In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.
–Norman Maclean, A River Runs Though it
Teddy always wakes up first. Pre-dawn silence in our house breaks around five-thirty, when his two year-old hands slap quarter-note pulse on the hardwood stair treads that lead to our bedroom. At the top he breaks into a trot to my side of the bed.
Daddy. wake up!
It’s night time, Teddy. Lay down for a little bit.
No! Wake up I said!
When this occurs it is best to concede and head downstairs to make coffee.
Waking with the birds is not the only thing Teddy has in common with the men of Galilee. Before he could walk he held a stunted bluegill like a rosary. Gently clutching, prayerful cooing, long enough that it floated belly up when I finally convinced him to let it go.
Just before Teddy’s second birthday I found a six-weight fly blank in a barrel at a thrift shop. I turned the tip-section into a tiny Tenkara rod. Not because using a fly reel is a lower form of art. I thought that putting a little reel seat on it would be cute. Then in a moment of foresight, I imagined him turning the handle backward with glee and force until it would turn no more. So, his first fly-rod ended up with five feet of worn-out, double taper line attached at the tip with an epoxied loop connector. No reel.
Teddy caught a few panfish with the tiny wand last summer. Every time quivering like a setter with a nose full of grouse. Always with a baby-tooth smile and a shriek of delight that, if heard from a distance, would leave you to assume that a parade of baby panda bears had delivered him an ice-cream cone. These experiences seem to have stuck. Even in the dead of December, snow, wind, Minnesota polar vortex he occasionally whispered as I laid him in his crib:
Go feeshing?
On the evening before the Wisconsin trout opener, my reel was oiled, line dressed, each fly box replenished to degree uncommon in my recent seasons. Everything ready for a tip-toe exit into three dark thirty out the back door and:
Father please let me not wake the dog or kids.
Two fingers of whisky and several hours before the alarm was set to ring I had a thought.
Maybe I should bring Teddy.
A spouse-issued pass for solitary fishing is nearly as valuable to me as my favorite shotgun. Voluntarily adding a two-year old is, in fishing terms, almost like choosing to leave your waders behind. You can catch fish but you’ll be pissed before too long. The idea that he might catch a trout overpowered all others and set the hook in my conscience. So I added three diapers, a pack of baby wipes, two changes of toddler clothes, a thermos of milk, and a baggie of goldfish to my duffel. My last thought as I drifted off was: I’ll wake him up for a change.
Wrong. At three fifteen he was tugging at my pillow. No doubt expecting warm milk as a bribe to lay down for another hour. Instead, I croaked:
Teddy, do you want to go fishing?
He jumped up and down screaming.
Woohooo!
Mama, I go feeeshing!
It was like winning the 3 a.m. Powerball.
For almost two hours we drove through the dark in my pickup. He chattered like a chipmunk on a warm September day. Talked to the moon. Told me about his pet tiger. Asked if we would catch a shark. The sky was pink when we coasted to a stop in front of the Ellsworth Sportsman’s Club.
There is a large expanse of mowed grass in front of the clubhouse. There he carried my flyrod, where branches could not interfere. At the river bank I started a juggling act. Present the fly, stay between Teddy and the water. Cast, mend, look at the boy. Mend, drift, tuck the rod under my arm. Grab him before he steps into the flow. Watch the fly, let him hold the rod.
Teddy. Here, Daddy help you.
Guide the little arm as it struggles against the casting rhythm. Head moving back and forth. Tiny hands trying to turn the reel. Bright eyes watching the line. Watching a bird. Losing interest. Then, strike indicator sliding sideways. Not under. Just a pause. Rod tip up, his arm resisting. And there it was.
I let go of the rod.
Teddy, hold it up to the sky.
He relished the freedom. Just him and the rod. Slowly lifting and feeling the sharp throb of a five-inch brook trout. His first communion. Quivering again. Baby teeth and shrieks. Bamboo rod bobbing until the miniature trout was on its side. Teddy holding, smiling, caressing, bragging.
Is a shark, Daddy.
“My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him all good things-trout as well as eternal salvation-come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.”
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It
