Jack B and his first snowman
By Rob Bennison
Planning a fly fishing trip with my young son was exciting for both of us. First, we would camp with his Boy Scout troop and then drive up to the North Georgia mountains to continue teaching him to fly fish. He really liked both outdoor activities. But, to paraphrase a famous former boxer, “Everyone has a plan until it starts snowing.”
Golf and fly fishing take up most of my spare time now. I have spent a small fortune on myself and the family for fly rods, waders, boots, tippet, and flies designed to fool creatures with brains the size of a lima bean. And yet one of the best days I’ve ever had “fishing” involved zero fish, no casting, and a minor act of parental treachery involving a snow-covered tree.
These days, my 18-year-old son Jack is a big, fit fellow. He’s a football player, golfer, and a darn good-looking lad — the kind of guy who eats an entire pizza as an appetizer and still looks ready for Spring Break. He is also a very skilled fly fisherman, as he proved again this past Christmas, when unseasonably warm weather prompted us to head to the river.
As so often happens, he caught quite a few fish — including the biggest one, a 23-inch rainbow that dwarfed anything I managed to hook and release. But when I think about our best day together on the river, I don’t think about the 23-inch rainbow. I think about the day we didn’t catch a single fish; in fact, we never even strung a fly rod.
Thinking back on that day, especially now as I endure a stretch of cold, wintry weather, I am reminded of that time six years ago in late January. Jack was just a skinny eleven-year-old Boy Scout then, whose winter survival plan mainly consisted of yelling, “Hey, Dad! Come look at this!”
We had been camping for a couple of frigid nights at a scout camp in northwest Georgia. It had been cold, windy, and thoroughly unpleasant — but we made it through. After surviving that ordeal, our next adventure was driving to our weekend place on the Soque River in northeast Georgia. Our intent also included picking up a puppy from a nearby breeder. Mom had approved of Jack skipping a day of school to fish, hang out, and bring home the newest member of our family. This was going to be a great father-son weekend.
We thought we were the lucky ones. But luck isn’t always guaranteed; it’s an event brought about by chance, not by human interaction. The night we arrived, we were cold, wet, and exhausted. The forecast called for snow, and we hoped it would. A little “Scout” preplanning was in order. We started a fire, and bundled up blankets, coats, and other supplies for whatever surprises the cold night might bring. Then it was time to cook up some of my famous chili and watch a movie. Jack impatiently kept looking out the window. Finally, Jack jumped up and noticed flurries blowing around outside.
“Dad, look! It’s snowing!” he hollered.
Kids love snow because it means something wonderful might happen — a snow day off from school. I scoffed and muttered under my breath as only a guy from up north who has survived many nor’easters can.
“That’s not snow,” I replied. “It looks like powdered sugar on a brownie. Decorative. Optional.”
I told him to quit worrying about the snow and get back to the movie. We’d see if anything stuck in the morning. Besides, tomorrow we have a plan — sneak in a little fly fishing before heading to pick up that first puppy. This was to be a special pup. Super cute Cavalier, no noise, no shedding, I would not have to do anything to look after her, etc. After years of incessant begging and ever more wide-ranging promises, the kids had finally worn me down, and I agreed to let the puppy inside our home.
Early the next morning, I woke up to a little boy’s smiling face about six inches from mine, sputtering excitedly that I had to come see the snow. I mumbled something about how he was a southern boy who didn’t know anything about real snow. After all, I had grown up in upstate New York — snowstorms were the real deal up there.
I ambled outside and, lo and behold, my brownie had apparently been dumped into a five-gallon bucket of powdered sugar. We had about three inches, and it was still coming down steadily in big, fluffy flakes.
I stepped outside and heard that sound. If you’ve ever experienced a heavy snowfall, you know it. A true snowfall makes a kind of hushed silence — the kind of noise that makes you whisper even though no one asked you to. This wasn’t going to be a dusting. It was going to be fun. When a young boy experiences his first big snow, it’s as good as Christmas Day. We were going to play outside as long as we could stand it.
Now, keep in mind, Jack preferred to sleep in and took forever to get dressed for school. But throw in a snowstorm and the excitement that goes with it, and he got bundled up in about eight minutes.
Fly fishing was officially off the itinerary. But snowball fights and building a proper snowman were definitely on. Jack was no match for me in a snowball fight, which delighted me and made him cold and wet. After trouncing him a few times and enduring Jack’s whining that somehow the whole battle was “unfair”, we went inside to warm up and change into dry clothes.
“We need to make a snowman!” he exclaimed. I thought to myself two things: First, this is as good a snowman day as any he will probably experience in Georgia. And second, although it had been a while since I was a young boy, my brothers and I never failed to make a snowman after the first big snowfall. You’ve just got to do it!
So back outside we went, rolling up big round body parts — three snowballs stacked high. I sent Jack to gather sticks for arms. We weren’t exactly prepared, so there were no buttons for eyes or a carrot for the nose. But we had a fishing hat and a scarf, and we used rolls of tippet for his eyes. Jack posed proudly beside his handsome creation.
After a while, I suggested we check out the river to see if any fish were moving. We trudged through what had now become about six inches of snow down to the riverbank, which sat more than ten feet above the water. It was a magical sight. No fish, but now nearly six inches of fluffy snow blanketed every branch and rock. Jack got a kick out of making giant snowballs and hurling them into the water.
At one point, the mischievous little devil on my shoulder whispered, “Do it. Go ahead and tell him.”
So I casually said, “Jack, check out that river birch. It looks frozen solid. Go ahead and give that tree trunk a big shake and see if you can move it.”
Like a trusting Scout and loyal son, he grabbed the trunk with both hands and gave it everything he had. The tree responded by dumping a minor avalanche of snow right down his collar.
He stood there — stunned, blinking through snow — reconsidering every life choice that had led him to believe I was trustworthy. We both burst out laughing.
“Buddy,” I said, “only a little fellow from the South would fall for that one. But the silver lining is, you’ll only ever fall for it once.”
After another snowball fight, we went inside and made hot cocoa.
We ended up with eight inches of snow. No fish. No puppy. Just two sets of very wet, cold clothes draped over every available chair to dry. And the kind of memory that dads and sons uniquely share — the kind that never slips off the hook.
Thanks for that day, Jack.
