What brings you to the river?
While shooting the breeze with the proprietor at my favorite local fly shop one day, he asked me a simple question: “What’s so special about trout?.
I live in Northwestern Vermont along Lake Champlain; the bass and northern pike fly-fishing is superb. There are lake trout and landlocked salmon too, but you’ll need downriggers to find them most of the year.
“I like bass,” I replied, the curl of my lip and shoulder shrug displaying my semi-honesty. In truth, I really didn’t know why I focused so heavily on trout, and the question has been nagging me since.
Knowing I wasn’t alone, I immediately turned to Google to find like-minded anglers and their explanations. I quickly found commentary that resonated – something about trout living in clean, cold water, so to catch them, you have to be immersed in a similar environment. Very Robert Frost-like.
And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I see a hatch…
These phrases are especially appropriate for New England, but I knew there was more. And then it hit me – my earliest trout-fishing memory.
To this day, 40 years later, I can still hear my dad’s words and recall the thrill of anticipation they provoked. “There are so many fish in this creek, they named it “Trout Run!’” My 7-year-old eyes as big as saucers, my imagination running wild, we parked near a bridge and were drowning worms in no time.
Looking back at that magical day, what I remember most, what really stood out among the lush green hardwoods of Central Pennsylvania, fishing along the banks and looking across the cool, clear creek to the groundhog that kept bopping about, was that we didn’t catch a single fish. Not even a chub. Catching trout was hard.
So, maybe that was it. Elusive fish in a fantastic habitat—I was getting closer, but there were more pieces to the puzzle.
Through high school and after college, I started learning how to catch trout. To my delight, I discovered the stream that fed the little lake of my housing community was a fantastic, secret, wild brook trout fishery. Over the years walking that stream, I felt I arrived as a trout fisherman. I pinched my first barbs, really learned how trout behave in their natural environment, and while still using bait, I nonetheless mastered what I would later learn was called the “dead drift.. And, there was also the fact that I out-fished Dad 10:1. I didn’t gloat. As a matter of fact, in subsequent years I was thrilled to see him walk that stream with the new rod I got him for his birthday to replace the 30-year-old telephone pole that served as both his fishing rod and a bear-deterring weapon.
My dad is my hero, but I was a much better fisherman. Tricky trout in a heavenly habitat plus one-up on Pop. I’d be lying if I said this revelation played no part in my growing trout romance, but a thorough self-examination reveals I’m not quite that shallow.
Several years into my love affair with fly-fishing, the final piece revealed itself. As I was preparing for my bucket-list trip to Montana, researching as much as Google and YouTube could provide, a thought struck-me: a father-son trip out west to fish the fabled waters surrounding Bozeman and Helena as a team. I got excited thinking about the possibilities. I constructed an eloquent email extolling my dad’s excellent athletic abilities, hoping he’d overlook his recent struggles with the fly rod. With a little practice, I knew he could have as much fun as I was having.
A few days later I received his reply, and at the time, I think I could have snapped both tips of the bamboo rod I’d been building for six months. Dad chose his words very carefully—he didn’t want to hurt my feelings—but he had to be honest. Turns out, Dad really doesn’t like fishing that much. He made sure to mention that he enjoyed all the times we had fished together, and he wouldn’t mind more of the same, but fly-fishing in Montana was about as desirable to him as a root canal.
“How could this be?” I lamented to my wife. “A lifetime of fishing trips and he never liked fishing?. And that’s what spurred the thought, the final piece.
Over the next few days, I revisited every trip we ever took and recaptured every fish we ever caught in my mind. It became clear as that cold, clean water why I was so enamored with trout. It wasn’t so much the fish at the end of the line as it was the guy standing to my left, first pulling my line tight, admiring, then finally releasing the fish back into the current. My mentor, my best friend, my hero, my father, was my fishing buddy—and it turns out he wasn’t even there for the trout.
This article was originally published in January of 2020.
My Dad has been gone 16 years now, so miss all the fishing and hunting trips. Neither one of us was the greatest at either but the time with Dad and his friends was priceless. Wish I had a lot more pictures of those times. My sisters enjoyed many trips with Dad also and have many fond memories of those days.
My dad was an awesome fishermen. He could catch bass in a mud puddle. He inspired me. I now can catch bass in the kitchen sink. He was good but because of being jealous of him I’m better. I made him jealous of me. Thanks pop
Great article! Pretty much sums up all trips with my dad. He closes most trips with “well it’s good just to get outside and spend some time together”. It’s not always about catching fish, but if you do its a bonus.
Dad was the worst front boater in the world, he has been gone for 20years.still hard not to cry and miss the best fishing partner in the world.
My Dad was my teacher best fisherman I ever knew been gone now 25 years miss him terribly I use many of his techniques today always catch fish
My age is 84. I took my 2 sons fishing for several years but never did much fishing. I now take my grandson fishing and he is teaching me fly fishing. I have enjoyed this time of fellowship even I never caught many fish.
My dad took me trout fishing the first time I remember seeing a trout .I was hooked although we didn’t catch any we sat on a tree crossing the river.in the shade line I saw the most beautiful trout .week later I had a little pocket paper back with different fish species there was an illustration of a swift run guy with a bowed rod and a rainbow jumping far below the man .That picture for whatever reason despite probably 200 more fish drawn they did not matter That rainbow had to be the coolest than brook than brown ..Any how I have not thought of that trip Mostly because it was a rare event But after seeing the trout and buying the book I understood I could go catch one if I went again the problem I noticed was the rock hard three week old ,five pieces of moldy Swiss cheese would fall off the hook and my zebco had a knot about 4 ft of line from the rod tip was all we worked with .So I was bought my own push button and just in the back yard I figured out how to cast and fix tangles and started collecting earth worms in a Folgers coffee can. my neighbor mom used to like to bike in ridley creek state park she asked if I wanted to fish while she biked. I did!! We crossed the creek by bridge to get to the bike loop ..And as we did I could see fifty giant trout splashing on flies or chasing each other .i said I’ll be right here .and off she went as I walked to the water a sign said delayed harvest fly fishing only ???ah ha got this covered I tied my rooster. Tail knowing well that did not count as fly fishing but it was far to late I saw the many huge hungry colorful .trout I knew damn well that a nine year old kid could milk the ignorance card .but my bobber splashed than got zigzagged all around the pool before zipoing outta sight as I came tight and as in my favorite book from the opposite bank a. Leaping rainbow broke 4ft before returning .i threw him in my big plastic bucket along with 3 more 1each brook brown 2nd rainbow .My neighbor came down to check on me I said look how awesome this is she saw the trout and a smile appeared you kept them for me she said I said that was the real I casted out and my bobber did the same thing as I flipped the trout onto the bank it landed by a man’s feet ..The warden .Oh %#$!..! Why of course I knew it’s fly fishing only I said as I showed him the rooster Tail wrapped in worms and brook trout jaw …That isn’t a fly he said .I corrected him by pointing out the fuzzy treble hook ….He went onto explain the difference which I all ready knew And here became our ritual probably 5 times over the next few months .My neighbor would ask you gotta every thing legal so the warden won’t think I’m a bad influence on you , yes just simple misunderstanding last time .So about the 5th time where the warden told me spin fishing was allowed were above the falls .below started the delayed harvest so like a good boy I stood on the falls and casted below into the fly fishing only with my neighbor still there I hooked up a huge brown lifted up over the falls just in time for the warden to tell me the 250 $ fine I was gonna get .Until I told him I am above the falls like you said .plus I bought a Mickey Finn if you look under the worm …He said ok I get it you play dumb because you must think.im dumb
Why don’t you go up in the park and fish .meet me here at five o’clock 2 nite .or get the fine .i said why ? He said in gonna show you that you can catch trout anywhere kid I’ll show you where the good spots are I’ll teach you how to get a proper drift …So five times the same warden busted me for poaching .then used his brain to teach me I’m better than a cheater and was all ready better than 3out of 4 guys he fished with .I met him at the park with my mom .he explained what a scamming punk I was but not after today .He gave me a little Cleo and a gold phoebe took me to the fast water above the falls and taught me how to downstream fish sweep a spinner or spoon. it was the same day they stocked a fall stocking of 14 to 20 inch brown trout I caught three the last being over 5 lbs and my sand and my little zebco exploded as the fish was half way in .The warden hand ligned the monster inn and told me about releasing as don’t you think another person would enjoy catching that fish …from that day my ego was so sky high I would never lower myself to cheat again ….until I bought my first fly rod .tgan I’d fill my vest pocket with night crawlers …until I finally took a fly tying course in 3rd grade while the next youngest guy was about 70 Any how my dad is fading quick .and I cant wait to tell him in exact detail about the day he turned me into a fish bum ….And what a cool warden to do that for me ? Guess he was smart enough to know I 2asnt gonna not fish there because of a sick bird .ill eagle .
The one reason, weather it be stalking trout on a river or risk my well being casting to stripers on nasty hard to get to areas , is for solitude and getting back to nature and getting away from people. No one sees my catch. I share with few people . It stems back from Fishing with my father who avoided crowds and was one to fish the spot no one was at. Those spots were tricky to fish, but they held big bass and blues. My father could catch them. He died 30 plus years ago, but some of my favorite memories go back to being a kid working on his lobster boat
, Sometimes catching school tuna off Block, or drifting eels late at night off watch Hill . Our big difference as I got older, was he fished strictly bait, or maybe an old Gibbs or a Kastmaster, where I am all about artificial, including fresh and salt water fly. What he thought me about patience, tides, and reading the water . Do not follow the crowd, but go little bit away where there are fish avoiding the pressure. How to navigate a boat and read a chart with no electronics. Skills I am proud of as a 50+ year old man. Last fall I cought the largest striped bass I ever cought on a fly rod ,over 40 inches. And after I let it go I, I said to my self, ” wonder if the ole’ man saw that??”