in this case, he struggled for words to follow the
old man.
“Not sure about that. But what I do know…is
the time has come…to catch fish,” he said emphatically, and offered up the rod with a dramatic
bow, perhaps like a samurai warrior handed a
sword to the next.
The old man shuffled into the water until the
bottoms of his scuffed cowhide boots were submerged. His daughter would have some type of
cardiac event if she knew what he was doing, but
Mark also knew that a river was magnetic to some
people, and there was just no way around it.
The water seemed to lubricate the old man’s
joints and he started casting with surprisingly
smooth motions, unfurling beautiful loops across
the river in front of him. Mark thought he heard
a chuckle, but it could have been another cough.
After a dozen casts, the old man started vigorously
stripping in line.
“Nope.” The old man said flatly.
“What’s the matter?” Mark asked.
“Wrong fly.” Mark raised his eyebrows and
almost took the comment personally, but kept his
mouth shut. Walt tucked the rod under one arm
with practiced grace and pulled a small leather
fly wallet out his denim jacket, about the size of
a pack of cigarettes. It took him a minute to coordinate unzipping it and he examined the bristly
backs of several flies. After trying to pinch his
sluggish fingers on the one he wanted, he cussed
at the sheepskin and waved Mark to his side. The
old man pointed with a shaky finger at one particularly distraught looking nymph.
“Tie that damn thing on my line,” he said in a
voice dripping with humility. Mark did it without saying a word.
“Yessir,” the old man mumbled when Mark
stepped away, lengthening his cast until the
nymph mended nicely through the edge of the
hole. After a half dozen casts, Walt lifted his arm
and set the hook on what Mark could immediately tell was a nice fish. It wasn’t big by the
river’s standards – maybe 16 or 17 inches – but
it seemed larger as it tested Walt’s aging muscles.
The old man made several exclamations to the
water where his line cut the surface in jagged rips.
Mark spoke words of encouragement as Walt
worked to reel in line and keep pressure on the
fish.
One final run made the rod bow hard, the tip
almost touching the water’s surface. When he
could resist the urge no longer, Mark stepped
forward and carefully put his hand over Walt’s,
helping him lever the fish back up. “There we
go,” was all the old man said.
Mark soon netted the fish gently. It was a
Brown Trout flush with golden autumn spots and
hook jaw brimming with wait-a-minute teeth.
Mark expertly popped the fly from the mouth
with forceps and helped the old man lift the fish
from the net. Walt knelt in the water and set the
fish in gentle current to help it recover. The water
was frigid, but the old man showed it no mind as
he cradled the fish gently and rocked it back and
forth. The trout’s back bore scars from a close call
with talons, and he ran his rough, blunt fingers
over the old wounds.
“Yessir,” he whispered.
Mark snapped a few photos. After a minute,
the trout kicked its tail and slowly swam back
into the darkness of the river, dignified. The old
man gazed after him for a long time and turned
to Mark with a crooked smile on his face. He
reached over and grabbed clippers hanging o