My Grandfather sired and raised 10 children on a tobacco farm on the backside of the Blue Ridge just south of Stuart, Virginia. Because of him, my first “fly rod” was a cane pole my Grandpa put in my tiny hands when I was six years old.
As a youngster, he took me to a farm pond with my cousin Terry way back when -- a bottle of Dr. Pepper was only 10 cents.
I will never forget this day…for two reasons.
Number one, it was a great honor to be with him, riding by his side in his post-war green F150 truck. It was just “him and me”, me and Pa Gene in his bright blue pointer brand overalls heading off for some fishing.
Second reason was that I cried and was scared-to-death when my Grandpa had me yank that pole over my head, and a sunfish bombed down at my feet.
Most people’s beginnings in fly-fishing are this way.
We are not born into great wealth being handed a custom-made fly rod on your way to the family lodge.
Most of us are taken fishing for the first time by someone who loves us, and also loves fishing. And most of us started with corn and worms for bait.
Our love of fly-fishing is born out of a love of the outdoors, and a respect for the land God created.
For me, these were hot summers spent at the Grand Daddy’s farm, shadowing my cousin Terry -- a ranger at Hanging Rock State Park -- climbing on rocks, lake swimming and playing in the fields.
It’s funny how these influences have stayed with me, and no matter how far I have gone off the path, it has always lead me back to the woods and the water.
Flying over the Maumee River in Northern Ohio tonight, I looked at the window and thought what a nice bass stream this was, and secretly wished for a float trip instead of a business meeting.
A day on a stream is my church and chapel.
It’s what keeps my life in perspective, and it reminds me of how powerful these simple days of my youth have lead to such a satisfying life as an outdoorsman.
The sublime benefit though comes from sharing this with others.
Tomorrow, I am guiding a father and two young sons on a local trout stream.
The man is in the midst of a marital separation, and is bringing his two young boys for a day of bonding and to expose his sons to fly-fishing.
Fly-fishing is a solitary activity, and there are many days when I am fly fishing alone -- I get lonely. “Dialing in” on fish is not enough.
We all need company sometimes, if not to trade flies, techniques and put your head together with some else to figure: “Why all these dang fish are rising and none of them are hitting anything!”
You also need companionship for the drive, the walking, rock hopping and laughter that always ensues.
With a friend, getting your line hung in the trees when fishing is no big deal because chances are good that your partner has been hung as many times as you, and yes, we even trade techniques for fly recovery.
One of the misconceptions of fly-fishing is that proficient anglers don’t like to fish with less experienced anglers.
Because we all learned from someone, we all like teaching, learning and enjoy sharing with others.
For this reason, my company tomorrow is coming to fish and for something else, something less obvious. The “Dad” needs to talk to me, and the sons need to spend some time with their Dad.
Let’s never forget the power of these influences.
It is not about how more “I think I know,” or how much “more qualified” you are than me. It is about how we act of the water. How we share.
It's also about love. Love of the sport, and how much we love passing on these traditions to the fresh faces, and sometimes graying faces. It’s to the people that think there is nothing more essential than spending the day getting wet, and sometimes cold and sometime disappointed after a thin day on the water.
I was wading out of the New River a few weeks ago, and met a father from Galax who had summer custody of his son from Atlanta. He was teaching his son how to catch carp in the muddy flats.
From way far way, I kept hearing “the word,” my favorite word that resonated off the water all the way my introduction. It was “daddy.”
You could see the youngster’s joy in his eyes. He so fired up to have a pole, a worm and his Dad to coach him though the process of watching bobbers, and hooking these lunkers.
It all comes full circle on the water.
Like Granddaddy did for me, you will teach your grandson, son or daughter, and someday … and they will do the same.
They will never forget how much fun they had, not because of the fish, but because of how much fun it was to be with you.
Tight Lines,
Richard
