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An
exerpt from Water Marks
A
Kid No More
by Jim McLennan
originally
published in Fly Fisherman Magazine
Perhaps because she’s an only child, my daughter has been subjected to
an excessive amount of urging into a lifestyle of fishing and hunting.
When she was born our friends made all the usual jokes, asking when she’d
get her first fly rod and what size waders she needed.
The friends laughed, but I didn’t, probably because it was
closer to the truth than anybody realized.
Above my desk is a snapshot of a 5 month-old baby sitting on her
mother’s knee. Her mother
is wearing waders and a fishing hat, and is sitting in a driftboat. This
was not our daughter’s first float trip; it was her first post
natal float trip. 
We
showed Deanna how to cast with a Snoopy rod and reel in the backyard
when she was about four, and shortly thereafter she began reeling in
fish that Lynda or I hooked at a small pond near home.
Eventually she learned to stop cranking the reel before the
rod-tip poked the fish on the forehead.
When she was seven or eight she entered the difficult stage when
kids want to use a fly rod like their parents, but aren’t yet strong
enough to cast with a fly rod. We
maneuvered our way through this period by appointing her as our team’s
official fish-netter and fish-releaser, which she viewed as important
jobs, and which satisfied her, more or less, until she was able to
handle a fly rod on her own.
She caught her first fish with a fly rod on a rainy float trip in
British Columbia when she was nine years old, and I recall clearly a few
years later watching her hook, land, and release a number of westslope
cutthroats from a side channel on the Elk River.
A couple of years after that she stalked, hooked and landed her
first big Bow River rainbow on a dry fly.
Deanna was learning things through these years, but I was too.
Most important for me was the realization that it would be very
easy to push too hard. Though
inside I hoped she’d become the next Joan Wulff, or the first female
guide on the Bow River, or at least would marry a guy who fished with
dry flies and hunted with pointing dogs, I sensed that I could drive my
daughter away from fishing and hunting if I forced them upon her.
Quite early I learned that every session of fishing should be
accompanied by equal time for rock-throwing or bug-watching, and in some
ways that hasn’t changed much.
Last
summer, when she was 16, we went on a father-and-daughter fishing trip.
For two days we hiked along a brown trout stream that flows
through a friend’s land in the western Alberta foothills.
Fishing was - well, fishing.
There wasn’t much activity except for a brief, but stellar
episode with a good-sized brown trout and some pale morning duns.
It took place at a shady bend in the stream where we could see
the fish in the water. The
fish was holding just under the surface beside a fallen spruce tree and
was taking every bug that drifted over.
On the third cast Deanna’s fly dropped just behind the trout.
The fish must have heard the fly land, for it made an immediate
pirouette and began to home in, coming right toward us.
When the fish opened its mouth to take the fly, it was about 15
feet away, and we could see right down into its white gullet.
We landed, photographed, and released the fish, and giggled about
the dramatic way it came to the fly.
When
we got home Deanna told her mother that we’d had a great time on our
trip, that our friend’s cabin on the creek was really neat, and that
she really liked watching the beaver and the frog (“What beaver?
What frog?” I thought). Then,
not quite as an afterthought, but in obvious deference to her father,
she added “and the fishing was pretty good too.”
I
have a theory about obsession: that its existence can be confirmed by
the frequency with which you think about something when you’re not
doing it. By this
definition, I’m obsessed with hunting and fishing.
Deanna is not. She likes them, she is quite skilled at them, but
her life doesn’t revolve around them.
If she is obsessed, it is with other things, some which might
come from her parents –
like her love of music and words, for instance – and others, like her
passion for dance, which seem to have spontaneously appeared from the
air. I have learned not to
be disappointed with this. I
have accepted the possibility, remote as it seems, that these other
things could be as fascinating and rewarding and worthwhile to other
people as fishing and hunting are to me.
Through
most of her youth Deanna seemed pretty content to hang out with her
parents. We probably did an unusual number of activities together, of
both a sporting and non-sporting nature. But late last summer when we
were planning a family fishing holiday to the Missouri River in Montana,
Deanna began to feel life’s pull toward other things.
There was discussion about whether she would come with us or stay
home and spend time with her friends.
In the end we convinced her to come, and the trip was a success,
but Lynda and I got the distinct sense that the next decision about her
participation in such a trip would not be not be ours to make.
We
have reached the point where my ability to stir a passion within my
daughter for hunting and fishing (and likely for anything else) has
ceased. If it isn’t in
there now, it’s too late to put it in.
Her future interest in and pursuit of these things are beyond my
control. A friend wise in
these matters once told me that all we can do is introduce our kids to
fishing and shooting when they’re young, and then let them live their
lives. We shouldn’t be
surprised if they leave these sports behind while they’re focused on
schooling, careers, and spouses. But if they were introduced to field sports early, they are
likely to come back to them someday, and they might bring our
grandchildren with them when they do.
This
fall we arranged for Deanna to skip an afternoon of school so she could
go bird hunting with me. She
missed a great chance at a cock pheasant because she forgot to take the
safety off, and on the way back to the car we startled a huge mule deer
buck at close range. On the
drive home, after I’d teased her sufficiently about missing the
pheasant, she said, “There’s always interesting stuff going on out
here, isn’t there?”
I
think she’ll be all right.
Soft Spots
by
Jim McLennan
originally published in Gray's Sporting Journal

He went through his mental checklist,
finishing with a glance at the rod rack to make sure the security bar was
in place. Then he set the alarm inside the shop and went through the door
to lock it from the outside. Turning the key, he saw the reflection of a
Ford
Explorer pulling a drift boat into the parking lot and heading
toward the fly shop. "He wants a license and three flies, no
doubt," Steve thought, as he got into his pickup without
looking up.
He drove slowly through the parking
lot. In his mirror he watched the guy get out of the Explorer, try the
locked door, look at his watch and then climb back in and drive away.
Steve felt a little guilty about avoiding him. Maybe he'd have
bought a rod or an outfit.
Now he'll probably go to the competitor's first thing the next
morning. But more likely he was fly fishing's version of what a
friend in another segment of retail calls the "closing time
goof:" "Gee, thanks for staying open for me. I don't really need
anything except a fishing license, but I've never been here before and
would like to look around your shop a bit
and get some information if that's ok. What color are your pmds up here?
Where can I put my boat in the river? Can I camp on the islands? Do
you have any free maps?
Steve steered the pickup through the
warm, summer night, joining a stream of vehicles booming through the
streets with windows turned down and bass turned up. The weekend had
started and everybody was ready to unwind. Steve could never
understand people who looked to the heart of the city for their escape,
because he'd always had something better.
Lately, though, it seemed harder to differentiate between what caused the
stress and what relieved it.
He made his way toward the east end
of downtown and his mood softened as he began to anticipate seeing Derek
again. He parked behind a long line of mean-looking motorcycles
outside the Willy. The hotel's real name was the Prince William, but it
was more bar than hotel and was now known as, or tried hard to be known as
"The Willy, Home of the Blues."
Steve went to the side door, the one
that would have been marked "Ladies and Escorts" in a former
life. He pulled open the door and the sounds of the bar spilled out
briefly onto the thirsty streets. He paid the cover charge and squinted to
find a seat in the smoke. The ceiling was low and the dirty yellow walls
were chipped and stained. The owners of the motorcycles were identifiable
and abundant and he made a mental note not to use the men's room. The band
was into the first set, and Derek was taking a solo in a slow, rolling
Robert Johnson tune. Steve saw that Derek was still playing the '68 Strat
he'd bought while in university. Its sunburst finish was checked and
faded, and the maple fretboard, once a clean, pale blonde, was now deeply
stained from 20 years of work in the Willys of the world.
In his youth Derek had played with a
style that generally crammed as many loud notes into as few measures as
possible. But what Steve heard this night was mature and spare, drawing
more from B.B. King than Eddie Van Halen. In Derek's hands, tonight, the
old Fender was both scalpel and salve, and Steve couldn't tell if it was
pain or joy that drove it.
Derek had called when he got to town
and it surprised Steve, for they had been out of touch for many years.
They'd met in second year university and discovered some common interests
- first music, then outdoor stuff. They cut classes to chase ducks
together on the sloughs east of town, to hunt pheasants in the irrigation
country, and to fly fish the big river. They'd played in a garage
band together too, and Steve remembered the way
Derek would show up at a rehearsal with a sly smile and some
freshly-stolen Clapton or Jeff Beck licks to spring on the rest of the
band.
After graduating Steve continued in
the "fishin' musician" mode for awhile by guiding fly fishermen
on the river in the summers and playing piano in lounges in the winters.
It didn't add up to much of a living, though, and it had been fifteen
years now since a casual fishing friend came to him with the idea of
opening a fly shop. There wasn't one in town then, and the river's
reputation was growing. It was, as his friend had said, a business
opportunity that shouldn't be ignored.
Derek had more musical talent and it
took him away from home and onto the road with several bands, some
moderately successful, some less than that. In the late '80s it took him
to San Francisco, where he more or less settled, getting some work as a
session musician, occasionally playing on records, but more often working
on commercial jingles and muzak. He still had to travel to make ends meet
and he continued to work a circuit of clubs, arranging his dates to
coincide with bird-hunting seasons, steelhead runs, and important fly
hatches. Which was what brought him to town now - the trip he called the
"Pale Morning Dun Tour."
When the set was finished, Steve
waved through the gray haze and beer scent til Derek saw him and started
over toward his table. Steve watched him come through the crowded
bar, saw him stop to accept a high-five from a biker in leather, and
smiled at what had changed and what hadn't. The hair was a little gray -
still pony-tailed - and the beard hadn't gotten any better in 20 years of
trying. But Steve thought he noticed a weariness in Derek's walk that
didn't used to be there. The thought also struck him that Derek's face
seemed to
match the Stratocaster's - weathered and faded, lines gleaned honestly
from decades of late nights, smoke, beer, and noise. The proceeds of the
blues.
"You haven't stopped
practicing," Steve said, as they shook hands.
"I can't afford to. How's the
fishing?" Derek asked.
"It's fine, I guess," Steve
said. "How long have these guys been with you?"
"Oh they're from here. I pick
them up for this gig whenever I can. Can we fish before I leave
town?"
"Well, sure, I guess,"
Steve replied. After these years of teaching fly fishing schools, guiding
and taking out important customers, fishing for fun was almost a
foreign idea, and one Steve might not have come up with on his own.
"Yeah, I'm off tomorrow. We could go out for the afternoon I guess,
and I could bring you back here in time to play tomorrow night."
Steve listened to one more set,
nursing a couple of beers, and slipped out the door during the final tune.
A thunderstorm had blown through while he was in the bar and with his
first step outside he could taste ozone and electricity and expansive
relief from the closeness of the club.
At three o'clock the next day Steve picked Derek up and drove south out
of town toward the Pearson Ranch. Steve had had river access at Pearson's
for several years, but hadn't fished there since the previous fall. He
parked the truck in the shade of some cottonwoods and they sat on the tailgate to string the rods. Thunderheads were churning in the west
and caddisflies were beginning to dance above the grass. Derek was clearly excited and did most of the talking. Steve noticed he was still
using the Fenwick graphite rod he'd bought used in the early '80s. Steve was almost
embarrassed to uncase the newish Winston and Abel reel,
but buying your tackle at wholesale was one of the perks of being in the
business.
The clouds grew and the light diminished till a definite gloom owned the
valley. The first drops of rain on the tailgate made Derek put his camera
back in its case. The next drops were faster and closer together and made
both of them dive for the cab of the truck to wait out the shower. Steve took the thermos from under the seat and poured some coffee for each of
them.
"Damn, I wanted to get a picture of one of those big rainbows. It's been
too long since I've caught one. I couldn't sleep last night, knowing I'd be fishing this river today," Derek said as he slumped back in the
seat. A small smudge of fog grew on the front window above the thermos cup.
After awhile Steve said, "I've gotta tell you, your playing blew me away
last night. And I don't think I'm saying that because we're friends."
"Well, thanks," Derek said, "I'm glad my bad attitude isn't showing yet."
"Bad attitude?"
"I'm having a hard time staying enthusiastic."
"About music? How can say that and still play that way?"
"I don't know. It's just become such a - well, such a business."
Steve was quiet for a moment, stirring his coffee and looking out through
the side window that was cracked open.
Derek began again. "Hearing good music still gives me a sensation as
real as good food. And playing it is still a rush at times. But in a place like the Willy, it doesn't matter what I play. The drunk
bikers think we're great, even if we stink. Most nights I feel like we're doing guest spots for the juke box. I still love the music,
but if you play it for the wrong reasons long enough you can feel your soul starting to rot."
The rain let up and Derek was first out of the cab and first into his
waders. He started down the trail to the river. Steve noticed that Derek's stride was quick and light with no sign of the fatigue he'd
seen the night before. They walked beneath dripping cottonwoods to the river and turned upstream. They came to a section of broken water. The
current deflected slightly off the bank, creating a gentle hesitation, a small soft spot amongst the turmoil. It was a pretty good place to fish
a nymph and Steve offered it to Derek.
Derek added a strike indicator and one small shot to his leader and began
working a Prince Nymph upstream into the pocket. Steve sat down to watch and noticed that, unlike his guitar playing, Derek's fishing style was
pretty much like he remembered it. A couple of times he almost made
suggestions, but thought better of it and didn't.
Derek caught a 14-inch brown trout that seemed to please him. When Steve
stood up afterwards and said, "Let's go find a real fish," he immediately knew he'd chosen the wrong words.
The two of them continued up the river. It had turned into a pleasant
e vening. The wind had died, the air felt scrubbed, but something was still wrong. The thundershower had driven the caddisflies back to the
willows. The surface of the water was too clean. Derek caught a couple of more small fish on nymphs. Each time Derek fished, Steve sat on the
bank and watched, as had become his habit lately.
In another slower deflection upstream, Steve saw a fish rise. It was
the slow, head, dorsal and tail-waving rise of a big fish in shallow water.
He called Derek up and pointed out the spot. In a minute the fish did it again. Derek said
"Oh boy" like a little kid and started to fumble with his leader to remove the nymph, indicator and shot.
Steve suggested a size 18 Elk Hair, and gave one to Derek when he couldn't
find one in his own box. Derek got quietly into position downstream of the fish and waited for him to rise again so he could pinpoint the fish's
location. They waited several minutes, and then several more. The fish didn't rise again.
They continued upstream and discovered that the first fish had started
a trend. Several times they saw fish rise once or twice; a couple of times they made a few casts, but none of the fish were serious about it
and none rose more than a couple of times.
Later Derek caught one more small brown, this time on a dry fly, and
then they ran out of time. They hiked back to the truck, taking the shortcut through the pasture. They packed up tackle and poured more
coffee before heading for the city.
"Another memorable day on the river," Steve said with sarcasm, as he
started the truck.
"Well, we've had better," Derek said, "but it beats playing music for
drunks."

They rode on in silence until they hit the south end of the city when
Derek spoke again: "You know, I think I've figured out the problem."
"What problem?" Steve asked.
"The problem with life."
"Oh yeah?" Steve said.
"Yeah. The problem is you don't know when you're living in the good old
days."
"Oh yeah?" Steve said again. "Are you talking music or fishing here?"
"Yes. Both. If we could travel back to one of those days we had 20
years ago - fishing or hunting pheasants - we'd just be wishing for the good old days our Dads told us about. And if they could go back, they'd
be wishing for their Dads' good old days." He took a drink. "Then there's the duck hunters. You know, the guys that wait all fall for
the 'big northern' ducks to come down from somewhere. Did you ever
read that Charley Waterman story where he said that even in Alaska the duck hunters wait for the big northerns to come down? It's like the
present is never good enough."
"Are you telling me the good old days are always here? That this is
them?" Steve asked.
"I don't know. Maybe I am." They made their way through downtown, and
turned onto the street where lived the Willy. "I see my fan club is here," Derek said, nodding at the line of Harleys.
Steve parked and got out while Derek grabbed his tackle from the back of the truck. "Thanks
for this," Derek said. "You don't know how lucky you are to live this
close to a great river. Someday I'm going to move back here. I didn't
now how much I'd miss it."
Steve said goodbye to his friend, closed the tailgate, got in the truck
and headed west from downtown. He stopped at a red light and saw in
his mirror the fireworks from the summer carnival light up the sky above
the stadium.

(With apologies and thanks to
Amos Garrett)
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