We went at dawn when the river and trees and rocks still faded into a blue shadow waiting for the sun. It was too cold for my son to last long wading through the shallow water, but he woke early that morning so off we went. Neither wore waders. Most of the time he spent crouched along the bank moving sand with a stick and poking at stonefly husks stuck to round river rocks dried up and whitewashed between the grassy bank and where the rocks were wet from the river.
“I’m hung up.”
My brother looked back from the bow of the drift boat then picked up line to cast while I bent the rod deep and gave a few jerks.
We were anchored at the head of a long cut bank along the Big Hole river. Wet grass dried in the breeze and a grey sky rolled against the hills beyond the bank. I needed a long cast upstream and quick mends to get the flies down and I had been bumping bottom here and there since we stopped.
My father watched from his hunched forward position while I worked to get free from above him. Nothing doing. I reeled in all my line and grabbed it tight, then repositioned my efforts with the rod to work angles that might free the hook.
Satisfied with my best efforts I stood resigned to break off and lose the flies. In that moment the taught line slid. A few inches maybe, but upstream.
I was quiet, and then, “I can’t be hung up. The line just moved.”
It felt good to be fishing and catching fish.
“Wanna catch a fish pop?”
He always asks the same way. I always smile.
Yes. Let’s go. I do want to catch a fish. Even though I know it is not the fish we are after.
I know the adventure of the river motivates him more that the act of fly fishing. I know it is the excitement of the car drive and the sounds of Cory Morrow and Waylon Jennings as he softly sings along. I know it is the journey into a part of his father’s world that convinces him he is tasting something special. Like staying up past bedtime on the Fourth of July. I know all of that. Or maybe none of it. Maybe he is teaching me as much about fly fishing as I have to give. Or at least giving me the chance to see who he is against the pure backdrop of a cold trout stream cut through ancient mountains.
I was grounded. The United States budget sequestration in 2013 meant sweeping cuts to the military and because my flying squadron at the USAF Weapons School in Las Vegas was not “combat-coded”, we were left without a class of students to teach for six months. I found myself in the middle of the Nevada desert with no flying duty. In my mind, no flying meant “gone fishing”. But first, I would have to embrace the drive.
Sheets of light sliced through cracks in the steep rock walls and cut through clouds of insects above the river. Thousands of dull blue-grey wings sparkled in and out of the rays shifting through the shadows. Sometimes a breeze carried warmth from where the sun still hit the grass outside canyon to where I waded in the cool evening air.
“Pop! A fish!” It startled me. He waded only a few yards ahead. The river barely reached his tiny shins. We had fished this stretch most of the morning because of it. I was focused on the bend in the river and working out my plan to set him up where the shallow riffle reached a ledge and faster water from the outside flowed in to make a place trout would hold.