Thank You, Dad

Sleet hammered against the tin roof, creating a low, humming echo throughout the house. With only one den light on, the fireplace cast a magical aura in the dark room. Orange nuggets of embers glowed as yellow flames flickered around the oak logs as high as the wood could burn. The room was enchantingly cozy and warm, especially after chasing trout with very little success in the frigid afternoon temperatures.

Watching a fire for any length of time can be hypnotic. An occasional ember would ignite, popping like popcorn as it hit the fireplace screen, deepening the trance-like state I was fading into. Fishing memories are like surprise presents given on special occasions out of affection.

It was a warm spring afternoon in the late 70s. Dad wanted to go trout fishing in a small stream, about the width of a dirt road, and located an hour from the house. He wasn’t a fly fisherman but loved using a gob of redworms carefully placed on a small size 10 hook, so they wouldn’t come off when he cast. The usual bragging comments erupted when he caught three trout with one helping of bait. I was only a couple of years into fly fishing and spent more time retying flies because they attracted more bushes than fish. I was forced to learn to tie flies to reduce the financial burden of constantly buying them. This theory was proven false, but it sounded good to my young wife at the time.

Dad and I met at our designated time and place after work, headed north, and planned to fish until dark. Dad worked a lot and hadn’t fished in over a year. His phone call actually caught me off guard. During our conversation, he mentioned that his stomach was craving fresh trout. What a great excuse to get my feet wet again, enjoying two consecutive evenings of fly fishing!

The weather was perfect in late April. Easter had come and gone, with no more frosty nights, and spring was in full swing. Dogwood petals began falling, replaced by new leaves halfway through budding. The woods displayed their various shades of green, emphasizing a sense of renewal. The air was so pure you could almost taste its freshness. And Dad and I were going fishing.

He enjoyed this time of year with the windows rolled down, and so did I. In the past, we had always talked, but not in great detail about things. The nitty-gritty topics were avoided with short answers of three words or less. This conversation was different. I was a young man soon to be a father like him, which also meant he was about to be a granddad for the first time, too. The conversation would have happened eventually, but the fact that fishing brought us together to share our feelings made it special. This was the shortest drive to the river I ever remembered. In fact, if he hadn’t known the way, I would have kept driving a little longer.

We put on our waders, and I assembled the fly rod while he stood there watching me. Lost in the moment, I hadn’t noticed that he had no worms or a spinning rod.

“Did you forget your stuff?” I asked.

“Nope,” was the short reply.

Quietly, I stood there, glazed over like a Krispy Kreme donut, “Huh?”

“I’m fly fishing today,” he said with the confidence of a person who had been doing it for years, “and you’re going to show me how it’s done. Besides, it does look pretty easy.”

Then he smiled and said challengingly, “I will try to stay out of the bushes more than you do. And bring the creel to hold my fish.”

“Yessir,” I replied respectfully.

Opening my fly box to pick a nymph to tie on first, I started counting the flies to ensure we had enough for tonight’s fishing. Based on my past experiences, it was going to be close. I had only learned how to tie a few fly patterns, and they were quite ugly, but neither the fish nor Dad seemed to mind.

There was a path from the parking lot down to the river, but we decided to walk a few hundred yards up the old, paved road, jump in, and fish both across and downstream. Hopefully, this strategy would take all the bushes and high grass bordering the river’s edge out of play, and we could focus more on fishing than replacing snapped-off flies.

I showed him how to roll cast, and after watching me, Dad then developed his own version. As long as the fly plopped correctly into the river and rode the stream currents naturally, it didn’t matter. After a few minutes of practicing, he repeated this basic idea back to me: “It’s more important to keep the bait,” referring to my flies, “in front of the fish’s nose.”

He missed a few fish at first but finally understood to lift the fly rod tip gently instead of trying to cross the fish’s eyes and jerk them completely out of the water when they bit. The laughter and back slaps lasted all evening with a few high fives thrown in. I remember that he only wanted four fish to eat. After these were caught and put in the creel, we hooked several more and released them.

A large boulder on the right side of the river seemed like the perfect place to clean these fish. It was half in and half out of the water, with a swell curve offering the butt a comfortable contour. We were on the same wavelength when he pulled seniority on me. I actually felt it was my honorable duty to clean his “first fly fishing caught” trout but didn’t want to be meek.

I argued back to him, “You caught these fish, so you should clean them. I’ve been carrying them around all evening for you. Do I look like your guide?”

“Yep,” he said. With the fading light and yet a bright twinkle in his eye, he continued,” I’m going to fish my way downriver and just catch up to me when you finish.”

But the next sharp comment came with a big grin, “Don’t give me any flies, I’ve used this same one all evening, and it should last.” Then he left me to finish the job and waded downstream.

It didn’t take long to clean four trout. Constantly watching him wade downstream and maneuver around the runs and riffles gave me a proud, warm feeling inside. Those early years he spent seining minnows to sell at the bait shop in Toccoa, Georgia, taught him well.

He caught several fish and landed two while turning around to check if I was watching. Then he would smile and give a big thumbs-up. We both were having fun. As it got dark, he pointed towards the car, and we headed in that direction.

As we took off the waders, he recounted every fish to me as if I hadn’t been watching him. Time spent fishing with family is special, and I really didn’t want it to end. He patted me on the shoulder and talked about what a wonderful evening he had fly fishing with his son. Turning to him, I reached out to shake his hand and said, “Thank you, Dad.”

Mike Watts is the publisher of riversandfeathers.com, a freelance writer, and the author of two books: “Riverbank Memories” and a children’s book, “Pond Fishing with Papa,” available on Amazon. His upcoming children’s book, “Fly Fishing with Papa,” will be released soon!