"They're doomed," said Albert one afternoon as we sat on the big flat stone by the river birch at the edge of Karen's Pool.
"Who is?" I asked, somewhat startled because Albert rarely talked while he was on the creek and even when he did speak, it was never about angling.
"Trout," he said, his voice low and sullen."Bring civilization within a mile of them and they turn belly up. It's wildness for them or nothing. No compromises. They believe in the simple life. Cold water, plenty of food, and clean oxygen. Wildness. Dumb bastards don't know any better, I guess." He took another bite of his egg sandwich and a long pull of cool creek water and shook his head. "Doomed. Poor dumb bastards. Doomed, and me along with them, thank whatever gods there are."
There was nothing snobbish about the old men's affinity for trout. They were drawn to trout and the fly rod not out of any need to be among the sophisticated anglers associated with the sport, but rather to associate more fully with trout. Trout appealed to Emerson and Albert because trout seemed to lead a life as precarious as their own, awkwardly balanced on the edge of extinction, the complete emptiness of oblivion. Too, they admired the trout's wariness, its unwavering suspicion that something was out to get it, to do it in. The trout had gotten to be such an ancient fish, they believed, because of its prudence. Trout trusted nothing, not even other trout. All they knew vibrated in their instinct, their primordial blood. All of these qualities intrigued Albert and Emerson. Such wildness captivated them, drew them irresistibly into the waters of Starlight Creek, fly rod in hand, an act, an effort, however feeble, to immerse themselves in the trout's world.
The hold trout had on them and ultimately on me was nearly absolute, like a spell, some kind of vexing yet delightful piscine voodoo. Trout simply cannot be figured out, no matter how much technology they are exposed to or bombarded with. Trout are steadfastly ornery and beyond reform, and the old men admired, even envied, their unyielding tenacity.
Such a fish demanded, of course, special attention, certain considerations, a method of pursuit as finicky and fastidious as their own behavior. A curious fish insists on a curious form of angling, one heavy with respect, tradition, skill, and challenge. If there was only one fish in the lives of Albert and Emerson, Elias Wonder, and soon me, so was there only one correct way to fish for it—with the fly rod. And not just any fly rod, but a subtle, willowy, handmade bamboo fly rod, a good line, a trustworthy reel, tippets as delicate as gossamer, and the smallest dry flies possible. Albert and Emerson had no spare time for hobbies or sports or insignificant moments of recreation. To them fly fishing transcended all of these pastimes. It was a personal and private act of faith between angler, stream, and trout. Fly fishing did not come to these two poor subsistence farmers as a right of birth, but as a blessing in what was an otherwise hard and often despairing life. Consequently, what little theology they held to rested firmly in the waters of Starlight Creek and the trout that struggled there for survival. Indeed, as Albert said on more than one silver-gray morning before daylight took hold, trout and streams and lithe bamboo rods were as close to the divine as he and Emerson and Elias Wonder, that irascible malcontent, were likely to come. Starlight Creek whispered the gospel, the good news, loud and clear, and every trout that rose to their flies was an unforgettable sermon of color and motion, resolve and urgency, grace and the elusiveness of life in the present where it throbbed with such compelling and enthralling power. Standing in the waters of Karen's Pool, the old men worked the supple bamboo rods, limber as relaxed muscle, and waited for the trout to rise and draw them to what was a nearer and more immediate, more accessible, more forgiving heaven.
Fly fishing absorbed them, touched every aspect of their lives on and off the creek. To say that it was all just a matter of catching fish would be like saying that astronomy is nothing more than noticing the stars. Fly fishing, like the noble trout, had character, a tough eloquence about it. Despite the simplicity of its mechanics, it demanded that the angler become truly involved with trout, even get in the water with them, become, if only temporarily, part of their ancient and wild lives. Once an angler took up the fly rod, he became heir to a sturdy body of opinion, belief, and notions, all of which tended to bind the angler, the fly rod and trout together for a lifetime. Albert and Emerson had fished with the fly rod for more than sixty years and never tired of its magic, never stopped seeking its untouched potential. Fly rods in hand, they entered into the natural world, a world of risk, chance, raw energy, adventure.
Given the erratic nature of trout, it seemed somehow fitting to Albert and Emerson that fly fishing should employ as its chief implement a humble little rod made of bamboo. Yet it is a deadly instrument, as lethal and efficient in the hands of a trout fisherman as a sharpened ax is in the hands of a lumberjack. The fly rod is at best a curious thing, fitful, moody, chameleon-like. Depending on the skill of the angler, handling the bamboo rod can be as simple and effortless as knotting a tie or as complex as brain surgery. Whatever an angler's skill, the fly rod is an outstanding companion, a welcome conversationalist because it speaks not in words but in motion and energy.
No one at Trail's End, not Emerson, Albert, Elias Wonder, or me, fit the image of the dapper, genteel, sophisticated fly fisherman who frequents the outdoor catalogs and so much of outdoor literature. We hadn't a tweed coat among us or a wicker creel or a handsome Leonard or Payne rod. The old men believed earnestly that the principal ingredient of fly fishing was a good sense of humor, while avoiding anything that smacked of pretense, technology, or just plain foolishness.
Albert and Emerson owned many fly rods during their lifetimes, but admired none so much as the bamboo rod, which was the rod of their youth. It was the only rod they truly trusted, a rod not yet burdened with the false reputation of being a flimsy and expensive artifact, a plaything of the rich, something to collect rather than use.
By the 1960s technology had come to fly fishing and there were new rods appearing, made of fiberglass, fast rods, powerful rods. Albert tried one not long before he died. He wiggled it in Bates's store a few times, a frown on his face, his motions stiff, forced. The rod was nine feet long and threw a 6-weight forward line. Again he wiggled it, then cast the line through the entire length of the store and into the street beyond. He set it down. "I just don't feel it," he said. Again, he looked at the big, imposing rod, shook his head glumly. "Don't feel anything, really, except a kind of cold, clammy feeling."
I touched the rod, studied it closely, thought of the beautiful cast Albert had made with it. Why, the line must have traveled at least one hundred feet. To me the rod seemed a thing of great power and even greater temptation. I nudged the old man and asked, "What don't you feel, Albert?"
"Trout," said Albert abruptly, a tinge of disappointment in his voice, as though he had expected that I would grasp the rod's failings as quickly and surely as he had. "That subtle finesse that will put a No. 18 dry fly on a quarter at forty feet. This rod is all right, I suppose. It's got power, but power alone won't catch trout. I'll stay with bamboo. It has grace, a soothing touch."
Unlike the new glass rods, bamboo rods demanded regular attention and care. There developed over time a loyal bond between the bamboo rod and the angler as one ultimately became the extension of the other. All those long days and cool evenings sitting by the creek watching the old men fish, I knew that with each cast there was also a building sense of excitement and exhilaration because they believed that in hooking a trout the hook not only brought the fish to them but drug them deeper into the trout's element, the remnant wilderness that surrounded them.
The old men collected fly rods the way small boys collect marbles or baseball cards. Emerson had ten rods. He looked after them as though they were his children. Even cleaning them in the evening boosted his spirits. He and Albert never considered bamboo rods as things. No, they were the inanimate creeping toward life, wands as full of excitement, chance, fortune and agony as the natural world. Supple, malleable, like the passage of life itself, something capable of giving without ever giving up or giving way. Albert owned three good rods and two reels. The workshop off the kitchen held the usual assortment of leaders, lines, hooks, tippet material, waders, dry flies, wet flies, and nymphs, all of which they had either made or smuggled into Oglala County from the outdoor catalog companies by mail. Not much really, when you consider they were up against trout. It was their desire to keep angling a simple art and therefore they aspired to put as little technical wizardry between them and the trout as possible.
© Article copyright Pruett Publishing
Where are you going?
What do you want to do?
