He grew up pan fishing in Kentucky
ponds graduating to large mouth in
small lakes, and, once in a while, when
invited on a bass boat, to the long, snak-
ing bodies of water created by the Tenn-
essee Valley Authority.
The owner of the sleek, expensive boat,
imitating Roland Martin, eagerly tossed
fish in the well as if competing in an imagin-
ary bass tournament.
His favorite fishing as a teenager was for
small mouths with his buddies in streams
while avoiding water moccasins, fortunate-
ly, too cold to move fast in the spring water.
It was then he learned catch and release, if
for no other reason, it would be a hassle cart-
ing fish long dead home; besides, the boys
had no cooler.
In Michigan he learned to fly fish from an
old man who took him up north to fish the
fly only section of the Pere Marquette, the
Pine and North Branch and Holy Waters
of the Au Sable and who gave him a
named and numbered bamboo rod and
a couple old reels.
Colorado fly fishing became the way, a
journey of grace and beauty in the mount-
ain streams and remote lakes accessible
only by a several mile hike among the
mountain lions and brown bears. He
loved making his own flies during the
winter and learning all about the various
life cycles of flies emerging on the water.
His son made flies also.
Once, while back in Michigan, a guide,
a friend of his wife’s family, took him
out for an early steelhead run. He had
brought a fly rod, but the guide handed
him a spinning rod and said, “Go for it.”
Knowing spin casting well from his youth,
he easily caught a nice fish and was about
to release it back so the fish could finish
the cycle of life, end its life voluntarily and
offer itself to beavers, black bears, coyote
and fox who would fertilize the Michigan
land and trees with steelhead DNA.
The guide wanted to take the fish home,
clean it, put it in his freezer and eat it later
in the summer, perhaps at a family picnic.
How do you say no to the guide? It was his
rod and reel not to mention the boat.