He’d talked of going fly fishing since 1992, the year he’d seen the promo poster for Norman Maclean’s film debut of A River Runs Through It. That image, with the evergreens and the river, the line looping through the air, sunlight sparkling on the water—the sheer freedom, of which, it all seemed to speak—sparked a yearning within him that could not be entirely extinguished. It’s the type of yearning that, left unfulfilled, becomes heavier with time and regret.
It comes up in conversation, as if in an attempt to rededicate himself, though he’s not truly committed. “Do you fly fish?” he would ask. The individual responds to the affirmative, and he follows up with the noncommittal, and somewhat practiced, “It’s on my bucket list,” and, “We should go sometime.” But…they never do. He never seems to have time for it, and although it pulls at him with unseen force, he’s always managed to put it back in its place. All the while, inside, he knows as well as anyone that talking about a thing is not the same as doing it.
In the summer of 2014 he finally stopped talking, and went fishing.
It wasn’t like fishing with his father. He didn’t get up at 4am and drive two hours in the dark. Nor did he spend the evening prior packing lunches or gathering gear. No, the day started casually, just him and a couple of friends. The plan was to meet up with their guide on the St. Joe River at 9am. They’d be fishing out of a drift boat, which he understood to mean that they’d get a lot more fishing done in a lot less time. So, there was really no rush, and he was able to just enjoy the morning.
He’d never been much for fishing. He’d gone with his father a few times when he was about six years old and a few more times later in life. Once, when he was twelve, he’d gone alone. That was the day he’d decided he didn’t care for fishing; it seemed a lonely, dull, and uneventful thing. Not the kind of adventure he had hoped for – staring at a bobber for hours without a bite. Fly fishing, however, looked like action, constant movement and excitement. It looked window at the amber waters of the St. Joe, he thought he wouldn’t mind if he didn’t get a bite all day.
He wasn’t necessarily there to catch fish. It was about something else… discovering something… about finding that young boy again, and showing him that there was more to fishing than just catching fish. There was something deeper. He’d felt it all those years from just looking at that movie poster. After all, if Maclean had gone to the trouble to write a book about it, he figured there must be something more to it.
The guide’s name was Randy Dingman, an Idaho native and fishing guide extraordinaire. He was dressed to the hilt in proper, and noticeably well used, fishing attire. He was tall, and as mellow and friendly as a person could ever meet. His tone and mannerisms held a unique Caribbean-like rhythm and vernacular that soothed all nervousness and made folks smile.
Whether it was the river or the surrounding mountains – perhaps, it was in the realization itself – something about that moment spoke of a divinity universally recognized by those who escape to the wilderness.
The trip down river was even more peaceful than he’d expected. The day was not too warm, and the sun glistened off the water just right – just the way it should when one is fly fishing. On the wide, slow sections, he’d stop fishing and sit down while Randy rowed them through, speeding their journey on to the next fishing hole. The water was so clear in these sections that he saw small schools of squaw fish meandering through the slow current. “That’s gin clear, dude,” Randy said. “That’s what we call it. Gin clear.” Then, the current picked up, and he was back to casting again, Randy directing his movements and telling him where to drop it. After about the third time of making a birds nest of his line, attempting to pick his fly off the water with a week back cast, Randy laughed out loud. “I feel like I’m taking my brother’s kid fishing,” he said. “You’ve got to commit, dude.” Randy’s lighthearted instruction made everyone smile. “See, bro,” Randy said. “we’re all friends here, dude.”
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Upon entering the river earlier that day, he had, in the back of his mind, the very slightest concern that he may have been overly optimistic about fly fishing. That there could be too much to learn for it to be enjoyable the first time. Perhaps Maclean was an optimist as well, and it really wasn’t that much different than what he was used to. He’d been disappointed too many times in the past for those thoughts not to show up. Despite his novice disadvantages, however, the fish were biting; it appears fish will even strike at a novice’s hook. Once, he managed to properly set the hook and reeled in a good-sized cutthroat trout, officially making it his best day of fishing.
At the end of the trip, the boat was loaded back onto the trailer, and he waded out knee deep into the current for a few more casts. Great swishing loops curled over his head, and the movement began to feel natural, relaxing. He dropped the fly upstream, mending the display “early and often,” as Randy had instructed. Then, with a committed back cast, he picked the fly off the water, dried it off through a few more loops, and dropped it back on the water again. He mended, watched, waited and mended again. He didn’t care if he caught anything, it had been a wonderful day. That young, disappointed boy was no more. He’d gotten bites all day, even reeled one in, but it didn’t matter. It had been, in plain truth, everything he’d hoped it would be.
As he and his friends drove off into the mid-afternoon sunlight, the guide hollered his parting tagline. “See you ‘round the campfire,” he said, and drove off to educate another novice in the ways of the gin clear St. Joe. N
(Special thanks to Mr. Randy Dingman of ROW Adventures for the best day of fishing I’ve ever had. It wasn’t at all about the fish, bro.)
By Toby Reynolds
As Featured In: Summer/Fall 2015