I am an avid fisherman. I have been
since I can remember. Fishing for me is a deep passion, sometime
bordering on obsession. Being on and around the water re-energizes
my soul. Fishing is as important to my existence as food, air and
water. It is only in my later years I have come to understand this
relationship.
In the late 60's when I was still in
grade school, everyone looked forward to June. June meant summer
vacation, playing with friends late into the hot evenings and long
days at the neighborhood pools. For me, there was something really
special to look forward to: the yearly fishing trip with my Dad. I
knew it would be sometime toward the end of July would force myself
to be patient and let him suggest it. Usually at Sunday dinner, he
would casually ask “So, where do you want to go this year for
fishing?”. I seemed like I would always in choose Hat Creek in the
Lassen National Forest. We had gone to a number of different
reservoirs, rock fishing on the coast, but Hat Creek was the best!
I usually had to count down days with
high charged anticipation. The weekend would come and I would always
have all the camping gear and the all important fishing gear staged
in the garage for quick embarkation. My mother would buy the
groceries for our adventure. Friday morning would come and I was
usually too excited to eat breakfast. We would pack up the
Travel-All and and head north to 4 days of Trout fishing my Dad in
the cold streams of Northern California. We were going camping and
fishing; guy stuff, no girls allowed! Just after breakfast we would
load up the truck and get on the road for the long drive to Mt.
Lassen. The long drive through the flat, hot and dusty central
valley would be interrupted by lunch at one of the unique, out of
the way restaurants that my father seemed to know about. We would
arrive at the Hat Creek campground mid-afternoon.
As always, the first order of business
was setting up camp. With that being done, we would grab our rods
and tackle and catch the evening bite. I would stay close to my
father and he would instruct me in the art of trout fishing. My
father 'hunted' trout. He seemed to know where the wily fish would
be in the creek. He taught me how to read the stream, how the trout
would stay in the slower back currents and eddy's formed by rocks and
holes by the bank. We would fish for a couple hours and catch
tomorrows breakfast. Dad always seemed to have more fish on his
stringer.
Dad would make dinner. We had a Coleman
stove, a couple of pots and the ubiquitous #8 cast iron skillet. He
would cook up these marvelous concoctions in that skillet. I guess
due to the fact my father love to eat, he knew how to cook. After
dinner clean up, we would go out on a short walk in forest. It
seemed like he knew the names of all the different pines, flora,
birds and animals. Returning to camp, we would build a fire. He
would show me the proper use of a hatchet, how to split kindling and
the proper technique for building a campfire. As the sun set and the
fire grew we would talk about all sorts of things. That first night,
we would speak mostly about school and work. He would tell me about
what was happening at his job, and I about school, vacation and the
up coming year. We would usually turn in early. Dad always seemed
to be tired. This was no surprise. Ever since I could remember he
worked 2 jobs. Being a child, I had no idea what it cost to maintain
a household. The family was always fed well, and we had nice
clothes to wear. We always had a family vacation at the end of the
summer. I knew Dad's trade, a ship fitter/boilermaker paid good
money, but I think he wanted more in the bank for safety.
Dad would always would rise first, at the
crack of dawn. I would wake up a little later to the smell of frying
bacon, trout, potatoes and camp coffee. The vision of my Dad bent
over the Coleman stove is one that I cherish. He would always say
something along the line of “About time, thought I would fish alone
today!”. At the other end of the picnic table sat a stainless
steel bowl and a pot of hot water to wash up in. I would wash up and
the set the table for breakfast. At breakfast we would decide what
part of the creek we would fish. I would have my customary cup of
camp coffee. Strong and black. I would be wired for hours.
Rods and tackle in hand, we would set off
to the creek. We usually fished with in sight of each other. With
in 15-20 minutes, I could see a trout on my Dad's line. Then another
one. It wouldn't be long before I would walk down to his spot and
ask him what he was doing. My father had this unique smirk that was
part empathetic and part laughing. He would then begin another
lesson in the art of trout fishing. This day the water level had
raised a bit from the snow melt off Mt. Lassen. The higher water
level changed the structural dynamics of the river. The rocky bars
that were exposed yesterday are now congregating areas for the fish.
He explained that trout work from a place of maximum energy
efficiency. The trout will place themselves in an area that requires
little energy to hold position, but offer exposure to food sources.
The way the current breaks over the top of rocky bars indicates the
position. Changes in water volume changes types of food sources. To
explain this phenomenon, Dad gutted a trout he had just caught and
opened up the stomach. Inside was a small earthworm and grub of some
type. Food sources washed out of soil. We usually came ready with a
selection of live bait and an assortment of lures. Though we didn't
fly fish, we did have an assortment of tied dry flies, wet flies,
nymphs and larva. In this particular situation, he set me up with an
earthworm and he tied on a hellgramite pattern lure. He stood right
behind me, took the rod and flip cast the hook exactly where it
should go. The he place the rod in my hand and had me repeat the
action. First cast was long, second too short but my last effort
landed the hook and worm right in front of the rock and and it
instantly started to flow down stream, swirling in the current,
flowing by the sunken bar. He had me hold the line loosely in my
fingers to feel the light bite of the trout. I instantly felt a
light tug on the line and my reactions were like a bear trap! I
snapped back so hard, I pulled the hook out of the fishes mouth! One
more lesson: trout usually take bait lightly and you have to allow
the fish to 'mouth' the bait. A long 2 count then set the hook
lightly. After that lesson,
I moved down stream about 20 yards and test my new found skills. An
hour or so later, I had 1 rainbow and 2 brook trout on my stringer!
With a prideful smile I showed him my catch and he thought it was
pretty good work to!
We went back to camp for a light lunch
and to put our catch on ice. Dad always wanted to take a nap in the
afternoon and this allow me time to go off on my own to practice my
fishing skills. A few hours later, I would see dad, up from his nap,
somewhere on the stream. We would fish until late afternoon when a
new technique would come about: dry flies. As the sun would start to
set, flies of all types would appear. One would land on my dad's arm
and he would hit it. He would then inspect it closely, then open his
fly box and hand me a fly to tie on. This time it was a may fly.
May flies hatch in the evening and live only a couple hours. They
find a mate a die. For trout, it's an all you can eat feast. Our
creek was so narrow that it was easy to flip cast a fly on a spinning
rig. We both caught a number of trout. We through back the smaller
ones. I think I had 4 and dad had 6
We cleaned our catch and headed back to
camp. Trout was always for breakfast. I would help dad prep for
dinner. While he was cooking, I would build the campfire. We would
eat, clean up and we would go for a short hike. He would point out
animal tracks and tell me what made them. Back at camp, I would
stoke up the fire and we would talk.
Remembering my dad's face in the
flickering red-orange of the fire light. He had a rectangular face
with high cheekbones. A high forehead with grayish brown hair he
always combed back. He always had a forelock due to a habit of
twisting his hair when he was deep in thought. His eyes were an
expressive light blue that, most of the time, could tell me what was
going on inside. He was a man of large stature. He stood 6'3”,
large boned and broad shoulders. He had extremely strong arms; those
of a ship fitter. His hands were massive and strong. He spent 21
years in the Navy and retired a Senior Chief Machinist Mate (Marine Engines). He was the type of man
you knew entered the room.
He had the presence of a leader. I remember him with others and I
always seemed that dad was the one the others looked to for what to
do next. He had that air about.
My father was born in 1924 on the Idaho
panhandle in a small town named Orofino and grew up on the Columbia
river in Washington. He came of age in the Great Depression. He quit school at 16
to join the the Conservation Corps. My granddad had be come ill with
asthma and emphysema and could not work. It was up to my father to
bring money into the house hold. This experience gave him a
strength of will and toughness that is not often seen this day and
age. His time in the C.C's was spent in Bitterroot mountain range in
Idaho building roads and felling trees. I have never seen a picture
of him at that age, but I have seen ones from that era. Tough men
hacking out a living in hard scrabble times, wielding axes and
crosscut saws. Lumber hauled by mules and horses. He spent a couple
years in the Civilian Conservation Corps, then joined the Navy in
1940.
My father started a family later than
most. He was 30 when he married, 35 when I was born and 40 when my
sister arrived. He was usually 10 years older than the parents of my
peer group. When many men are still trying to 'find themselves', my
father had solid roots. Dad was a strict, but fair disciplinarian.
He had a well defined moral compass. I believe his uncluttered
values came from a simpler time. One doesn't lie, cheat or steal. A
handshake was a promise and all promises and commitments are kept.
To the best of my knowledge, Dad never lied to me.
As the logs burned, they would shift and
fall sending a swirl of sparks into the smoke column that would climb
like fireflies. I would ask Dad to tell me stories about growing up
on the Columbia river, what his interests were, what was school like,
etc. He would relate some funny anecdotes and events that stood out
in his mind. He told me of the boat the his father had that they
would use to net Salmon for food and trade. My grandfather was
always referred to as 'Pappy'. I guess with his given name, Faye
Charles, Pappy was the better choice. Like many sons, I was
interested in my father's relationship with his. When I would ask, I
would see a subtle change in his face; a darkness if you will. He
would talk around the topic and he tried to make a point of never
saying anything negative about Pappy. It wasn't until later in life
would I come to understand their relationship. I found out from step
mother that my grandfather was a harsh and rash man who beat my
father. She also told me that he would never allow himself to
discipline his children in anger.
As he talked I would whittle with the
sharp sheath knife I would be allowed to wear on my belt during these
outings. Never did understand the purpose of whittling, as I watched
the curls of white pine peal off the stick and flip into the fire.
It did seem enjoyable though. The fire would die into embers and it
would signal time for bed.
Awake again at dawn to the smell of a
camp breakfast. Clean up and off to the creek for more fishing
lessons. Once again the water level had changed some. Dad pointed
out different washes and where the fish would be. He also pointed
out areas of big rocks that created large slow pools. He flipped his
bait into the fast water edge and it swirled into the pool. I could
see something has taken the bait do to the way he tensed up and
pulled more line off his spool. All of a sudden, the rod shot back
and the was a nice size trout standing on its tail! He reeled the
fish in and he had a very nice brown trout. He took out his
ubiquitous 5” jack knife and gutted the fish. Opening up the belly
he could see remnants of small fish. He had me tie on a Colorado
Spinner and showed me how to work it. I caught my first brown trout
that day. They were a much tougher to catch than the planted
rainbows. I was quite please with myself. Dad was never too far
away. Every so often I would just stop and watch Dad. It was one of the few times I would see him at peace. The immense burdens that he always shoulder were
gone for the briefest moment. It was Sunday and the last day of
fishing. We would go out for a couple hours Monday morning, then
back to pack up the truck for the ride home. Through Dad's tutelage,
I was becoming a worthy fisherman. During the morning and afternoon,
I would do my best to put to work all the lessons I had learned. I
still missed strikes or loose a hooked fish, but I didn't mind too
much. I had four days with my dad; without interruption or
distraction. Writing this sounds selfish. I think being 10 years
old, I was allowed to be selfish.
1970 would be the last trip for to Hat
Creek. The early '70's would started a erosion of my family, ending
with the divorce of my parents in 1975. During this time, I started
to use drugs and alcohol as a coping strategy with the emotional
difficulty of home life, adolescence and high school social strain.
I would wrestle with with substance abuse for a large part of my
adult life. The divorce was like a bomb landing. I stayed with my
father in California and my sister went with my mother to
Connecticut, her home of origin. I finished my senior year of high
school then joined the Marine Corps. My father and I grew distant,
mostly due to my emotional disconnection.
Along with substance abuse, I was
emotionally troubled by the disjointed relationship with my mother.
These issues wreaked havoc on my own relationships and amplified
patterns of self destruction. I developed a mindset of feeling like
I was a disappointment to my father. It wasn't until my 40's when I
found long term sobriety. After a great deal of therapy and a 12
step program, I finally realized that it was my disappointment with
myself that I projected onto my father's opinion of me.
Unfortunately, much of this self awareness came after his passing in
2000.
I miss my father. I was crushed by his
death. He was diagnosed with cancer in January of 2000 and died in
May. What still troubles me today is I never said good bye. I
didn't get to be with him at the end. He died in the night alone in
the hospital. My step mother didn't even see it coming. There's not
a day that goes by that I don't think about him. I have also been
able to resolve my relationship with him. I don't think there is a
son that wants their fathers approval and pride. I finally have
taken to heart that I have always had my fathers. I dawned on my
that he wasn't disappointed with me having addiction problems. He
was proud of me fighting the good fight. I would get knocked down,
but always up again. I also know that he was very aware of my
intelligence and put it to good use as an electronic technician. I
also know how much he loved me. Just for who I am.
I had always hoped that Dad and I could
have had one more fishing trip, but that was not to be. I still fish
often. It is a source of solace, rejuvenation and pure enjoyment. I
live in Minnesota now and have lakes instead of the cold mountain
trout streams of California. Fishing is fishing. It still brings
out the child like wonder and excitement of my soul, perhaps bring
back the joy of my youth. On the calm quiet mornings, I can feel my
father behind me, his hand on mine showing me the mysteries of the
waters.
I think Norman Maclean summed the
relationship of fishing and man in his short story “A River Runs
Through It”
“Eventually, all things merge into
one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's
great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of
the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and
some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”
I too am haunted by waters.
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