Trout Fishing with My Father. When I was younger, my father used to take me all over. When we went on

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1 By Cory Mastrandrea Trout Fishing with My Father When I was younger, my father used to take me all over. When we went on walks in the woods, I would run while he walked his own steady pace, never speeding up nor slowing down. Now matter how fast I went, he seemed always to be right there behind me when I looked back. He took me sledding too, on that blue plastic sled. It was big enough to fit both of us, which must have been his idea when he first brought it home from the store. I can remember the first time I used it. I sat in the front, and he sat right behind me holding onto me while we zoomed down the hill. I thought the hill was so big, but, as I grew, I always looked for the bigger, steeper hills that would allow me to go faster. Soon enough, he was watching from the bottom as I raced down the hills on my sled, sometimes throwing snowballs at me as I came. Then there was fishing. He would always take me fishing at some tiny, manmade pond, with other boys and their fathers around. Sometimes we went to a small dock that reached out into a tiny inlet of salt water. He would tie the line to a leader, set the bobber, and bait the squirming worms onto the hook. He even cast for me when I didn t want to. He used a lure, slowly, consistently reeling his line in, interspersed with slight jerks of the rod to give the lure life. Occasionally, he would look over at my rod to see if anything was eating my bait. My first couple of fish were caught this way. He noticed the tip of the pole bouncing a little and came over to help me. He pointed out the signals of a caught fish and held onto the rod with me as we reeled in together (I was too small to fully reel the fish all the way in by myself). Every now and then he told me to

2 check the hook to see if I had any bait left. He always told me that bait fishing meant patience. I had to be willing to just enjoy the stillness of the water and hold off the idea of potential excitement if I hooked one so I could focus on what was at hand. Many nights we went home together to mom with dinner already on the table. Other nights we brought dinner home. Then it came: the day my father came to me and said it was time I went trout fishing. Oh, how I remembered seeing him go off with a few friends and come back with beautifully speckled fish that my mother would fry up to feed us. I remembered on numerous occasions asking to join him, but he always told me not yet, that he would take me when the time came. Then it came on my twelfth birthday. I remember opening a card unattached to a present. Inside I found out that for my twelfth birthday present I would finally be going trout fishing with my father. Before I could fish, he took me out to buy a fly reel, a pair of boots that came up to my knees, and waders that fit loosely enough for me to wear a sweat shirt and two pairs of pants underneath. The entire process took several hours, and I made it longer by not being able to sit still while my father spoke with the man in the sporting goods store. We went through several pairs of boots until we found the perfect fit. My father must have had much patience with me, because I practically jumped out of each wader before fully putting it on, out of pure excitement. My father was meticulous, the first wader and pair of boots fit, and the second, and the third, and the fourth, but he methodically tugged and snugged, pulling and tying each individual piece to make sure that everything was just right.

3 When it came time to buy the pole, he looked for a reel that he thought was simple enough for me to use without ruining, and a pole that was long, but short enough for me to whip back and forth effectively. My father needed no help from any store associate to find the right rod. All he needed was to pick up each one, try out the reel, and eye it in my hands; then he would take it back, place it back on the shelf, and pick up another one. Watching him quietly going through the pile of rods made me understand the importance of his process. He took what he was doing seriously, but he never became angry or frustrated. He maintained patience and happiness. Trout fishing meant something more to him. It was bigger, deeper than just fishing off a dock or in a small pond with other noisy people around. It was a lesson that he went through, a lesson that I would go through. The day was planned out and scheduled for a Saturday, so I didn t have to worry about school. He took the day off and made me do all my weekend homework on Friday night before going to bed early. The next day we drove a long way (longer than we d ever driven for fishing in the past) to arrive where we were going. Finally, he turned down a long dirt driveway and drove up to a small log cabin. Standing outside waiting for us was one of my father s fishing buddies. He waved as we unloaded our equipment from the car and put on our waders and boots. Hope you catch a big one, the friend said to me with a smile. Thanks again for letting us come out to fish. My father looked up at his friend. No problem, any time, just ask. We picked up our stuff, and my father asked me to carry his fly rod, so he could carry the light tackle that he brought with us, and the sack to carry our caught fish in. I

4 looked at him in amazement, stopping in mid-motion. He had never let me hold his fly reel before this. He pat me on the shoulder reassuringly and said that if I were to use one, I would have to know how to carry it back and forth from the river. It took twenty minutes of marching through tall grass, over logs, and between trees until we could see the river. It looked small and not very fast. As we approached the water grew louder. At the bank of the river, my father told me to bring him his rod and leave mine on the shore for the time being. He showed me how to pull out the line efficiently while whipping the pole to and fro, sending the fly to the water s surface then snapping it back again. He asked me if I understood. I nodded to him, in a hurry to get in the water. With fly rod in hand I stepped into the river. Cool rushing water hit me like a brick, even with my waders on. The water was faster and colder than it looked. My father looked at me and chuckled, Don t worry, you ll be fine. Give it time, and the temperature won t be a factor. He walked downstream from me while continuing to fish. Spread out a little. We don t want to hook each other. I stayed close to shore and tried casting the line out into the middle of the river, but it never got there. I tried again, but the fly still landed no more than 7 feet away. It took twenty minutes until I eventually began whipping the pole and pulling out enough line to send the fly to the middle of river. The whole time my father stood twenty yards away from me watching as I struggled. He never said a word, just kept fishing with his head turned so he could see me. About an hour went by. My father had caught and released three small trout. I hadn t caught anything. My father s fourth trout was large. He seemed to struggle with

5 it for several minutes before I saw a thrashing tail break the surface four feet away from his legs. He pulled the sack out and lifted the pole high above his head, bringing the trout out of the water before lowering the fish into the sack, unhooking the fly and clipping the sack to his waist. He let the sack trail in the water behind him, creating a swirl that trailed down river. Instead of recasting, he motioned to me to stop and walked along the bank to where I stood in the water. Try casting over there. He pointed just shy of a small area near a rock that overlapped the water. Less than five minutes later I had reeled in my first trout ever. At twelve years old, I had no idea how to deal with the fish and the water and the fly and the sack at the same time, so my father helped me unhook it. He handed the fish to me afterwards; it was beautiful, speckled with red and orange spots across a smooth grey body. I placed my trout-filled hands into the water for several seconds before finally letting the fish swim free. I remember laughing with excitement, not able to wait until I could tell mom. I caught several other small trout in the same area over the course of the day. At some point my father told me that we had about half an hour left until we had to head back to the car. I looked at him disappointed. When he asked why, I told him that I had wanted to catch a fish that I could bring home, one I could show people. Chuckling, he said, You have to go into deeper water to catch bigger fish. That way you can reach more places when you cast. Immediately, I held up my pole and began wading forward into the heart of the river. The water became deeper, colder, and faster. As the water reached above my waist, the bottom dropped and my foot slipped, sending my shoulder down into the

6 water. My father grabbed my wrist and pulled me back to my feet quickly. Watch your step. Deeper water is entirely different than water near the shore or near the dock. Slowly, I continued forward. For the next twenty minutes I fly fished into the deeper water. On one cast, with about ten feet of line out, the surface broke violently. Seconds later the pole jolted forward, bending almost in half as the line went taught. I had been fishing before, but this fish felt bigger and stronger, especially against the current, than any fish I had felt in the past. Slowly, I worked the fish closer by straining to raise the top of the pole and lowering it quickly while reeling in the extra line. For the line I took in, the fish took out just as much. The gap between me and him grew. Trying to get closer to the fish, I walked out farther in the river. The water now came up to my shoulders. Now the rod stayed above my head even when I lowered it to take in line. The fish seemed to swim the opposite way, keeping the same gap between us, no matter how much I pressed forward or amount of line I reeled in. After a while, I couldn t bring the fish in anymore. The pole continued to bend. I simply raised and lowered it to keep the strain off the line. The fish seemed bigger, older, and smarter than me. It knew exactly what to do to keep me off balance. I felt as though it was playing with me, not the other way around. By now it must have known that the fly was fake, but the fish fought with an attitude that stated very emphatically, I found it; it s mine. It wasn t fighting for its life; I had no chance of catching it. We were struggling only over the fly, a fly my father had given me to use, a fly I now had every intent and purpose to return. Had it wrapped around a tree limb, or snagged around something in the middle of the river, I would not have cared so

7 much. But this was my father s fly, and this trout was trying to steal it. I would not allow this fish to steal my father s fly. Eventually the trout made a break, streamlining right toward me. Immediately my immature mind snapped away from defending my father s possession and back to the fish. My inexperienced hands fumbled with the reel as I tried to take in the line. I wasn t fast enough. The fish jumped in the air and spit the hook. The line went limp. I reeled it up, and the trout swam away to where it felt safe, where I knew I couldn t contend. The fish didn t matter. I had my father s fly. I had won. Holding the rod over my head, I walked back to where my father stood. He had been silently watching me struggle with the fish, unknowing of the internal battle over the fly that went on between me and the trout. Sometimes deeper water holds bigger fish than one can handle. The more you fish the more you ll know how deep you can go to catch the biggest fish you can handle. Maybe one day you ll be able to wade into the middle of the river and fish, but not yet. Would you like to try to catch another fish, maybe smaller maybe standing closer to the shore? No, I m ready to go, I said. I m tired. Ok. He put his hand on the top of my head and slid it down to around my shoulder. We waded back to shore, walked back to the car, and stripped off our boots and waders before packing all the stuff into the car. My father put his trout into a cooler, said goodbye to his friend, and started the car. I fell asleep as soon as we turned out of the driveway onto the road. I slept all the way home. My father must ve carried me into my room and put me in bed. When I woke up, all the equipment had been taken out of

8 the car and put away. My father sat in his chair talking with my mother, who had cleaned and prepped the fish. Thirty years later standing at my father s funeral watching the casket being lowered to the ground, I remember that day, and all the other times we went trout fishing. I listened to the priest s prayer and watched everybody walk and drop flowers. Last in line, I walked up to the hole to throw in a handful of dirt onto the top of the lowered coffin. It felt like silt (sand) from the river bottom as it left my hand. All the cars left the cemetery to go joyfully reminisce over food, except me. I turned an opposite direction and drove until I reached a long dirt driveway. As I put on my boots and waders, an old friend came out to meet me. I m sorry about your father. Thank you. I walked the twenty minute trek to the river alone for the first time. When I arrived, I tied one of my father s flies onto the end of my line before stepping into the cool running water. The river didn t seem as cold or fast or deep as it once had. I slowly walked out to the middle of the river where I could reach the furthest on all sides with my cast. I began whipping the pole back and forth and letting out more line and couldn t help but think that my father had been the one walking in front of me the whole way and now stood in the middle of the river casting alongside of me.