A Legacy
The stops to tie on a new fly take longer now, and have become more frequent. The hands don't seem to tie the knots like they used to either. The paths along the creeks that I walked years ago learning, exploring and testing have been walked by thousands of feet since I started my adventure.
And now, as I watch, a new pair of feet have taken up the walk. Where there once was a very small person jumping about in the smallest pair of waders I could find; now there is a much bigger fisherman who debates the merits of breathables or neos, studs or cleats, stocking or boot foot.
The small hand that clutched tightly to mine as we crossed water up to his waist (my knees) is now a larger hand, almost grown, that reaches back to help and steady me when we have to cross a difficult stretch or climb an obstruction.
The small voice that used to yell: "Pappy, wait up" now says: "I'll wait for you at the next hole". And he always does. He likes to lead now, where he knows the water. He has developed his own techniques and new wrinkles on old techniques.
He carries hemostats, and can unhook a fish just like a pro. He's learned how to properly net a fish and how to revive them when you release them. He listens and then speaks with some knowledge not common for his age. He will offer a helping hand without being told to and will share whatever part of the creek he is on with others.
He knows, but hasn't mastered, the fly rod. He likes to noodle when the conditions are right and he will throw a plug for a bass with gusto.
I think about his path and where it will lead him. Will he always have the love for the creeks and those sometimes amazing moments when it is just him, on the creek, waiting and trying to time the rising of the trout under the laurel; to make the perfect cast and be rewarded with the thought "fish on!"
I watch and wonder what kind of man he will become. Will he have sons, or grandsons, and start them on the fishermans' journey, and give them the knowledge and the patience to appreciate a day, a rod and a perfect drift. He knows that it's not about the keeping but about the adventure of the attempt and the occasional reward. And the friendships made along the way.
I watch him roll cast and mend line. I see him look at the hatch, and try to match what is on the water; even if he doesn't know the names. And I see him experiment, with the sheer abandonment of discovery. Not knowing that "It can't be done like that!" And he fishes.
Then I hear the voice again: "C'mon Pappy! You can't sit there all day! There's probably a lot of fish just around this next corner!" Yep! just around this next corner. Let's go see!
Illegitimis Non carborundum