With Midges, Caddis, and Stoneflies galore, and the water nearing 50 °F, the fish were not in the faster water where I had thought they would be. Nor were there many risers. Instead, I found them in the back one-third of certain runs, in the quiet seams and dark patches where there are buckets and slots.

I’m not a believer in magic flies (usually) but yesterday a size 18 black Spider, dead-drifted on an all-mono tightlining rig, was the way to go. My Micro-Thin Euro Leader did a great job of picking up hits. Early, I landed one fish on a bobber and stonefly, and it was a ferocious male that taped at 16″.

But when the sun was high, the action stopped, and I looked for deeper water. I found five fish in a 20′ x 20′ dark patch of water with the dead-drifted Spider, including a really stunning 17″ buttery brown.


At lunch time, I went back to the car and heard a car stop behind me.

“Did you catch many fish?” I heard a kind voice and turned around. It was an older lady, with a quick smile, in a green car with her window down to chat with me.

“A few, but I saved the others for you,” I smiled.

“I don’t fish, but my husband did. He loved this river.”

I paused for a bit. “Is he no longer with us?” I asked.

She pointed upwards. “No, but his spirit must have been with you.”

“He’s my lucky charm, then.”

We chatted amiably to and fro. She mentioned that she was eagerly waiting for a call to get her vaccine, that she was tired of being in the house, and wanted to go out for a drive to break up the monotony.

“Well, we’re nearly there,” I said. “You’ll get the vaccine very soon, and everything will be back to normal.”

We spoke again for a bit, and she then said she had to go, that it was nice to talk with me, and I wished her all the best.

“See you again soon,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. Until then, you take care.”

After lunch, I didn’t get any more fish. I tried all sorts of techniques, flies, and spots. But that’s fly fishing (and, life) for you: sometimes it all comes together, and for reasons we can never know, sometimes it doesn’t.

When I was new to fly fishing, I nervously went to one of the glamorous spots on a glamorous river. All the spots were taken, and I sat on a bench to contemplate my next move. An older lady slowly ambled down the dirt trail and sat next to me.

“My husband used to fish here,” she said. “In fact, that’s his picture.”

I turned to see that a laminated photo of him was on the bench.

“We dedicated this bench in his memory,” she said.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said.

We chatted periodically to and fro, and she looked out at the pool and the dry-fly anglers there, casting here and there. She was wearing sunglasses, but I imagined that some tears were welling in her eyes, as she remembered her husband. She was smiling slightly. But it was a sad smile. I felt that she needed her peace and her own space.

“Well, it was wonderful to meet you,” I said.

“Same,” she said. I quietly walked away.

When I fly fish, everything seems new when I’m trying new water, new flies, or a new technique. But I’m part of a long line of fly anglers that stretches across time. Chances are, someone has already tried the same strategies at the same waters.

We each have our turn to fish and learn, rejoice about our wins, and brood over our slow days. One day, we will no longer be in that line and younger anglers will take our place. There’s something both sad and comforting about that. We are anglers and we are also stewards.

Maybe it’s because I’m over 50 now, but I was thinking during the drive home how amazing fly fishing is, how it has touched my life in deep and profound ways, and the many happy memories I’ve incurred involving friends and family. Maybe our friends, life partners, and children will one day drive the roads that we do and visit the pools and runs that we used to fish to remember us and to honor us. So many anglers before us have walked the same trails and fished the same rivers. We are, each of us, part of a greater whole that started well before us and hopefully will continue long after us.

Last year, I went back to that bench. The photo is still there, but faded and tattered. It made me think of the widow.

A wonderful Passover for those who celebrate it, and a thoughtful Holy Week for those who are readying for Easter.


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10 thoughts on “Memories

  1. Beautiful, Jo! Thanks for sharing. You gave us some good thoughts to ponder.

    Nothing would give me greater joy than if, someday, my kids and grandkids would walk the river trails along the Farmington with an inherited fly rod in hand and say, “I bet Pop Pop fished here.”

  2. Yup, at my tying bench I have plastic boxes containing flys given to me by fellow anglers no longer with us. I do remember them when at the vise and at spots they frequented.

    1. Every blog writer has his own preference. Ashu and I decided not to name local rivers during the pandemic, given all the pressure many of them are already facing.

  3. A fine piece of writing. And as with so much of the best of fly fishing-inspired writing, it is not about fishing.

  4. I hear what you’re saying. I’m no longer physically able to get to the wild rivers of Idaho backpacking, hiking, camping, and fishing my brains out. Others will come and enjoy it as much as I have and I hope they are filling up their logs with great experiences. I don’t like this getting old thing that seems to keep happening to me.

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