I admit I was nervous. Not the kind of nervous you get standing in the batter’s box when everyone in the stands knows the pitcher throws a wicked curveball at the knees that causes hitters to swing violently — mostly at the air.
No, it was the kind of nervousness caused by elements that are primarily out of your control, like getting older and showing rust. I, for one, am not good at that.
The date was simple — my son asked to take me fishing for my birthday. Not any kind of fishing trip. Not by a long shot. The request was for an afternoon on a creek that I learned to fly-fish on, a creek from which I watched my son catch his first trout, and a creek where we together have spent hours upon hours casting flies to trout both seen and unseen.
In short, it was more of a trip down memory lane that is and was flooded with memories of life, friends, family and, of course, catching trout.
There was a time I spent fishing that creek a day or two per week or month, but lately, more like twice a year. That’s the thing about children who grow into adults — some things just get harder to do when folks get older and life seems busier.
I was humbled by the invitation, and no matter what life had in store for us that particular day, I was going fishing — out-of-practice and all.
The scene was as simple as a warm, late winter day can be. The warm air and bright sunshine made the day feel like a bonus and had an easy feel to it. After all, it was just fishing.
The creek was off-color and running high — sporty conditions, to say the least. The water was cold — the recent rains and frigid nights made certain of that. For us who prefer to fly-fish, the conditions were less than ideal.
Throw in the fact it was our first fishing outing of the year, and the obvious chinks in our armor not only showed, but poured out rust from every conceivable angle. There is nothing more dreadful than being rusty on the big day, or any day, for that matter, when fishing.
With waders on, I plunged into the creek and started casting toward a run along the bank. After many poor casts, I realized that no trout in its right mind was able to move fast enough to eat my fly as it blurred past its nose at NASCAR speeds.
I didn’t want to, but I decided to sit on a rock in the middle of the river and retie my entire rig to something with more weight to it. The low-and-slow presentation was in order and, in terms of fly-fishing, something to dredge to the bottom slow enough to entice a sleepy fish into biting. Boring, I know, but the heavy water current and conditions called for it.
Fishing slow when you are raring to go and excited is hard, at least for me.
In a long, slow run of the creek, I cast my heavy fly into the current and made an upstream mend of my line to allow the fly to drift as naturally as possible.
At the end of the run, I lifted my rod tip and was greeted by a tug from a fish.
Call it luck, skill, a dumb trout, finesse, beginner’s luck or a smart move by a tenured angler — I couldn’t care less. My son waded into position with his net outstretched to land my fish for me. If he hadn’t done so, I am certain I never would have landed the fish by myself in the strong current.
As he dunked his hands in the cold water to release the trout nose-first back in the current, he wished me happy birthday. On the ride back to the house, I thanked him for taking his old man fishing.
At that precise moment in time, I would not rather have been anywhere else in this world. My nerves were gone and replaced with only happiness and joy. I was simply glad to be part of that day.
I love that creek.
