Chapter 5 - The Trout Whisperer -

5

 

The Trout Whisperer

 

 

 

My brother slugged me softly in the arm. “Did you hear me? You want to get going?”

“Ahh, yeah. I suppose.” I hesitated without expression, rolled up the window, and refocused on my crew. “Let’s roll. We got some trout with our names on them!”

The boys were antsy as they wrestled with each other. It was definitely time to move on. Several blocks down the road a sharp left bend angled by a small pasture that used to be studded with crabapple trees. We slowed to negotiate the curve.

“Hey Nubby, do you remember the crabapple trees over there,” I said while scanning to my right.

“Oh yeah. There used to be some big ones. That was a deer hangout too.”

“No kidding.  They love those things.” I kept staring into the pasture. “There’s still one barely visible. Grandma picked apples there for her apple pie you know.”

“Really?”

“You betcha. Her apple pie was my all-time favorite,” I said while licking my chops. “One slice of that baby could make a desert wind salivate.”

“Alright, cut it out. I’m trying to drive here." He flashed a grin.

What was it about grandmas and their pies? They had that magic touch when it came to baking. And our grandma found her groove with apple pie. She had the perfect blend of sugar, cinnamon and spices. The crust was light and flaky, and those apples…mama mia, they were always soft and delectable.

“Turns out that Gramps took Grandma fishing once in a while,” I went on.

Nub chuckled. “I know she didn’t fish. What was her gig again?”

The thought of Grandma fishing was a bit silly. She cooked a mean pie, but she wasn’t exactly fleet of foot.

 “She stayed in the car and read. When she needed a break, she’d walk from the gravel pit where they parked and pick apples.”

Alex leaned forward and spoke. “Why didn’t she just drive to the apples?”

“Yeah,” Drew said, “I mean, you said she was sitting in the car anyway.”

 Their hair was messed in a few spots from their tussle, but now they were attentive.

“Funny you should ask. Actually, even funnier that you were listening,” I said with a satisfied expression. “Grams never learned to drive.”

The boys slid their heads back in surprise.

“She stayed at home and didn't drive. I think they only had one vehicle and not much money. It worked for them. That wasn't uncommon back then.”

“Wow, that’s different,” the boys exclaimed.

“Just remember, it’s the times that were different, not so much the people,” I said to them. “You may be more like your ancestors than you realize.” More intensely, I noted, “It’s good to know your past. Learn to appreciate it.”

A half-mile later the Flag River crossed under a bridge and revealed itself to us. The river wasn’t much wider than the bridge itself.

“Hey, let’s pull over and take a look,” I reminded Nub.

He didn’t respond; he knew the plan. A heightened sense of concentration blanketed his face. We stopped on the bridge like clockwork on every trip. To mention it was just a formality. Nub guided us to the right rail and through open windows we all eagerly stared upstream. It was a flowing beauty.

“Well, what do you think, fellas?” I asked while watching the river.

Nub craned his neck and cast a searching eye. “The water looks good, real good,” he emphasized while looking over a sandy-bottomed stretch.

Alex and Drew bobbed around like two quail and added, “Yeah, it looks nice and clear.”

The Flag’s version of clear wasn’t exactly gin-clear, as it always carried a dusty olive hue, even during dry spells. Nonetheless, we considered the river to be in full form for worm drifting.

We navigated another bend in the road and passed a small rustic cabin, which marked “the road stretch”. This short stretch paralleled the road and was easily accessible, which made it our favorite afternoon fishing spot. Nub slowed the truck to a crawl for us to view the water, which allowed me time to reminisce.

            That stretch spurred thoughts of a heartwarming memory I shared with my grandfather, the original master of the stream. Approximately thirty-five years earlier I had watched in amazement as Gramps pulled six trout from one hole. They were piled up like cordwood under some logs, and I bore witness while he worked that trout lair like Picasso over a canvas.

            As I fished from a sun-drenched sandbank, Gramps stood thirty feet upstream in knee-deep water, littered with blotches of shade. A slow-moving current pressed against his worn rubber hip boots and tested the seal of several homemade patches. He craftily positioned himself to drift his worm under some well-shaded logs and remain undetected by the fish. The olive-gray water gently boiled as it encountered the logs, casting a mesmerizing spell.

While he stood there in nature’s gentle hand, it struck me that he literally became part of the river, as if he sprouted up and grew naturally like the vegetation around him. The river seemed to accept him as one of its own aged children. It was then that I hoped to grow up with this stream in the same manner that Gramps grew old with it.

I intently watched my sixty-four-year-old grandfather and studied his every move. His long-sleeved button-up shirt and dark slacks covered a slight frame, while an off-white fishing vest with bulging pockets hung casually over his torso. Hanging loyally by his left side was a wicker creel that occasionally flinched from a flopping trout. Around his waist, a brown leather belt fastened his green cylindrical worm can firmly to his front left hip. His balding head held a faded yellow ball cap that had a sewn-on patch in the front depicting a trout fisherman. His gold metal-rimmed bifocals were perched firmly on his nose, holding steady throughout all his movements. In his right hand he held his limber, seven-foot long black pole with grace, while his opposite hand gingerly stroked fishing line from the blue and gold Perrine automatic reel. On line’s end were two split shot sinkers that sat above a piece of night crawler on a No. 8 single-barbed hook. The concentration on his tanned, whiskered faced was evident, much like an eagle eyeing his prey, yet there was still an easy way about him. He was a man in his element.

Gramps’ motions were smooth and nimble. His first underhanded cast was effortless, almost timeless, as he pitched his line out like a fine silk thread. The arcing worm settled so lightly on the water’s surface that it appeared to dissolve out of sight, seemingly beating the effects of gravity.

His first drift under a log sent his pole into convulsions as a thick, thirteen-inch brown trout slammed his bait. Gramps set the hook with a panther-quick wrist snap and deftly fought the fish to open water, keeping his rod tip up and his line taut. This technique helped keep the hook firmly planted in the trout’s mouth. After a fiery tussle, the fish tired and Gramps gave him the “ole heave ho” to the brushy bank. Since he didn’t carry a net, he typically banked the bigger fish. This, of course, sometimes led to nasty line entanglements, but it was worth it. Losing a nice trout was painful and frowned upon by Gramps.

Gramps laid the thirteen-incher in his new wicker home and went back for more. Not out of greed, but more out of duty. A few drifts later his pole tap-danced again as a scrappy twelve-inch brown fell victim to the master. Subsequent drifts led to several more smaller browns and rainbows that he released without leaving the stream. What a pro! He mastered the fine art of catching trout thanks to a combination of skill, experience, and a good dose of patience.

While Gramps worked his magic, my action slowed after I had caught a few.

“Pssst, Tony, sneak over here and try your luck,” Gramps called and waved.

I stepped across the sandbank, skirted the brush edge, and slipped back into the stream beside him.

He pointed to where he’d fished and whispered, “Now it’s your turn to read the stream.”

I jokingly replied, “So, when does the next newspaper come floating by?”

It isn’t that easy. Reading changes in water depth, current, and cover is an art that can’t be mastered with books. Experience is the best teacher. Now successful veteran anglers, they learned to think like trout, like where they might hide and when they might strike. A trout’s world is fairly simple�"stay hidden, conserve energy, eat with care, and stay alive long enough to reproduce. An angler’s savvy takes center stage when drifting a worm into a trout hole, not only by reading the water, but by feeling the line as it bumps off bottom and bangs into hidden cover. Since we can’t see into most holes, with some being six feet deep or so, our sense of feel becomes our eyes under water, and that sense also triggers when to set the hook.

To watch a seasoned fisherman on his favorite stream, to watch Gramps at the Flag, was poetry in motion.

Inspired by Gramps’ guidance, I flipped my worm into a shaded eddy that Gramps hadn’t fished. The trout were getting the best of me when suddenly my pole bent sharply. Out of instinct, my wrists snapped upward for a clean hook set. The trout responded with rhythmic downward pulls that eventually eased as the fish tired. Moments later I gave a flipping, ten-inch brown a heave-ho to the nearest bank and then pounced on it immediately.

Gramps yelled to me, “Hey-hey Tony, Feesh-On-Ralphie!” That excited stream call was our family patent that we used whenever we hooked a defining fish. The term Feesh, of course stood for fish, but in true “Ralphie” style, Gramps added a little flair to his stream lingo.

While I quivered from my catch, Gramps moved closer and slapped a tanned hand on my shoulder and exclaimed, “That’s my boy, that’s my boy!”

Later on, as we cleaned our fish on the river, Gramps gave me a silver pocketknife. That small knife came from the Wabegon Bar and Grill where Gramps worked and it represented a merit badge on the stream. Now that’s how to hook a kid on fishing!

I had a number of landmark trips with Gramps; often it was just the two of us buried deep in the woods.  Most of our trips were to the Flag, but occasionally we fished the Blackhoof River and Silver Creek down Highway 23 in Minnesota, just south of Gary-New Duluth.

I learned to appreciate Mondays because that was Gramps’ day off work. I spent many summer Mondays with Gramps on the stream when I was between eight and fourteen years old, with Grandma always greeting us at trip’s end. That’s an important timeframe for a youngster, as my mind was being molded and my world’s view was being shaped. Fortunately, I had a set of grandparents that complimented my parents, and they left a wholesome mark on me. The timing and effectiveness of my mentors’ tutoring along with my natural attraction to the outdoors “locked” me into the Flag for life.

The timing of when Gramps became locked into the Flag isn’t so clear. His fishing adventures began in the mid ‘50s when he was nearly forty-five years old. He didn’t have the luxury of being introduced to the stream by his father, who had passed away from pneumonia when Gramps was in ninth grade. Being the oldest of five kids, Gramps was forced to leave school and work to financially support his family.

Gramps became very active with the outdoors after he was married. He enjoyed trout fishing in the summer, but also pursued rabbit and grouse hunting in the fall and winter. However, most trips were with friends. He was a fun-loving guy and he developed a close bond with his buddies over the years, partly because of his personality, and partly because he lacked a father to bond with.

Fortunately, Gramps and his buddies discovered the Flag and built a rapport with the stream with each passing summer. After Gramps became Flag savvy, he introduced his sons, Pops and Rocky, to the stream. Their younger sister Bonnie never did fish the Flag, but she found favor with the trout at the dinner table.

 

While Gramps and his sons had varied outdoor interests, none matched the blossoming tradition at the Flag. It touched four generations. Over time, single day trips turned into overnight camping trips, with each outing becoming a calendar event. Adventurous stories stacked up and grew a life of their own. Gramps didn’t realize that those early days on the Flag would lead to many more years of fishing, connecting us all as one.

Reviews

[Cherrie Palmer]

I love these kind of stories, structured in the past and colored with love.
My grandpa( who wanted grandsons, received 3 girls first). He drug us around every summer. We fished, seined for bait in the creeks, dug ginseng, gardened... We followed him around like puppies and thought he was a King. Your story took be back to my own childhood. :)

[Tony Dincau]

Thanks Cherrie - glad it struck home!

[Cherrie Palmer]

Even better than struck home, for just a minute it sent me there.