You’ve read of the steelhead and striper adventures of Cam. Followed the woodland wanderings of Gordon.
So how come I never write anything about Bill?
Last week, Number One Son returned to his natal shores from the far away land of Miami. He had mentioned the F-word several times during his stay. And so it was that father and son found themselves on the Farmington River last Friday evening to catch the evening rise.
Catch? Here’s one: Bill had never fly fished a big river for trout. At least, Grady Allen assured me, he would have a good instructor. I replied that maybe we should get Fred Jeans.
Bill did great. In no time at all he was mending like he’d been doing it for years. I’d like to tell you that he caught a ridiculous number of fish, but it was one of those nights where hook sets were few and far between. He had the right fly (size 20 Light Cahill Catskill dry) and the right presentation — he had one low-teens brown make a good half dozen rises — but a soup-to-nuts complete transaction was not in the cards.
I, on the other hand, had lottery luck. As we were starting, I was greasing his leader, fly dangling in the current six feet below me, when I hooked a nice brown. I handed the rod to Bill, who managed to hand strip in his first trout on a dry. Well done, son. Dad managed a few more later on the Magic Fly, size 20.
We stayed till dark, then re-rigged for night patrol with streamers. No bumps in a half hour had our stomachs arguing with the fishing center of our brains. Cheeseburgers finally won.
My cigar that night was a My Father Le Bijou 1922 Belicoso Bill had given me for for Father’s Day. I was using my father’s old cane rod.
Sometimes it is fun, being a dad.
Bill at the controls, ready to stick that brown. Note the ski goggles filling in for polarized glasses. Marines adapt, overcome, improvise.
