Its been over two years since I posted anything here. No reason except that life's currents continue to sweep by fast and full. Following is a short story I scripted last year and seems relevant enough to post here with Father's Day drifting right around the corner.
Private Mutterings
I watched as the first ripple, the one you try so hard not to make, bounded across the shallow pool that lay ahead. Immediately a few wary trout scattered. Desperately I begged that they not alarm their brethren that finned just upstream at the head of the run. My sigh echoed the fact that this wasn’t the first time my clumsiness or lack of patient restraint had alerted fish to my presence, nor undoubtedly would it be my last.
The morning sun glinted off the clear water and warmed not only my skin, but also the blood of the coldwater residents that called this creek home. Life continued its daily routine oblivious to my presence, birds communicated through song-filled sentiments, flowers and bees began their dance in the breeze. And so I began my fishing routine as well, I breathed deeply, studied the currents, and stripped line from my reel. A few, brief false casts and my fly gently landed and began its float among the bubbles and debris of the near shore feedline. The fly floated undisturbed downstream past my feet. I repeated this process again until a brief flash engulfed my fly and line became taut, the connection between fisherman and fish was created anew. The small rainbow trout zipped and zagged, but soon quieted, and with the turn of a hook and the flick of a tail returned to an underwater retreat. I smiled with a sense of accomplishment, another jeweled memory to record and file away.
Peaceful and now relaxed after the brief visit from my piscine guest, I looked to the pool with plans for another aquatic reunion. A large splash boomed from downstream. My concentration shattered. What could possibly be invading my tranquil morning commune with this flowing river and its finned hosts? Unsure of what I might find, I turned to investigate its source. Not far away, much to my surprise and disappointment I witnessed my young son stooping to pick up a rock from the edge of the stream. Just off the edge of the stream bank, the turbidity from the previous splash still dissipated in the currents in front of him. He admired the rock that he had just selected unaware of my distant scrutiny, he was too intensely involved in the operation that had conquered his attention to acknowledge my intrusion.
The unkept curls he wore showed signs of the campground slumber from the night before. His blue eyes beamed, illuminated by the powerful tandem of imagination and discovery. His shoes were already wet at this early morning hour and his knees dirtied, neither of which he seemed to acknowledge or be concerned with. His lips moved, and I could faintly hear some of his soft intonations, the conversation seemed to carry importance, and was only truly available for his young ears. Eventually his glance wandered upstream, and I motioned for him to join me. I attempted to hide my displeasure as he approached, after all, the son of a fly fisher should be quietly watching for fish, not bombarding the stream with stony projectiles.
His footsteps jumped along the streamside path, and as he approached I noticed that the last cobble he had removed from the stream was still clenched in his fist. He wore a determined smile, and I wondered if he planned to attack the pool I was fishing with another aquatic explosion. I tensed at the potential confrontation. I wanted so dearly for my son to enjoy his outdoor experience, as unfettered as possible, yet I also felt the paternal push to enforce some discipline and impart some education on streamside ethics. His internal conversation continued to occasionally fall from his lips, his thoughts continued, unfaltering along their unseen path.
I laughed a little, remembering solitary moments spent creekside, where I too had enunciated a question or observation audibly, for only my own ears to hear, and perhaps for the eavesdropping local denizens of the stream. The moment of realization that one’s mental thoughts have slipped into oral speech would usually elicit a brief startle of surprise. These occurrences seem less out of place however alongside moving water; perhaps the setting justifies the discussion. Regardless, my son appeared to be carrying on the tradition of vocalizing his streamside mumblings exceptionally well.
His eyes caught my stare and soon we stood next to each other as the stream continued flowing on. His grip on the rock in his hand shifted, “Dad!” he exclaimed, “check this out.” I became anxious again, anticipating a splash careening through the tranquility that surrounded us. The impending lecture began to build like a cumulus cloud across my mind’s horizon. His wrist twisted, as he exposed the mossy underside of the rounded stone. His arm extended the rock forward and then held it steady at close range. I looked at him again, as his excited eyes danced with directed attention at the rock’s surface. My glance followed his, and it was then with amused relief that my eyes captured the source of his enthusiasm. Amid the moss and sand that covered the cobble wriggled a large stonefly nymph.
“What is it?” he implored, “It’s crazy-looking. It’s huge!”
I laughed again, as my previous concerns faded away. Instead I relished the unique opportunity to experience something again for the first time through the shining eyes of my son. I scooped the larva into my water bottle and sat down along the bank. He quickly followed, and grabbed a cobblestone seat, eyes glued to the creature that now crawled across the plastic confines of the bottle. I began, in very general terms that his young mind would comprehend, to describe the stonefly life cycle, and its relevance to the stream’s ecosystem. He listened intently, and for a moment we were both lost in the confines of a plastic encased world.
Eventually my diatribe included the trout that had brought us to this destination originally. A gasp exploded from his mouth when he realized that a trout could eat something so large and with such a ferocious appearance. I took this as a cue to open my scratched up fly box. Typically our journeys through the world of fly patterns occurred from the sterility of the warm cushions of the couch at home as I prepared for upcoming fishing expeditions. This time the surrounding had a more relevant reflection, and this time the search had a more defined target. I asked him to select the creation of feather and fur that most resembled the aquatic creature he had collected. Energetically he brushed his fingers through the lines of flies and nymphs and streamers, and another personal conversation began to emerge in short phrases, clusters of words that I myself had muttered over the same fly box in similar situations, “…not this one….almost…wrong color…” Finally he plucked a hook from the foam, and held it close to the bottle’s inhabitant, and then with nodding approval, my son placed the selected nymph pattern into my palm.
I tied the fly to the end of my tippet and quietly we approached the adjacent pool. He stood to my left, holding the plastic bottle and its treasure tightly. I pointed out the riffles at the pool’s head, and described a few likely places that a trout might hold; all the while the gentle stream currents swallowed our feet. Fly and line were sent hurtling forward toward the targets at the head of the run. Intently we watched the drift, two pairs of eyes sharing the same vision and the same hope. A twitch and a tug and suddenly the pool exploded alive. A splash again echoed through the valley, this one formed by a scaled inhabitant, and not from a rocky missile. We both whooped and smiled as the trout came to hand. My son beamed with accomplishment and inwardly so did I. We then watched carefully as the fish returned to its lie behind a mid stream boulder. A moment passed, no sounds could be heard but the gurgle of the creek.
Soon thereafter, the captured stonefly nymph was returned from its plastic jail into the cold currents of the stream, my son imploring him to go find a trout. He then turned to me, and with a continued smile said, “Thanks,” loud enough for both of us to hear.
That evening we told stories of our exploits, and I remembered to have a brief discussion about the reasons we shouldn’t remove rocks and throw them into the stream. I also was sure to recant that at one time I too tossed rocks into rivers, but had decided that throwing flies was far more rewarding, a difference that I like to think he too was beginning to grasp and appreciate. We roasted marshmallows and sang ridiculous songs. Later, as I sat around the campfire and listened to my son’s snores merge with the sounds of crickets and frogs I continued to reflect on the day. I had caught several more fish after he left my side at the stream, and he had continued on with his own personal adventures. But again my thoughts returned to an echoing splash, and a stonefly in a bottle, and an inquisitive young mind. Lessons were learned by generations today. Smiles were shared. Experiences were filed into memory banks, hopefully to be visited again. I realized that the first ripples, the ones I had tried so hard to make with my son, were having an effect as they bounded through the stream of his life. “Alright…” I muttered audibly, as I leaned back and closed my eyes.
The morning sun glinted off the clear water and warmed not only my skin, but also the blood of the coldwater residents that called this creek home. Life continued its daily routine oblivious to my presence, birds communicated through song-filled sentiments, flowers and bees began their dance in the breeze. And so I began my fishing routine as well, I breathed deeply, studied the currents, and stripped line from my reel. A few, brief false casts and my fly gently landed and began its float among the bubbles and debris of the near shore feedline. The fly floated undisturbed downstream past my feet. I repeated this process again until a brief flash engulfed my fly and line became taut, the connection between fisherman and fish was created anew. The small rainbow trout zipped and zagged, but soon quieted, and with the turn of a hook and the flick of a tail returned to an underwater retreat. I smiled with a sense of accomplishment, another jeweled memory to record and file away.
Peaceful and now relaxed after the brief visit from my piscine guest, I looked to the pool with plans for another aquatic reunion. A large splash boomed from downstream. My concentration shattered. What could possibly be invading my tranquil morning commune with this flowing river and its finned hosts? Unsure of what I might find, I turned to investigate its source. Not far away, much to my surprise and disappointment I witnessed my young son stooping to pick up a rock from the edge of the stream. Just off the edge of the stream bank, the turbidity from the previous splash still dissipated in the currents in front of him. He admired the rock that he had just selected unaware of my distant scrutiny, he was too intensely involved in the operation that had conquered his attention to acknowledge my intrusion.
The unkept curls he wore showed signs of the campground slumber from the night before. His blue eyes beamed, illuminated by the powerful tandem of imagination and discovery. His shoes were already wet at this early morning hour and his knees dirtied, neither of which he seemed to acknowledge or be concerned with. His lips moved, and I could faintly hear some of his soft intonations, the conversation seemed to carry importance, and was only truly available for his young ears. Eventually his glance wandered upstream, and I motioned for him to join me. I attempted to hide my displeasure as he approached, after all, the son of a fly fisher should be quietly watching for fish, not bombarding the stream with stony projectiles.
His footsteps jumped along the streamside path, and as he approached I noticed that the last cobble he had removed from the stream was still clenched in his fist. He wore a determined smile, and I wondered if he planned to attack the pool I was fishing with another aquatic explosion. I tensed at the potential confrontation. I wanted so dearly for my son to enjoy his outdoor experience, as unfettered as possible, yet I also felt the paternal push to enforce some discipline and impart some education on streamside ethics. His internal conversation continued to occasionally fall from his lips, his thoughts continued, unfaltering along their unseen path.
I laughed a little, remembering solitary moments spent creekside, where I too had enunciated a question or observation audibly, for only my own ears to hear, and perhaps for the eavesdropping local denizens of the stream. The moment of realization that one’s mental thoughts have slipped into oral speech would usually elicit a brief startle of surprise. These occurrences seem less out of place however alongside moving water; perhaps the setting justifies the discussion. Regardless, my son appeared to be carrying on the tradition of vocalizing his streamside mumblings exceptionally well.
His eyes caught my stare and soon we stood next to each other as the stream continued flowing on. His grip on the rock in his hand shifted, “Dad!” he exclaimed, “check this out.” I became anxious again, anticipating a splash careening through the tranquility that surrounded us. The impending lecture began to build like a cumulus cloud across my mind’s horizon. His wrist twisted, as he exposed the mossy underside of the rounded stone. His arm extended the rock forward and then held it steady at close range. I looked at him again, as his excited eyes danced with directed attention at the rock’s surface. My glance followed his, and it was then with amused relief that my eyes captured the source of his enthusiasm. Amid the moss and sand that covered the cobble wriggled a large stonefly nymph.
“What is it?” he implored, “It’s crazy-looking. It’s huge!”
I laughed again, as my previous concerns faded away. Instead I relished the unique opportunity to experience something again for the first time through the shining eyes of my son. I scooped the larva into my water bottle and sat down along the bank. He quickly followed, and grabbed a cobblestone seat, eyes glued to the creature that now crawled across the plastic confines of the bottle. I began, in very general terms that his young mind would comprehend, to describe the stonefly life cycle, and its relevance to the stream’s ecosystem. He listened intently, and for a moment we were both lost in the confines of a plastic encased world.
Eventually my diatribe included the trout that had brought us to this destination originally. A gasp exploded from his mouth when he realized that a trout could eat something so large and with such a ferocious appearance. I took this as a cue to open my scratched up fly box. Typically our journeys through the world of fly patterns occurred from the sterility of the warm cushions of the couch at home as I prepared for upcoming fishing expeditions. This time the surrounding had a more relevant reflection, and this time the search had a more defined target. I asked him to select the creation of feather and fur that most resembled the aquatic creature he had collected. Energetically he brushed his fingers through the lines of flies and nymphs and streamers, and another personal conversation began to emerge in short phrases, clusters of words that I myself had muttered over the same fly box in similar situations, “…not this one….almost…wrong color…” Finally he plucked a hook from the foam, and held it close to the bottle’s inhabitant, and then with nodding approval, my son placed the selected nymph pattern into my palm.
I tied the fly to the end of my tippet and quietly we approached the adjacent pool. He stood to my left, holding the plastic bottle and its treasure tightly. I pointed out the riffles at the pool’s head, and described a few likely places that a trout might hold; all the while the gentle stream currents swallowed our feet. Fly and line were sent hurtling forward toward the targets at the head of the run. Intently we watched the drift, two pairs of eyes sharing the same vision and the same hope. A twitch and a tug and suddenly the pool exploded alive. A splash again echoed through the valley, this one formed by a scaled inhabitant, and not from a rocky missile. We both whooped and smiled as the trout came to hand. My son beamed with accomplishment and inwardly so did I. We then watched carefully as the fish returned to its lie behind a mid stream boulder. A moment passed, no sounds could be heard but the gurgle of the creek.
Soon thereafter, the captured stonefly nymph was returned from its plastic jail into the cold currents of the stream, my son imploring him to go find a trout. He then turned to me, and with a continued smile said, “Thanks,” loud enough for both of us to hear.
That evening we told stories of our exploits, and I remembered to have a brief discussion about the reasons we shouldn’t remove rocks and throw them into the stream. I also was sure to recant that at one time I too tossed rocks into rivers, but had decided that throwing flies was far more rewarding, a difference that I like to think he too was beginning to grasp and appreciate. We roasted marshmallows and sang ridiculous songs. Later, as I sat around the campfire and listened to my son’s snores merge with the sounds of crickets and frogs I continued to reflect on the day. I had caught several more fish after he left my side at the stream, and he had continued on with his own personal adventures. But again my thoughts returned to an echoing splash, and a stonefly in a bottle, and an inquisitive young mind. Lessons were learned by generations today. Smiles were shared. Experiences were filed into memory banks, hopefully to be visited again. I realized that the first ripples, the ones I had tried so hard to make with my son, were having an effect as they bounded through the stream of his life. “Alright…” I muttered audibly, as I leaned back and closed my eyes.
1 Comments:
Bravo! Encore!
Adman
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