Hanging on the wall over my head as I write this is the Browning 6 weight fly rod that my father gave me on my 15th birthday. The foam grip is pressed and molded to the shape of my hand after two decades of use as he and I cast for smallmouth into the runs, rushes and rills of the Susquehanna, Fishing Creek, the Muddy, the Codorous, the Chemung and the Juniata. Way up the Dauphin Narrows and way down below Norman Wood. Next to it is the little, orange Daiwa spinning rod that he gave me for my 12th birthday. A lot of stories there; a lot of heartbreak and a few triumphs too. There was nothing better than crossing the Wrightsville Bridge to the Columbia side, bouncing down the coal road, parking by the massive, concrete graffiti-colored abutment, crossing the tracks (listen for the tingle before crossing) and scrabbling down the bank under the Route 30 bridge with Jerry Dyer an hour before sunset on a hot August evening. He knows where the fish are and he taught me. He knows what they eat and he taught me. He taught me to float flies along the edges of grass paddies, to throw cross-current drifts and how to swing a fly into an undercut bank. I remember watching him fight and land a solid bass in the deep current just above the bridge. He always fishes up there. I always fish the run below. When the light went so did we - and so we always will.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Jun 2013 16:31:00 +0000
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