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  A Life Worth Fighting For He thought his dad had, from hearing his uncles talk, and he wanted to know all about it. But his mother took him aside, while they were nervously getting ready to drive into town to meet the train. Speaking in that calm voice that he never disobeyed, especially when it came with piercing, direct eye contact, she said: “Don’t talk to dad about the war. No questions. Understand?” “But....” She shook her head. “Let him put it behind him. He’s earned some peace, don’t you think?” The boy nodded. Disappointed. He wanted to hear some war stories. A few days later, after a steady stream of visitors had passed through their living room, and a lot of whiskey had been spilled, his father asked if he’d like to go fishing. He ran for the rods, got the tackle box from the shed, shouted out that he’d painted the boat, all by himself last spring, and do we need worms and will mom make lunch, and piled all the stuff into the back of the truck. His dad stood on the front lawn, hands on his hips, watching the frenzy of activity his question had caused. “Well,” he said. “I guess the answer is yes.” They went the next morning. Early. His dad seemed to be overwhelmed by the simplest things. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cool, morning air. He ran his hand over the hood of the pick-up he hadn’t driven in years. Scraped the frost off the windshield, and held some of the ice shavings in his hand, while it melted. The truck started right off, and he listened to the engine and then looked at his son. “Who tuned it?” he asked. “I did,” said the boy, “with Uncle Jim.” “Sounds real good.” They drove out, wooden boat in the box behind them, rods rattling, following a dirt road through the prairie landscape. Didn’t talk much. Pulled the boat out together, and launched it near an old wharf. They rowed down the lake, mist rising, and set the anchor off a reed bed. They were fishing for northern pike. His dad cast an old Red Devil spoon. The boy watched his dad, and prayed that he would catch a big fish. But nothing was hitting that morning. They cast for a few hours, then put out some bobbers with worms, hoping for a yellow perch. But for some reason, on that reed bed, on that morning, there was nothing. His dad cupped a handful of water and let it spill slowly back into the lake. When a breeze stirred, he turned slowly and listened to the gentle rustling of the reeds. They talked about school, about the farm, about changes in town. Never talked about the war. After lunch, his dad said he wanted to go in and see mom. “She is so beautiful,” he said outloud, although it was clear he was talking to himself. The boy felt he’d somehow let his dad down. Should have been able to put him into some fish, after all. But as they loaded the boat, his dad put his hand on his shoulder and said: “You know, that’s the best morning I’ve had in about five years. Let’s go out again soon. And you pick the spot next time.” And you know what, they did. And they caught fish. And they still go fishing together, for a week, every summer, even though the old man is very old and each trip seems like the last. They both fly fish now, but the boy kept the old tackle box, full of Red Devils. They drive around together in a camper truck, catch trout, and tie flies. And sometimes, though rarely, his dad talks about what he did in World War II. He said he was afraid lots, but in battle, when Germans were trying to kill his friends, he did what he had to do. “You got to,” he said. “Nothin to think about.” The son, who is now over 60, has never forgotten that first fishing trip they took together after the war. He says it was like watching his dad slowly come back to life. And not a fishing season has gone by since then, when he hasn’t stopped for a moment, and thought of the sacrifices his father’s generation made, to ensure that the world was safe. We almost didn’t publish an issue of A River Never Sleeps this month, because of what happened September 11. But then we looked at the site stats and saw that we had to, because so many people were still turning to us, pulling in pictures and stories about fishing - because it’s a reminder of how beautiful life can be. It’s a life worth fighting for, now, as it was then. What do you think? Visit our online discussion area and post your views. Letters can be sent via e-mail to: letters@ariverneversleeps.com
Sir: The Editors: The Editors: The Editors: ARNS: Thank heavens for mandatory catch and release. One angler alone fishing for meat with flies could have a serious negative impact on ANY west slope cutthroat stream. I've seen a huge increase in the numbers of guided anglers to walk-in streams the past few years, and don't think these people aren't going to return on their own. Just ask any of the regulars who fish the Alberta streams (Livingston, Ram, Crowsnest, etc). I've never seen so many anglers on BC's Skookumchuck the past few years, and it's a long dusty drive into that pretty little stream. But, what can us writers do? It is a very fine line we walk when talking about fishing. People just naturally like to share a pleasant experience. Ian: Below, readers respond to our first map offering, which was done in the September issued, in conjunction with Anglers Atlas. We added some flies and text to the maps, and the response here suggests our readers liked the effort A River Never Sleeps: Special credit goes to Mike Nikischer who has invested countless hours in the lake project. I was a teacher at the Elementary School and kids would bring their fishing rods to school, stash them in their lockers and go fishing from shore as soon as school was out. Thank you for sharing with the public the background on this lake. Hopefully it will show others that hard work,determination, and cooperation can accomplish amazing things. Dear Thomas: The Eds: Editors: Editors: The Editors: {E-mail letters may be edited for clarity, taste and brevity. It is understood they express the opinions of the writers, not the editors.} |
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