Teach a Man to Fish

When I was eight my family moved from the flat plains and rolling hills of Oklahoma to the arid mountains of northwest New Mexico. It was a strange new world to me the air was dry and hot, rock formations erupted from the ground carving through the landscape, and the echoes of past generations were carved into the rock and sand all around. To a kid who grew up among wind blown trees and muddy pits filled with tadpoles the desert was a strange place. I spent much of my childhood outside, covered in some sort of filth and always searching for my next adventure. It was no different when my feet hit the ground in this all new landscape. We moved a few blocks down from my grandparents whose house overlooked a canyon and the vast dessert scape beyond. The canyon was small but to a young boy of 8 accustomed to the wide open plains it may as well have been a whole other planet.

Shortly after moving in I set out to explore every nook and cranny of that canyon. My dad wen’t with me the first time and we spent an afternoon delving into the sandstone and rock faces. We saw many things my eight year old mind had not yet dreamed up, and whenever I stopped to ask my dad about some rock formation or why the cliff was different colors he always answered as best he could. He solved the great mysteries I found in the wild and helped me to understand this new world around me. 

I spent the next few years exploring that canyon. I traded the tadpoles and mud puddles of Oklahoma for the rocks and sandstone of New Mexico. My family would often watch me from the deck at my grandparents as I walked up the stairs, satchel full of rocks. I would unload my treasures displaying them like some bad novelty sales man as I explained why each was a vital find and why I found it interesting. Most parents would probably peak in the bag and give some generic, “Very cool” at the sight of this but not my dad. He was always excited to see what I brought home from my adventures and he would tell me all about the kinds of rocks I had found. Once again solving the mysteries of the wild for a young boy filled with questions.

I think it was these experiences as a young child that prepared me for a life seeking adventure. And it was these adventures I had after we moved that prepared me for a question my dad would ask one summertime afternoon. 

I was 10, hiding inside from the high sun and hot air that blistered the pavement outside our house. It was too hot to be running around the neighborhood gathering rocks so I set inside causing chaos and no doubt making a mess in my parents home. My dad came into my room and asked a simple question, “Do you want to go fly fishing tomorrow”. “What is fly fishing?” I asked him. Of course I had heard of fishing and we had spent days at the lake casting minnows or worms from a dock. It was fun enough, and it got me outside which was all I cared about at that age. However, I quickly realized this was not what he was talking about when we walked outside under that blistering sun and my dad placed a bucket at the end of yard and began taking about rhythm and metronomes.

I watched as my dad effortlessly guided line through the air, sending the line back, loading the rod, and shooting the line forward toward the bucket as his fly landed gracefully inside. I was mesmerized. My dad explained the tempo and rhythm of the fly cast. How you had to be patient and let the rod load behind you before shooting the line toward your target. After his demonstration my dad handed his rod to me. I can still remember the feel of the cork in my hand, the smoothness and softness of it. I remember feeling the weight of the rod for the first time, how the rod moved and jittered with every motion my hand made. My first casts were sloppy, the line crashed through the air, line hit rod and my first cast turned into nothing more than a horrific knot. A far cry for the graceful and elegant presentation my father demonstrated. 

My hand gripped the cork handle of the rod hard as my cheeks swelled with embarrassment. My dad took a knee next to me and taught me a lesson every successful fisherman learns at some point, “Everything worthwhile in life deserves to be waited upon” My dad said “Patience is the key to living a fulfilled life and so it is the key to casting a fly rod.” At the time my 10 year old mind had no idea what he really meant but I loosened my grip and began to try again. 

We practiced for hours that day. At first my casts were sloppy, I created more knots and snagged the hook in the bushes of my mother garden but over time the line began to straighten. Crashing turned to casting, knots turned to tight loops, and before I knew it my line was gliding through the hair and hitting the bucket at the end of the yard. My dad taught me a lot that day, not just about casting but also about life and of course about trout. As I cast his rod on the front lawn of my childhood home he began to share fish stories. Tales of trout jumping from the water to eat a fly floating on a river, or stories of fish fighting bending the rod and stretching the line. Soon my mind began to wander. My thoughts were placed on fish I had never seen, experiences I had never had.

I went to sleep that night with trout on my mind. When I awoke to my dad gently nudging me I could still remember all he shared with me. We loaded into his truck and headed toward a river. I watched as my dad drove to the edge of town and turned toward the arid dessert. Cliff faces rose and fell as we headed down pavement, inching farther and farther from the safety of everyday and getting closer to the unknown, to the wild. Eventually he turned down a dirt road and rolled down the windows. Wind blew my hair back as dust blew behind us. The smell of the morning sun filled my nostrils as I began to hear the crashing sound of water. The river was getting closer. 

We pulled into a dirt lot far from the main road, campsites lined the perimeter and cottonwood trees erupted from the ground, their green leaves contrasting from the light brown sandstone cliffs towering overhead. Between the trees water rushed by. We gathered our gear and my dad helped me pull on my waders and boots. We walked to the river and looked out at the water. The river was wide, upstream a flat section of glassy water seemed to stand still, the only evidence it moved was the riffles just downstream where water rushed over rock, the sound echoing through the rocky canyon. After the riffles the water settled again, pouring out into a soft pool. My dad pointed to that spot, “That is where the fish will be” he said.

We waded out and as I took my first step into the water the sensation of cold rushed through my body. Even through my waders, even on a summer day the water was like ice. My dad helped me pull line out and reminded me of the fundamentals he had taught me the day before, the rhythm, the tempo, and of course patience. I nodded and looked out the water. Feeling the cork in my hand I moved my arm back stopping suddenly, letting the line load behind me, then shooting my line ahead. The loop unfolded as line lay atop the water. I watched as my dry fly drifted along the stream, I was fly fishing. 

I breathed in the air of the wild as my 10 year old mind was filled with wonder. Cliffs erupted around me, the river cut through the landscape and I hadn’t seen another person besides my dad since we started fishing hours before. I hadn’t caught any fish but that didn’t matter. I was finally in the wild, among nature where my soul could be free. Even as a child I recognized how impactful this was. The sun was getting high and the air was getting hotter. The end of our trip was nearing as I laid a final cast. My imperfect loop landed on the water and my fly drifted along the seam between a fast and slow. Suddenly I watched as a fish quietly slurped from the surface and my line wen’t tight. I panicked, managing to set my hook only by luck, my hands were shaking and I moved my feet like I was running in place. My dad rushed to my side, “Settle down” he said “Be calm and the fish will be too”. I settled my feet and took a quick breath. Suddenly the fish wasn’t fighting so hard and the world seemed a little more at peace. 

My dad helped me reel that fish in and netted it. He kneeled in the knee deep water next to me as I reached into the net and took the fish in hand. I looked in awe at the colors of the rainbow trout in my hands. I felt it move and watched as it looked back at me. Then my dad guided my hands as we released the fish back to the icy water we had plucked it from. 

As we walked out of the river that day I took a look back. The image of that place has always been with me. The sandstone cliffs high overhead, the cottonwood trees lining the bank of the river, and of course the river pushing past boulders and rock, cutting through the landscape and turning the desert green. Something changed in me that day, a piece of that wild has stuck with me. 

It is that piece of wild my father gifted me all those years ago when he asked “Would you like to go fly fishing”. He never could have known what that would mean to me. It wasn’t the lessons about trout, or the principles of casting that changed my life that day, it was the welcome to the wild. My father has always answered the mystery of the wild to me, he has pushed me out there, out where my soul is let loose, out where I can really find myself. This is the gift a father can give a son, and this is the gift you can give simply by teaching someone to fish.

So thank you dad. Thank you for the many adventures, and stories, and wonders you have shown me over the years. I don’t know where I would be without them. You are the one who showed me the wild and you will never know how much that has meant. Happy Fathers day.