Richard Formato

Richard Formato is an avid catch-and-release fly-fisherman from Wytheville, Va. When not on the water, he operates a small business there. Formato loves to fly-fish in his native Southwest Virginia because of the great water and wonderful people. He also loves to fish the flats and shallows of the Gulf of Mexico and Atlantic whenever work and weather permit. He is on the Department of Conservation and Recreation's board of directors and is a trustee of the Shenandoah National Forest and Skyline Drive.

Recent columns

• What about Bob?
• Notes from the Charlotte Fly Show
• A chance meeting
• A wish for Jack

• Column archive
• Talk fly-fishing

Tuesday was one of those bluebird days.

Spring had arrived and I had fish to catch.

This was the day I had been waiting for.

Joe Williams, the VDGIF biologist had e-mailed me directions to the East Fork of Chestnut Creek, locally known as Farmers Creek , and I snuck out of the office at 2 to see if I could wrangle a few natives, using my Sage Zero Weight.

Cruising by the house, I saw my 4-½ year old girl perched in the kitchen watching "Noggin’ TV."

"Want to go fishing?" I asked.

Before she could answer, I wished I had not made the offer.

I had the whole afternoon lined up for myself, and I just asked my daughter to come with me to scout wild trout?

“Sure Daddy!”

Normally, I couldn’t compete with Tallulah, her favorite biddy baby doll, or the fun she would have saddling up to her Mom for the rest of the afternoon, but yesterday was different.

Hearing my offer, came Mother, still nursing our 2-month-old, was more than willing to have a little down time.

“I’ll get her things.”

Two minutes later, we are heading down I-77 towards Fancy Gap, playing Eye Spy.

“Eye Spy something tall and green!” Answer: a tree.

Farmers Creek is one of those Blue Ridge Parkway brook trout streams that stay untouched due to its tightness, the wicked brush overhangs, and the abundance of better and more obvious choices for trout fishing in Virginia.

It’s a special regulation stream, and is on the high slope just west of Piper’s Gap off the Parkway.

Following Joe’s great directions, we pulled into a nice beach right against the creek.

Bounding out of the truck, Lily found a sandy place and immediately started playing.

“Daddy, can we have a picnic?”

Looking downstream, I clinched my teeth, and sat down next to her. “Sure!”

“Let’s see what Mommy packed for us.” Opening the soft side cooler were snacks and sodas.

No beers, no cigars, no profanity.

Using my chest pack, instead of tying on a Blue Quill Gordon, I was snipping off yogurt tops.

“This is having fun, isn’t it Daddy?”

Yes honey, this is “having fun.”

Soon after we headed downstream looking for a place to throw a fly.

It was all going wrong. Lily wanted to be carried because of the pricklies (wild roses) and then informed me “this was not a good place for a little girl.”

That surprised me, because she is normally game for anything.

Hoisting her back to the truck, we went upstream through the sedge and found a small feeder branch to jump over, and over, and over, and over.

Then, back to the sandy spot for more sand castles.

With a draining sun, and sensing she was starting to fade, I broke down my Sage and hastily threw it in the front seat and gently placed Lily in her car seat and we headed for the barn.

Back in Wytheville, I aggravatedly started reorganizing my gear.

A slight problem: a missing tip section to the Sage.

Great, a spoiled day that just now cost me a repair on a $500 fly rod.

I was glad the day was over.

On Wednesday, I woke up feeling the itch of a lost chance on Farmers Creek from the day before, and also pining for my rod tip.

So I ducked out after lunch and told my office I might not be back.

Hooray!

Absolved of responsibility, I was on my way back to Farmers Creek for some real fishing.

This will be a good day!

As I pulled onto the Parkway, I started noticing what a different day this was.

The truck thermometer was reading 44, and it looked more like the third week of fall than the first week of spring.

Drawing close to Farmers, I started missing my daughter, and starting reminiscing about the day before.

Unlike yesterday, it was now dark, cold, windy and lonely.

Pulling into my spot, I immediately realized the rod tip was not there.

And nether was Lily.

I got out, put on a windbreaker, and starting walked around.

I saw Lily’s handprints in the sand.

Gasping, I put my hands over my face.

I was ashamed.

God forgive me for being so unbelievably selfish as to not realize what a incredible gift yesterday was!

Strolling up to the branch, I saw Lily’s tiny footprints still in the mud, and I thought of how yesterday I was kneeling down to tie her small little shoes.

I remembered how much she was enjoying herself.

How much I was enjoying myself, and thinking about how sad I was now being here without her here.

What was the matter with me?

I felt an empty loneliness I hadn’t felt since before I met my wife.

Yesterday in this field, the birds were chirping, the sun was glowing, and we were playing.

Now, it was crows, a dark creek, a dun field and an ashamed father.

Leaving, I looked down once again.

In our play spot, I drew a heart in the sand.

The trout would have to wait.

I headed home.