Early … way too early … and the young boy lays in his bed too fidgety to sleep. In his mind he’s already checking the waters, tying his knots and waiting for that ever-so-slight tap on the line. Tossing and turning he’s just ready to go. The excitement of being able to spend a day with the Old Man is savory. A moan, a groan, and the young boy knows that the Old Man is getting up. With a single leap the boy is out of bed and heading down the hall to get the Old Man’s coffee going.
Grandma’s up … that beautiful smile etched deeply into her Cherokee face … and she’s cooking. Ohhhhh could she could a breakfast that would keep you full all day. Sausage, scrambled eggs, drop biscuits, fresh homemade jam, grits … the works. Coffee’s brewing on the stove … gonna be nice, hot and strong … just the way the Old Man likes it. They all sit down and eat breakfast without a word being spoken. Cool mountain air lazily blowing in through the window ushers in the faint sounds of the river just down the way.
With breakfast over and the dishes cleaned and put away, the young boy and the Old Man make their way out to the shed. As the door swings open the young boy just smiles with glee at the sight of all the fly rods … so many to choose from! 2-weight bamboos, 3-weights, and some 4-weights … and then the mother-rod of them all, the Old Man’s 10-weight saltwater fly rod, even has a Lefty’s Deceiver tied on. The boy chuckles softly to himself as he gazes at that saltwater rod, knowing that the Old Man lives way too far from the coast to get to use it. The smell of bamboo is intoxicating and the young boy begins to walk the stacks of fly rods looking to find the perfect one for the day.
With 3-weights in hand the two head down to the river, the sun slowly beginning to lighten up the dark sky. All around the early morning begins to wake up the mountain. Yellow-billed cuckoos, Carolina wrens, brown creepers, and afar off a ruby-crowned kinglet fill the morning with their lovely chirps and calls. Turning off the road, the two head down a very well-beaten path through an old apple grove. The apple blossoms have bloomed and their fragrance is so sweet; but the rushing sounds of the river sound much sweeter!
The White River … pristine … cold … and a trout haven that the young boy dreams of constantly. They make their way to their favorite spot … a slight bend in the river, a weeping willow to provide some cool shade during the day, and plenty of boulders to create eddies --- a favorite target to fish for the young boy. Without a word the two sit and watch the waters, watching to see what bugs are moving in and above the flowing waters. “Orange scuds boy,” the Old Man said. The young boy just sighs, he was thinking of starting with either a wooly bugger or hellgrammite; but the Old Man knows best.
The Old Man … he doesn’t say much but when he does it’s usually stories of his life and oh how the young boy loved to listen to them … he even wishes he could still hear them today. With a few flicks of the wrist the Old Man drops an orange scud right above an eddy. The young boy just sits on the bank and observes every move the Old Man and the fly rod are making. The slow strips of the line… a slight twitch on the rod… and how the Old Man always, always gets that slight grin on his face, leans forward just a tad and then sets the hook with a smooth, firm lifting up of the rod. It’s a brown, she’s healthy, and the sun has just risen over the mountain. That image of the Old Man on the bank, bent fly rod and that brown jumping is instantly and forever etched into the young boy’s mind. The Old Man gently places his hand under the trout’s belly and carefully removes the hook and then lets her go. He checks his knot and reels in the line. He looks at the boy and says, “Catch ya some boy.”
The young boy picks his spot and eyes the water and finds a couple of trout slurping the surface in an eddy. With little grace the young boy finally gets his offering out to the trout. The Old Man laughed as he sat to drink his coffee … “Good an’ strong boy, just the way I like it.” Before the boy knew it a cutthroat slams the scud and with a swift hook set the fight is on. As the young boy plays the rod and strips in the line the Old Man coaches him on how to play the fish and, hopefully, not lose it! A few moments later and the boy is holding a lovely cutthroat, the first he’s ever caught. With a slap on the young boy’s back the Old Man says, “That’s how ya do it boy.”
The next few hours were passed catching more fish, exploring new fishing spots and just taking in the beauty of the mountains and the mighty White. On the way home the Old Man shares a story or two and then gives the young boy some fishing tips to practice on until the next time they get to go fishing together. As they walk into the house Grandma asks if they caught anything. The young boy excitedly tells her about his first cutthroat and how he caught it with the Old Man’s help. She just laughed and laughed while the Old Man grabbed his Redman chewing tobacco and spit cup and eased into his easy chair for an early afternoon rest.
Yes, that young boy certainly caught something that day … caught him a mess of fine memories!
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