despite waking up early, because every time I closed my eyes it seemed that my bed started rocking like I was still out on the lake. Man, the memories.
Yet, I still wasn’t a fly fisherman. One winter, after the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department stocked the local pond with rainbow trout, I called up my dad who was living in Albuquerque at the time for advice on how to catch a trout. He offered the usual spinner and Powerbait recommendation, but never mentioned fly fishing. The next day, my kids and I went to the freshly stocked pond and were given a phenomenal little lure called a super-duper by a nice man next to us. We caught 11 trout in the next hour, so when I got home I phoned my dad once more to see how to cook the little things. He didn’t answer the phone, but called back the next morning. I will never forget that phone call. I was excited about the fish and he let me tell my story, gave me a recipe, then said, “I just got back from the doctor’s office and I have a big fucking lump in my chest”. My heart sank. It was the worst news I had ever heard in my entire life. My dad had lung cancer. He died quickly, in a matter of months, at the age of 50. I could no longer call him up for advice on how to catch a fish, or tell him about my third child being born, or that I got that job I always wanted. That was a dark chapter in my life…that black cloud still hangs over me.
If anything good came out of my father’s death, it was my new found interest in fly fishing. I think of my dad every time I go fishing, and fly fishing lets me imagine what he must have been like at my age catching cutthroats on the Snake with a fly rod in hand and the ever present cigarette hanging from his lip. I bought a fly rod before a trip to Colorado to visit some friends who recently relocated there after their own tragic incident, but I will save that for another story. Kevin, my friend, and I drove the short 30 minutes down Foxton Road to the spot on the North Fork of the South Platte where I first fished for trout with a fly rod. I didn’t catch a thing. It turns out fly fishing is a bit more challenging than fishing with spinning tackle. I did bring along my handy, light weight rod and reel with that ever wonderful super-duper rigged up. I caught a 6 inch brown trout on the first cast to a whole behind a large boulder. I just knew that spot was holding a fish, and sure enough, I caught it in one try. I cast a few more times with the super-duper and eventually caught another little brown before handing the rod over to Kevin. He tried his hand with the spinning rod, but soon got hung up on a submerged rock and we lost our one and only super-duper. We left without catching any fish on the fly rods, but we both were hooked. Lucky for him, he can be on the water in less than an hour angling for the elusive browns and rainbows of the South Platte. I had to settle for large mouth bass and sunfish at home in central Texas. With practice I got the hang of fishing the fly rod, my fly of choice being a black or olive wooley bugger. On most outings I can catch at least one fish in the slow moving, warm waters of Texas, but it just isn’t the same as being in the mountains casting for trout.
Kevin and I fished the same area of the Platte last spring. The river still had a crust of ice hanging over the edge. Chunks of ice from upstream would break off and pass us by on their way down river. On this outing, I finally caught a trout on the fly. We were casting egg patterns held down by split-shot. I made a cast to a likely spot, saw the indicator stop short, and then set the hook. I landed a stunning rainbow trout about 10 inches long. I will never forget the excitement at landing my first mountain trout. The view of the mountains, the chill of the water, the smell of life in the outdoors, these memories stick.
During the fall, my family and Kevin’s met in Taos for a brief visit. The drive was nice, especially on the way back. We of course saw the mountains, seemingly ablaze with golden aspens, but we drove through a gorgeous canyon formed by the Canadian River in eastern New Mexico and saw dozens of pronghorn antelope. While in Taos, Kevin and I of course planned our fishing outing. Before heading to the river, we stopped by the Taos Fly Shop to get our licenses, some flies, and tips on fishing the area. Of all of the wonderful choices available, we picked the Rio Grande Gorge where it meets the Red River of New Mexico in the Wild Rivers Scenic Area near Questa. I have never witnessed a more stunning back drop for a fishing trip. The hike to the bottom was only a mile long, but descended 800 vertical feet. We knew we were in for it when the day was ended. We made the mile hike in around 15 minutes, brimming over with excitement of the fishing to come. We slipped into our waders, tied on a bead head nymphs below hoppers and started casting. Within a few casts I had a hook up, but failed to land a small brown trout. As I worked my way upstream, it was evident that fishing the Rio Grande was much different than the slow moving Brazos back home that I had grown accustomed to. I couldn’t seem to get the timing right, failed to perform a proper up-stream mend, and failed to catch any fish. None-the-less, I enjoyed every second of failure. Kevin, on the other hand, having fished several times on the Platte, was doing quite well. He landed two fine rainbows and a tiny brown. Ah, the envy of the better fisherman. We were too soon chased off by some looming thunderheads heading our way. As we reluctantly slipped out of our waders and packed up our gear, the rain began to fall, but was welcome as it kept us cooled off during our climb out of the canyon. The 800 foot climb back proved to be exhausting, but worth every second. We proudly made the climb in less than 30 minutes…much faster than the allotted 45 the guy at the fly shop suggested it would take. We hurriedly drove back to spend the rest of the day with our wives and children, with another fond memory stored away.
I haven’t been back on the water in months, but the memories keep me going, along with the hope of more trips to the mountains. As the death of my father continues to haunt me, the feeling that he has always been there, on the river banks watching, keeps me going back for one more chance to go fly fishing with dad.

4 comments:

Unknown said...

I'm glad you started this blog Adam, it is really interesting to read what draws you out to the river and what the experience is like. Thanks for sharing this, I really enjoyed it.

We miss you guys, hopefully we can all get together soon and you guys can try your hand at fly fishing again.

45 minutes, ha, that guy just didn't know how strong you guys are. ;) Hehehe!

Christine said...

Dang it, I always forget to sign out of my Hip Monkey google account before leaving comments - that last comment was from me. :)

mp said...

ha ha, i told you you should've edited to say "he must not know how strong we are."

see even christine caught it.

Anonymous said...

Hey! Dad was 49! I like all your stories! Miss y'all!
-Lisa