My fly fishing got off to a shaky start, when, on our fist fishing trip my father turned the boat over.  I didn't know how to swim at the time, so he grabbed me and put me on a rock while he went back for the other member of our party, a young man with braces on his legs.  (I believe he had polio.)  I don't remember much more about that day but I must have caught some fish, because we went again.

    We cast terrible flys behind spinners, with pork rind on the end of the hook.   To make sure the fly got down quick and stayed down we used split shot.   I've often said that our fly fishing was done to a three count beat: Back cast,  fore cast and DUCK!

    I really got interested in fly fishing toward the end of my Fathers life.  I'd slowed down a little, myself.  I was married, had a steady job and most of my needs were met.  The last time my father and I went fishing it was I that was more interested in it than he.  That was a big change.  Then next time I came home he was too sick to get in the boat.  A good size smallmouth couldn't overcome the pain he was starting to feel.

    On our last fishing trip together, we put in at a public access point on the Gasconade, north of state route 38.  We fished the hole from where we put in to the riffle at it's head.  When we reached the head of the hole we beached the boat and I wade fished up to the head of the riffle.  When I came back dad was sitting on the edge of the john boat, drinking a beer.  He surveyed his surroundings, the woods, the stream, the blue sky, the sound of water over age old stone.  "Pretty good way to live," He said.

"Yes," I said, "it is."

We pushed the boat into the current and started back to the access point.  As we fished down the river
Little bluegill kept hitting my fly.  Dad got mad at them for jumping in front of the big bass that he knew were out there.   I just laughed.

    Suddenly, just in front of us, a large tree fell into the water.  It had been growing on the edge of the river for over 50 years.  All that time the river had been removing the earth from around it's roots. ( If it had taken two more minutes it would have landed on us, maybe killing us both.)   If you've never seen a full grown tree fall, it's dramatic.  Even more so when it falls into a stream.  I've always thought it was a sight.   My interest in fishing was going up and my father's was declining.  I've marked that instant in time as the point where our interest passed.

    We never fished together again.

    I think of him often when I fish today.  Sometimes I get lucky.   Sometimes I get skunked.   Sometimes I get real lucky.

    I've been able to fish several of the famous streams: the Beverkill, Esops Creek and the AuSable in New York; the North Umpqua, in Oregon; the White and North Fork of the White in Arkansas,  the Mersaid in California;  the Provose in Utah; the Bow in Canada.   In my home state of Missouri, I've fished the Eleven points, the Current and the Jacks fork with my father.   I live close enough to the Gulf of Mexico with it's beautiful grass flats to be able to chase fish in the salt.

    But my mind keeps returning to those streams of my youth.  Those old limestone bluffs hanging over us in the late afternoon shadows.  A light breeze putting "cats paws" on the water of a quiet stream.  The murmur of a riffle.  A warm fall day when large catalpa and maple leaves are so thick on the surface of the water that your line catches on them. Whetstone Creek, Beaver Creek, (I'm sure everyone has a Beaver Creek) Bryant and of course the Gasconade river.  

Back cast, fore cast, duck.