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On a warm day last July, I experienced the distinct pleasure of being looked upon from both above and below. It didn’t strike me at the time, but in between the opposing gazes of my two companions, I stood as close to life’s center as is possible. I was sandwiched by the two perfect slices of people that one should surround themselves with on a day like that. A perfection sandwich, if you will.
The top slice was recently added to my life. Born the second of our three children, Bennie stood waist high and was still wearing the grin that he so often wore since the day of his birth, three years earlier. With his blond hair and fair skin, he was ripe for a good sunburn. He was wearing the classic get-up expected of a three-year-old boy: a mesh football jersey, shorts, blue sneakers, and socks with numbers on the sides. Watching him was like watching an instant replay of myself.
The bottom slice of the sandwich, my dad, was clad in the same attire that has been his trademark for my entire life: a white T-shirt, covered with a flannel shirt buttoned half way up the chest with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. On the lower half of this sandwich slice was a faded pair of blue jeans secured with a leather belt. The only item of clothing that gave me any inkling that he would be fishing rather than cutting firewood that day were the felt soled boots. We had convinced him that the soles of the boots would prevent him from slipping on mossy river rocks. Being a man of tradition, there were also several other guaranteed articles to accompany him. A leather wallet had stamped a rounded rectangle of faded blue in his left back pocket. A toothpick was in his left front shirt pocket; it kept the mechanical pencil company when it wasn’t being used to decorate coffee shop napkins with explanations, ideas or lists. These lists were often made over coffee while sitting with the other men in the counter section of diners while we sipped our hot chocolate. Last but not least was the lump on his right upper thigh from his pocket knife. That same knife had coerced many young boys’ palms into relinquishing their slivers, taught us to whittle, sliced Spam or skewered the first and most difficult Vienna Sausage out of its soupy, circular prison. I think every person has some type of classical image of their father. Mine was standing next to me that day doing exactly what he had done for most of my life saying little and being near.
Alongside one of any of the easily wadeable Montana streams that gully this state, I lifted my son Bennie into the back of the pickup to play. There he was safely caged while my father and I rigged our rods. As I watched my son, I was amazed at just how much fun a pickup truck bed could be for a child. Bennie began exploring every nook and cranny—after which, all that was left to do was huck the loose gravel at the stream from the wheel well.
It was then that out of the corner of my eye, I caught it. I saw my father was watching me watch my son. The recognition of it was a bit dizzying. It was as if I was standing inside a circle and trying to see all of its sides simultaneously. There I stood in the sunshine of a Montana summer day, with my son and father on both sides of my life.
I suppose I could blame my stumbling down the bank on this feeling. But it was probably due to my three-year-old, eye-covering, stick-swinging, shoulder jockey who loved riding on his fathers shoulders. And ride me he did, even punishing my ear with an extra yank when I almost brushed him off with a high reaching willow branch during our descent along the bank.
As I waded into the water with my jockey’s stick directing me from overhead, I saw my father using a wading stick to retain his own sense of balance. I noticed this as I charged thigh deep through water cold enough to enjoy, while still taking my breath away. It was a cooling feeling that I knew I would grow accustomed to, and then depend on in the heat of the afternoon sun.
I felt the pull of currents unexpected as I entered the water this time. And I actually had the gall to worry about my father’s safety as he crossed behind me. I laughed at the absurdity of that thought. Would I have asked, I’m sure he would have taken me on his shoulders, dropped his silly stick, and charged through the water like a Clydesdale. As I considered it, the thought of him carrying me on his shoulders seemed both silly and sad. I had already completed my slow graduation from being the scared shoulder rider into the young buck who could wade on his own. At this moment in the stream, I had my own rider to think of.
Once across, and with all on solid footing again, we began what seemed to be the inevitable start to all family-style stream fishing. First Bennie started to comb the shoreline for rocks. Not just any rocks, but two very specific kinds of rocks: skippers and splatters. He knew what the flat ones could do, and with anything remotely close to a squished circle he quickly ran it over to me to skip. Not being old enough for skippers, he also kept an eye out for the splatters. Splatters are rocks that are just small enough that he could still manage to throw them and large enough to give the appropriate splat when thrown into the creek.
My father and I began to conjecture about the variety of flies in our fly boxes. We spouted off the usual stuff about seeing this or that kind of bug on the way up the creek. Then with a sense of authority, I rolled my cap back off the top of my head while squinting at the sun, as if it made a difference on our fly selection. We alternately glanced at the pool just upstream from us, and again we noticed the fish were rising to apparently invisible bugs. Finally, after all of the ritual was completed, I asked.
“Whadda you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said, while slipping his cap off and squinting skyward. “Kind of sunny, might need to use something small.”
“Yeah,” I replied, giving in to his stalling, before caving in to my predicable decision. “Well, I’m using a hopper to start with.”
“Sounds good to me,” he replied.
As for me, I would fish a grasshopper fly in the dead of winter. They are big, easy and you don’t miss many fish when they hit it. It’s not fancy, but neither am I.
Finally, with the preliminaries finished, we spread out at the first bend in the stream, and transformed it into a perfect triangle of action. My father whipped his rod at the head of the run while I worked the lower section, and Bennie simultaneously rocked the daylights out of the tail water. I again caught myself watching my father and hoped he would hook a fish. I laughed at myself. “Come on,” I thought. “This is the guy that took you fishing and hunting how many countless times with your brothers, and now you’re worried about him catching a fish.” I actually had to stop myself before showing my true colors and offending him with advice on how and where to cast.
The funny thing was that he really seemed to need advice. I had already caught three fish by this time and he had caught none. Had he been one of my brothers, his performance would have been noticed quite openly, but on that day I made sure that no notice was shown. Then I started thinking of all of the fishing we had done as a family. I tried to recall my father catching a big fish. I couldn’t. Then I tried to remember him catching any fish at all. I remembered him catching some good fish when we were ice fishing, but, had trouble remembering any others. All I could recall were the countless memories of him helping my brothers and Me, untangle our lines, tie or bait our hooks, or point us up the ridge to where the deer should be found. My lips remained sealed as I began to recognize the sacrifices that being a good father had been for him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to fish or hunt during all of those years of dragging five boys afield, it was just that he wanted us to do it more.
It was hard to land the fourth fish without feeling guilty. But I did. The guilt was so bad, though, that I ended up stopping to help Bennie skip some rocks. Then it happened. The tension finally broke when he landed a 12-inch cutthroat trout and held it up to be seen by Bennie and Me. I was relieved that he had finally caught a fish. The unfamiliarity and realizations of the past hour had left me feeling awkward; I searched for a more comfortable place in between my two companions. Then it happened again. Bennie, obviously less inhibited than his old man, broke the tension by giving me advice on how to throw the splatters correctly. After much advice and practice, I was coached into throwing a near perfect splat.
Dad, meanwhile, started to meander upstream and had caught another trout in the next bend. Like the flock following the first duck off the water, we tagged along, fishing and rocking in his wake. The next inevitability was right on cue. Dad sat on a log and watched us work our way up to him—he slipped off his backpack and waited. It was time for lunch.
I always think of Spam as a test of sorts. A test with no wrong answer, because if you were taking the test, by definition, you were in a good place. I don’t think that I have ever eaten Spam indoors; the only place or time to eat it is when you are outside hiking, camping, hunting, fishing or cutting firewood. As far as I am aware, it may actually be against the law to eat it indoors. The Spam test is really a simple measure of how long or hard you have been doing any of the aforementioned activities. You see, the taste of Spam is directly proportional to how long you have been at it. Some of the best Spam I have ever tasted came at the end of a three-day mule deer hunt. Conversely, the worst I have tasted was eaten within shouting distance of the truck.
We apparently hadn’t been fishing quite long enough. But I took the piece that dad handed me off the end of his pocket knife. It tasted barely good enough to keep eating. Dad did his duty by gulping it down, although I think he may actually like the stuff. All he said was that it needed a little mustard. Bennie, on the other hand, who had incidentally been eating M&M’s the whole trip up in the truck, thought it tasted like cat food. He would probably know.
We then sat and watched as last winter melted by us in the July sun. Not much was said. Of course we did the “this many fish out of this and that hole” talk. But mostly we just enjoyed the sitting and the rarity of being together, without the need to speak. Even Bennie was worn down to making sand designs with a stick while leaning into the shade of a beached log.
It was that lack of movement, that I recall most when reflecting on that day. It was the brush of liquid history, with the entire winter of the previous year moving past us and the grumbling of gravel under foot being just enough to make me realize what I was fishing for.
Fish. At least technically speaking, catching fish was our purpose. And on a good day, we might catch lots of the little buggers. On a bad day we would enjoy laughter, Spam and time in the sun playing driftwood baseball with rocks. There is also the possibility that if you are lucky enough to be unlucky, some crazy occurrence might happen that is unforgettable. And in the re-telling of those unforgettable stories, you are allowed to once again return to where you once were.
Where I am now is midstream. Like water in streams, ever flowing between the snow and the ocean, I sit on a gravel bar and smile into my afternoon sun. I know now that it will eventually dip behind the ridge, and afternoon will stretch and cool into a summer’s evening. But I realized on that day, as the sun crossed the sky, that it was my time to be charging up the stream—breaking the water like a Clydesdale, with just enough splash to make my son laugh and squeal at the same time as he hung on for dear life.
 

 

 

Story and photos by Kirk Crews