Mr. Gordon, I soon saw, was a good caster, but not as good as Mr. La Branche. Several times his fly missed the seam or splashed on the water.
Ten minutes later the anglers switched positions. As I watched the contest, I wondered if I witnessed history being made. If so, how important was the history in the scope of the history of the wide world? It certainly didn’t compare to Gettysburg, or perhaps even to the Hudson River celebration. But at least at the Covered Bridge Pool, I was the only witness. Besides, was there any way to tell how big small histories would one day become?
Three more times Mr. La Branche and Mr. Gordon switched positions. When the contest was over, Mr. La Branche had hooked four trout but lost one. Mr. Gordon had hooked and landed two trout. Both anglers released their catch.
“George, if you had a softer rod, that trout wouldn’t have broken off.”
“If I had a softer rod I wouldn’t have been able to hit the target so many times.”
“The fish that count are the ones an angler lands.”
“Not to me.”
Mr. Gordon smiled. “Stubborn as ever.”
“Maybe, but remember: I believed in you when almost no one else did.”
“Let’s fish for the love of it,” Mr. Gordon said. “Ian, take my favorite spot, the tail.”
I walked downstream and studied the tail. It had many seams. I decided, therefore, to fan cast the tail with Doc’s backwards streamer. And so I cast about 20 feet straight across, let my fly swing directly downstream, then waited, gently moving the rod tip up and down. Finally, I retrieved my fly, cast 5 feet farther and let my fly swing downstream in a wider arc.
I continued the fishing cycle until my cast almost reached the bank, then I waded five feet downstream and restarted another cycle. An hour or so later, I didn’t have a single take even though Mr. La Branche and Mr. Gordon each had several. Embarrassed, I was angry at myself for choosing the wrong strategy. Wanting to prove to the men I was a real angler, I decided to change strategies and cast directly to some of the seams. I retrieved my line. It felt heavy, as if my fly were caught on something. I pointed the rod up. The line seemed to pull back. A massive brown trout jumped. Quickly, I lowered the rod and reeled in slack line. Knowing I had to keep the brown out of the fast tail water, I baby-stepped backwards toward the bank, then jogged downstream, reeling in more and more line. The brown broke upstream for slower water. The first tactical advantage went to me. Pointing the rod up, feeling it throb, I slowed my whirling reel with my palm and kept steady pressure on the brown. He broke for the far bank. I lowered the rod, waited, and turned him. The throbbing weakened into a pulse. Reeling in line, I quickly waded to the middle of the pool. The brown swam in a small oval. I waded right up to him. He swam right into my hand, as if he knew I was going to let him go and wanted to say hello. He was as big as Clay’s monster trout. I held him up.
Mr. La Branche and Mr. Gordon applauded. I held the troutunderwater and let him go. Like Mr. Rainbow, he didn’t seem to want to leave, as if liked being with me. Still, I splashed water and chased him away.
A few minutes later Mr. La Branche yelled, “Ian, I have to head back.”
I reeled in my line and walked upstream.
“Ian, what did you catch the brown on?” Mr. Gordon asked.
I showed him Doc’s streamer. “Mr. Gordon, could you tie the fly for me?”
Mr. Gordon studied the fly. His brow wrinkled. He looked older again. “Backwards? Interesting. I’ve never seen anything like it? Who tied it for you?”
“A drunk who fought in the Civil War, then became an angler and a doctor.”
“Give me your address, Ian, and I’ll tie and send some to you. In the meantime, here’s some dry flies for you to practice with.”
“Thanks, Mr. Gordon.”
Mr. La Branche and I rode back through the covered bridge.
“Ian, what does your father do?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
"I’m in investment banking. Is that what you want to be, a lawyer?”
I decided to tell Mr. La Branche I wanted to be a writer.
“I envy Mr. Gordon for being a writer,” Mr. La Branche said.
“So you don’t think I’m crazy for also wanting to be one?”
“In the end, we all have to do what we believe in. Mr. Gordon could have been successful in business, but he chose not to. True, I don’t understand how he can live with just a dog on the Neversink River. It must be lonely as hell, especially during the winter. He used to fish with a woman. I think she broke his heart and that’s why he shuts people out. But who knows? Maybe his heart was broken for a reason, because he needs the time alone to write. One day he’ll be remembered for revolutionizing fly fishing in America.”
Will wanting to be an angler and a writer, I wondered, lead me to living alone, like Mr. Gordon?
We passed another farm. “What will I be remembered for,” Mr. La Branche muttered. “Making money?”
“But aren’t you writing something?”
“Just taking notes. I’m not a writer, even though Mr. Gordon wants me to write an article.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Ian, supposing at the end of my long, long day, it’s proven that on fast water, wet flies take more fish than dries? Or supposing it’s proven the size, form and color of the fly are more important than the presentation? What a fool I’ll look like. I wouldn’t want to publish anything unless I know I’m right; and sometimes, sometimes, I get so tired of all my experiments. Sometimes I wonder just what the hell I’m doing. When I fish I don’t even see the beauty of the rivers anymore. I don’t, don’t--.”
A silence. For me, an uncomfortable one. I tried to think of the right words to say. Finally they came to me. “But you do see the beauty of your experiments.”
He smiled. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
Another silence. This one wasn’t uncomfortable. I looked at the Beaverkill River and wished I could turn into a bird and see the whole river in a few hours.
“Ian, where can I drop you off?”
I still hoped to see Ray. “At the Forks. I have a few hours before my train.”
“Next season would you like to fish at my club?”
“Sure, Mr. La Branche.”
He reached into his pocket and took out a business card. “Next spring telephone me and we’ll arrange something.”
We reached the Forks and said good-bye. His firm handshake, his warm eyes, his gentle nod told me his invitation was sincere.
A few hours later I sat in the train, looked out the window, and saw a green clearing that stretched across two mountains. The clearing looked like a beautiful lake. A few minutes later, the mountains disappeared. Had I left the Catskills too soon? Did I to have to wait eight long months, an eternity, to see them again?
I saw two distant mountains, one behind the other. Their slopes seemed to crisscross like swords. I was proud of my simile, until a minute or so later when I realized it wasn’t right for me to compare the peaceful Catskill mountains to weapons, and to compare the Beaverkill to a long battlefield. To apologize, I told myself I would see the mountains and the river differently, the way they really were: soothing, comforting--yes, motherly--images of a wider, more mysterious, often unseen world.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. I was proud I hadn’t given in to my fear and stayed home, and therefore had come to believe that, in spite of the death of my mother and the death of so many young soldiers, maybe the world, or at least some of its smaller worlds, were beautiful. But could I be a part of the Beaverkill world and, at the same time, a part of the New York City world?
I hoped so, then I wouldn’t have to leave my father and sister. You see, already I knew the Beaverkill was going to be a part of my life, or should I say, I was going to be a part of its. I wondered how big a part.
*Randy’s historical novel, The Fly Caster Who Tried To Make Peace With The World, is now available at keokeebooks.com
