I have a fly-rod, and I'm not afraid to use it.
I have NO idea HOW to use it, but I'm not afraid to learn.
I live in Eastern Montana, home of the Walleye Weekend Warriors, and I'm a closet Trout Taker.
(At least I would be if I knew how to use the dang fly rod!)
My grandpas on both sides were fishermen, and I don't remember NOT knowing how to fish. My Grandpa Mosby lived in Lewistown, in the land of fresh spring creeks and trout hatcheries and no bugs. (Seriously. There are really no biting bugs to speak of, there!) He had an impressive supply of FAT worms and was generous with them, although, in reflection, we never really caught a lot of fish with the worms and pink marshmallows. I used to tease him, by tying his worms in knots before handing them to him. He'd laugh, and put them on the hook that way. Fishing in the Lewistown area was cool, dewy and always smelled better, somehow. The trout were firm, pink and DELICIOUS, wrapped in tinfoil with butter. Mercy!
My Gramps, here in Garfield County, took us fishing at Fred Fitch's reservoir. It was a prairie pothole, warm and weedy, with thousands of biting bugs and gumbo mud that would suck in the hapless fisherman. He, too, brought along worms and pink marshmallows, but his worms were much leaner, having tried to make a life in Garfield County dirt. Gramps also taught me how to use lures....little chartreuse spinners seemed to show up better in the murky water....and taught me how to tie quintessential fishing knots. The fish we caught in Fred Fitch's reservoir were flabby, weedy and slow, but we had a lot of success in landing them.
The thing I remember most, from both experiences, was the incredible patience of both my grandpas. They took so much time with us, baiting hooks, untangling lines, cleaning fish. (As we got older, we were "allowed" to clean our own fish. But Gramps made sure we did it properly, neatly and no waste.) I also remember the quiet times spent casting, the thrill of the tug on my line, the sandwiches Grandma packed and the taste of dirty, pastel marshmallows snuck from the bait bag. And as we rattled home in Gramps' old white pickup, with the windows rolled down and the Montana evening air blowing my hair around my face, I remember thinking just before falling asleep, "I wish I could fish every day."
When I came home from college, after my junior year, Gramps had a tackle box made up for me, filled with funny little lures (yes, there was a chartreuse spinner...still the best), enough fishing line to outfit 5 poles, weights, bait hooks, a package of questionable smoked sardine-looking bait, bobbers and a jackknife. We sat down together on cottonwood logs, in the sun at the front of his house and went through it, discussing the proper usage and merits of each component. He liked tackle boxes, because of all the little compartments and places for everything. He'd use every square inch for something. He put my lead weights in a hinged jewelry box, and I wonder if Grandma knew where it had gone.
I made my friends Karen and Heather go fishing, for my birthday one year, in Lewistown. It was a failure as a fishing trip....we lost a pole and about 3 lures, but we laughed all the way there, and rejoiced over our greasy burgers. They were such a treat for starving school teachers!
My boyfriend at the time was a serious walleye fisherman, and tried to interest me in the obsessive world of walleyes, but I could never distinguish the bottom from the fish, and didn't like the confinement of the boat. I prefer to roam and fish, and he was a sit and fish guy. (This isn't why we broke up, but I wonder if it didn't contribute to the deline of the relationship....)
For my first Mother's Day, Wayland and Maggie proudly presented me with my very own fly-rod and accessories....I was SO excited!!! It had been a dream of mine, this landlocked prairie girl, to learn to fly fish! I had great aspiriations, and dragged my husband and daughter to the fly-shop in Billings for expert advice and to have my reel wound. But it turns out that it's pretty hard to get away and get any sort of instruction when you have a toddler. And then you have another. And then your budget gets quite tight, so the choice between fly-fishing instruction and shoes for the kids seems like a non-issue. (Upon reflection, this rainy morning, I may have made the wrong choice here, because the kids seldom wear the shoes, anyway. Hmmm.)
Every summer, still, I miss my Gramps and my Grandpa Mosby so much. And I pat my fishing poles and that funny little tackle box, containing ancient spinners and bobbers, and wonder where I could take them to revive. My fly-rod is still a virgin, and probably will remain so for a couple more years.
Maggie is old enough, now, to start fishing, and she'll be a doozy. I'm anxious to get her to a muddy old reservoir, introduce her to the worms and marshmallows and chartreuse spinners. She'll love reeling in flippy little trout and examining their otherworldly scales. My grandpas would have loved mentoring this one. She'll have a gingersnap in one filthy hand, and a worm in the other. We may get to Lewistown, this summer, to fish the waters God blessed.
