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

With spring fly-fishing in full swing, this is a good time to muse about what the season will hold.

This year, what will we remember?

Will we always remember the day we went fishing by ourselves? Alone wading in some creek somewhere?

Will we never forget bantering with a guide about some inane technique?

Or fly-fishing with your best friend?

Maybe?

I remember a lot of my best and worst days, but the days I remember the most are the days where fly-fishing had almost nothing to do with my experience.

It is always something other than the fish that sticks in my memory.

I remember laughing at myself when I went belly up in Raven’s Cliff at Cripple Creek on a freezing fall day.

I remember the melodious sound of Bruce Wankel’s voice describing a “blue bird day” on the Tennessee tail waters.

For sure, I will always remember late June.

At a church social on the last Sunday of the month, I met the gang from St. John’s Episcopal at Bill Gilmer’s cabin in Camp, Va. Turning in his drive, there was a small laurel-covered stream in front of his homestead.

Saying my hellos, I was immediately approached at the outing: “I hear you like to fly fish. My grandson has never fly-fished, but has had me take him to the library every day since he got here to read fly-fishing books, and he is wanting to learn.”

At that point, I was introduced to Matthew Rose, who was about 11-years-old, and visiting his Grandma from Largo, Fla.

Matthew was having a nice time in the cool mountains of Southwest Virginia, but like any boy, he wanted to get out, and do something new. He wanted to fly-fish!

The youngster had spin fished with his Dad all around his tropical home, but he had the fly-fishing bug, and he had it bad.

I also had a choice that day.

I was fished out. I had been trolling in Rural Retreat Lake for crappie all afternoon, and I was ready to grab something to eat, and to see some old friends that I do not get to see due to my less than perfect church attendance record.

“Let’s go,” I exclaimed.

Talk about pressure.

This kid looked at me with such expectation, such delight at being able to do the one thing he was dreaming all vacation about.

Now, I am praying. Please let this be the time I catch a fish!

Tying on small bead head pheasant tail, I explained that these small spring creeks often hold small rainbows and brook trout. Grinning, I said, “the only way to find out is to fish for them.”

So upstream we went, me showing Matthew the joys of roll casting to fish out of sight, yet within 5 feet of your rod tip.

And right at the start, I abashedly showed him how to unhook a nasty fly tangle by snipping off a twig branch with the small pair of sewing scissors I kept in my chest pack.

At the first pools, I made the first few casts, and hooked and released a few small trout.

Now, it was Matthew’s turn.

Sure, we lost a few flies, and I stretched a few times to get the line out of the trees, but in a flash, I started seeing Matthew actually start dropping the fly in the water.

Standing away now, Matthew cast intently and caught his very first fish on a fly rod!

Whooping and hollering, a group of kids from the group came running to see the commotion. Unimpressed with a 6-inch wiggling trout, they skulked back to the barbecue.

We smiled at each other and kept fishing.

A few weeks later, deep in my world, a type-written letter arrived at my office from Florida.

Here's what it said:

Dear Mr. Formato,

Thank you for taking me fly-fishing in the creek. Thank you for helping me catch my first fish on a fly rod.

Thank you for the time you spent with me that you could have spent fishing with yourself. Thank you for being such a good patient teacher.

Thank you for giving me the fly that caught my first fish. Thank you for giving me all the information about where to catch fish and where to get equipment like wading shoes.

I really had a good time with you. It would have taken a long time to learn what you taught me in a short period of time. It is nice to meet someone who likes fishing as much as I do. I will never forget being with you in a creek and the things you taught me. I hope we can fish together in Virginia again.

My Dad would love to meet you and fish with you in Florida. When you are in Florida, please contact us.

Sincerely,

I will never forget this letter, and I will never forget the lessons Matthew taught me.

The lesson is that no matter what your ability, a kid always loves to go fishing.

A memory you both will share, and be proud of, for two lifetimes.