Makings of a Fly Fisherman

Many times I've wondered if a time comes when fly fishermen finally realize they are for the rest of their lives just that . . . dedicated users of flyrods and flies.

Like tea-bags that have set on a shelf for years, the hot plunge hits them, or us . . . and suddenly everything has flavor and meaning. We all know good tea is never really `instant' as the best takes years for the tree to grow and flavor. For me, I must have been the last leaf on the limb or in the bag. No one pulled my string until years later and when they did, it was yanked. My teacher . . . was a dilly!

You think you had it tough? Lad, you'd better listen to this. I got black and blue marks from this guy. The scars and psychological wounds were thrown in for free. Think I'm kidding? Listen to this . . .

It all began years ago when I was thirteen. `Thirteen' is that age and number all teenagers dread. To begin with, it's an unlucky number and it's the first one that ends with `teen'. What a weird way to step into teen-hood! I wouldn't wish `thirteen' on my worst enemy. The world and humanity surely has something in store for us immediately after we blow out those candles.

I remember the limestone quarry waters, creeks, and ponds that we haunted in the Miami Valley of Northwestern Ohio. It was on this birthday my grandfather Theodore Kurczak gave me his South Bend bamboo flyrod, my first. This, we know today didn't make me a fly fisherman forth-with or instantly, right? But you couldn't have told me that, just then. Becoming a pure flyfisherman didn't happen until I was thirty six years old. At least, not as a `mind-set' it didn't. I was a fly fisherman, but then again, I wasn't. I may have seasoned slowly, but that flyrod was something else!

Saucer-sized bluegills came with fair success after a while. In a matter of weeks I was sweet-talking mother into buying me a fly-tying kit. I did a commendable job (and a ton of dishes and chores) because the one she bought cost $24.00. My conscience was clear. She liked fish. I'd keep mom in fish until she screamed, "Stop!"

When it arrived, I couldn't believe it! When I opened the chest-size colorful box my eyes fell upon gobs of feathers, spools of string, tinsel, a long needle, pinchers, a clamping apparatus, and fishing hooks of different sizes. Then I discovered I had everything except an instruction booklet. No problem, Herter's did pretty good. I'd manage.

I proceeded to manufacture abortions of the imagination. This proved true when my fishing success collapsed. The stupid fish ignored my fantastic offerings and colorful gifts. I couldn't understand it.

My flies were tied with knots that would have made a Naval Admiral proud . . . or should I say, worrisome? My kit seemed a total failure. What a pity. How could I ever tell mom? I didn't. So, I stashed my feathery factory away thinking at the time it was all for nothing. Since I couldn't tie, why not buy?

I did.

Sport's Shops love to see guys like me walk in. I bought flies and junk that in a child's eyes seemed delicious. The only they thing they ever caught was a sucker . . . `me'. If the fish didn't strike I simply concluded the stupid fish weren't hungry. I didn't eat when I wasn't hungry, right? Surely fish weren't any different? I just ignored the ones that were snacking. It was hard not to.

How versatile a flyrod can be, is proven and invented out of the minds of creek-bottom-raised boys. Seasonal and `non-seasonal' had different meanings then. `Seasonal' meant the catches were cooked post-haste and with a clear conscience. `Non-seasonal' meant the opposite. I shook inside and my heart pounded when I kept illegally caught fish. Visions of the F.B.I. lurking in the bushes struck terror in my heart. Why give them a chance to expose themselves. I'd sneak and crawl the ditches and dodge home and eat the evidence. Make sure you have plenty of cats around though. Every little detail had to be thought out. Kids don't under-estimate crime fighters. That J. Edgar Hoover fellow was a smart guy and we knew it! Inter-sanctum and that creaking door didn't help matters either, in those days. Friday night radio was scary.

I remember we caught bass, crappie, catfish, perch, bullheads and bluegills often, but `frogg'n' was another matter. Ron Kinkaid was my `lets do something' friend, school chum, or when fighting each other, things smoothed over when it came to fish'n or hunt'n. No time was lost. Mention frogs and you were in danger of getting trampled. Frogg'n flyrod style is down-right devilish.

Thread a red-wool-tagged hook of yarn through briars, brambles and bushes. Take as much time to snake it through as you must or can. Entice said frog with dancing, spidery offering. Watch him stare. Watch him blink slowly and cross his eye-balls. Watch him gather himself in discovery. Watch him blink without snickering. Then . . . bounce the wool off his nose. That will just about do it. Suddenly, they will cannon-ball forward with a low-trajectory `GRONK' of glee. The splash is always as great as their accuracy. Frog-legs were always relished with overdue amounts of degeneracy. They twitched in the frying pan which never ceased to amaze young, could-be biologists. Things like that captivated us.

My flyrod was well named. It not only could stretch, it could bend. It was one of the first, early rods manufactured by the South Bend Company. My grandfather had bought it when he first came to America from the old country, Poland. I'm heart-broken that I don't have it today.

Fly fishing for barn bats has to be seen to be believed. Off high, upper hay hook platforms where the hay-hooks are stored, flying bats occasionally took our feathered offerings dangling below. Bat-fishing with your line careening and zig-zagging through the air is a weird sport. I gave it all up when one evening in my whooping excitement I stepped of my aerial perch. We quickly discovered I wasn't a Batman. Fresh alfalfa below fortunately saved me from permanent harm but I can tell you I spit a lot of dust and leaves before I was declared, alright. I didn't mind giving the sport up. Ever try unhooking a mad bat?

Once I caught a fifteen pound monster from the eerie pond in Oak Openings Park near Swanton, Ohio. From it's moss infested waters and after a two-hour battle were we able to land it. Ron and my brother Ted and I always avoided stepping into that pond. We suspected it to be a quicksand bog ready to suck us in and down. Tarzan Movies taught us all about things like that. Beware of quicksand and piranhas. Such weirdness about the `unknown' made our imaginations run the gambit of the animal kingdom during that two hour tug-of-war. I remember how Ted and Ron prodded me to HA-A-ANG ON!! There was nothing to fear from this stupid pond! But they kept doing this from a greater and greater distance behind. "Hey you guys? Where you going!?"

"Just giving you lots of room!" they shouted back.

The sight of the huge snapping turtle's hissing head made the three of use rush forward. But wait! Why . . . were we rushing forward? To pick it up, perhaps? Hey man . . . get out of my face!

Bravery gave us the ultimate choice and we took it. We cut MY line turning the ugly, hissing, snapping . . . finger chomping beast loose. The choice was a heroic one because it meant giving up a prized fish-hook. My prize melted slowly backwards and away into the inky, spooky depths of quicksand waters. We babbled all the way home.

At Ron's house his mom said his father would have given us a minimum of five dollars to a dollar a pound for such a prize. We didn't feel good after that, especially since the snapper had grown to proportions of twenty-five pounds on the way home.

"Dumb turtle," mumbles Ronnie.

"Yah," I pout.

"Who wants five bucks anyhow?" adds Ted.

We both look at him.

Up to this point in my fly fishing education, my abuses of the flyrod exceeded every `no-no' since Isaac Walton. By no stretch of the imagination was I a fly fisherman's fisherman. No-o-ooo way!

Continuing as the years slipped by, military requirements put a damper upon my entire, unnatural sequence. Lets face it guys . . . that's exactly what my background was. Miles and time drifted by me like a slow side current from my beloved fishing. To a youth of twenty-two years of age, a year is a long time.

In 1957 I met and became friends with `Bob Famous III'. Son of Bob Strannahan II of Champion Spark Plug Co. We were in the same civilian flight school out at Toledo Express when we met. `Roe-bert-toe' as I used to call him in private, was a cocky kid. Sometimes rudely curt to excess. It was a form of defense to keep social seekers at a distance that bordered just beyond arms length or farther. Bobby came from a world alien to me in those days and I didn't understand it and frankly I didn't care to. Anyhow, Bob and Mary, his fiancée, frequented my farm and home to relax. I was then twenty five and married. We liked music and made great attempts to bring about the same. Since it was impossible to tune a guitar, piano and sax together, we played solo a lot. The summer days were warm, the country peaceful, and the locusts did better chirping away the months of June and July better than most people. Especially us.

One day our flying took us to Dyersburg Arkansas. We flew a member of Bob's family to his wife's father's plantation. If I remember correctly and if not, for sake of a name . . . it was `Blossom'.

This ole coot was cordial of nature, rough in temperament and a man of the earth. He better be. He had enough of it! Blossom was powerful of means and like his bulk and big southern kinship nature and stature he was inclined to sooner or later . . . to make a mistake. And he did. To which to this day, I'm grateful. He asked this `damned yankee' if I would care to go fly fishing for bream and bucket-faced bass. From that moment on, my life's fishing plot begins to thicken. Like adding arrowroot to thicken a fine southern milk-chicken gravy his questions enticed. Long lessons with my grandfather in `tact' and people in general were about to come to my aid. Finally! Now I was older and hopefully a little less hurried and a wee bit wiser. A hopeful prayer we all can use daily.

We explained to Mr. Blossom, the plantation owner, that we had dropped in by airplane (he knew that!) without rod, reel, or intent. That I would however; like to go fishing . . . "You betcha!"

To our utter dismay, Bob and I were escorted to the back screened-in porch of the mansion. "Gads!" Blossom could have competed with Dan Bailey's Shop. Rods, reels, boots and creels hung in filed order everywhere. I was left any choice I pleased. This man was either insane, gracious of nature, or both. Lateness dismissed the necessity of choosing until morning. Well it was that I did. That evening at the thirty foot long dinning table (sic) the ole fox began eyeing me over his mashed potatoes like a vulture does fresh, dead meat. I could feel his mind circling me. No mistaking it, the gears in that cranium were turning. `Instinct' came to my aid. I spoke up . . . Yankee style!

"It seems to me Mr. Blossom, that a gentleman with equipment such as yours is inclined to the finer arts of fishing. I didn't notice where it is that you fish . . . sir . . . when Bob and I landed. I only wonder, besides that, how well you're versed in the arts of fishing. All that expensive gear isn't just for show . . . is it? (I then take a big bite out of a chicken leg).

Well now . . . I thought Blossom was going to come tramping across the full length of that thirty foot long table! He looked like a frog ready to glomb onto a piece of red wool dangling before his eyes. They crossed in glee! He roared in merriment! He grabbed the inquiry with startling gusto! I was im-m-med-iatly escorted from yonder end of said table and my plate of chicken and grits to a long, chest freezer hidden off the large kitchen we had to cross through first to get there. (whew) There, my eyes fell upon the sight of four pound bream and lunker bass of great size. No one bass was less than ten pounds in weight.

Blossom was a trophy hunting fisherman and had the evidence right there to prove it . . . frozen! A man . . . such as this doesn't own whole towns and cotton gin mills by being uncompetitive. That . . . was for sure.

Finally . . . back at the table over cold grits and chicken (ugh!) it was obvious Blossom was looking for special sport. What was his game? That was the question.

I sat thinking quietly what my grandfather taught me about fishing and people in general. Finally I asked him `the question'.

"Mr. Blossom?" I began, "could you find time to go fishing tomorrow? It seems sir, you may be the only one around worth to fish with. Anything less would be uninteresting to this Yankee."

My bold remark made the man giddy with joy. My angling experience and big mouth were out of ratio to each other. In the spirit of the occasion, why not make the ole chap happy? I was `his guest' wasn't I? Heck, I could handle a flyrod. Why not take the fun on?

Blossom began to humor me. To imagine . . .! To think! . . . I would rebound and fall into HIS trap even after seeing those prized fish didn't go unnoticed. I honestly think the man thought me insane and he hid the fact behind an experienced poker-face.

I reassured him.

"Please concede Mr. Blossom that I'm at a disadvantage. I've never done any southern fly fishing before. As a sportsman (that means `gentleman' I'm sure you know) it would only be fair that you send your best guide with me." Bob mentioned he would go with Blossom to keep him company and to watch. (Keep an eye on the old fogy, is what he wanted to do).

In his den, Blossom laid down his ground rules. Yes sir! He had been this route before! My estimation of him was correct.

"Yanke-e-ee," he would drawl it out as if it was hard for him to say it. "Yanke-e-ee, them bream don't score as a fish unless it weighs one half pound. Bass must be one pound. Most fish caught at one point each pound, determines the winner . . . who I might add the loser buys a bottle of the winner's choice. Agreed?"

"Agreed," I smile.

"I drink Scotch by the way Yanke-e-ee."

I believed him.

The next morning we went fishing. My guide was a tall, lanky distinguished negro with a full head of short, curly, white hair. The gentleman's name was `Sam'. The lake was a private one and it was man-made. A gigantic sportsman's lodge sat up a long path near it. It all seemed to pop right out of the cypress jungle.

My boat was a flat-bottomed affair with a fully cushioned chair that was a unique feature in those days as far as a public item is concerned. It sat in the bow and . . . it swiveled! The boat looked well used with years of tree rubbings along the gunnels. The Evinrude on it looked new and such a modern convenience on such a craft seemed unbalanced or out of place. I eyed Sam with an idea forming in my head. Here, may be my salvation. I hee-hawed slowly with my gear and affairs, wasting enough time to permit Blossom to leave the dock first. It was only then I asked Sam where the hell was his rod because nobody goes out with me without his fishing rod.

It was gratifying to see Sam, in spite of his age trotting smartly off to his shack for a rod with a big grin. I never saw a better display of arms and legs in all my life. I was sure . . . I would now catch fish.

In five minutes Sam came clopping cheerfully onto the rickety pier looking this way and that and back up to the lodge with a smile so big t hat his teeth seemed to fun the full width of a set of piano keys! "Yes Sir, Mr. George! You'se and I are a-goin fish'n. Yes Sir Mr. George! You'se yankee folk is gentlemen!"

"Get in Sam. We're going to have some fun this day. You can bet a possum hide on that. And one thing more Sam . . . you're boss on this rig. Understand? I know nothing of this area or fish. You're boss. What you think is right . . . we will do. Do this as a favor to me. I MUST . . . catch fish this day Sam. Okay with you?"

"Yes-sa . . . I surly does Mr. George . . . knows what ya'll means. I surely does. Today's, we fishes together."

I was confident Blossom was beaten before we began. That old, wise, bottom land cotton sharer colored man took me where I believe he took no one else and that includes Blossom himself. The rigging of the line was unusual and Mr. Sam was its designer.

On a six foot leader was a frog popper which Sam had stretched the skin of a real frog and retouched with paint. Behind that, trailed a dry fly of peculiar design of which I cannot remember completely for bream. It was a very miniature yellowish and white fly and the idea is, if a bass didn't strike the large popper, a bream would take the dry fly. It seldom failed. I caught bream galore and several were over one pound in size. Sam's fly did indeed remove the likelihood of smaller fish. Even then, he knew large flies caught larger fish. The popper was murder on the bass.

On my own, I beat Blossom two to one by actual count but released all my fish except what Sam needed for the family and a few to make a showing. I bought Blossom a bottle of Cute-Sark Scotch when the four bass and ten bream weren't enough to beat him. The others I released would have.

Back at the rickety dock, Blossom tramped to the lodge with his catch for cleaning by the cooks. Bobby and he gabbled like geese the whole while. As there voices faded up the path to the lodge, it was only then I helped Sam remove his poachings from beneath the stern seat. Sam had Blossom beat three to one! "Why's you let him win Mr. George?" Sam asked with a bewildered look in his eyes and a slight shake of his white head.

"Sometimes Sam . . . you win by losing. I'm his guest. Fishing should never be a competitive sport where one man is pitted against another. One should fish for himself, not other's egos. Now . . . you take those fish home to your family Sam. I'll never forget this day," I smiled.

"Mr. George . . . you'se a kindly man," and with that . . . Sam walked out of my life but not out of my memories. I simply told him what my grandfather Theodore Kurczak had said to me many years earlier. The same words were to be repeated to me by another man years later on the South Platte River in Colorado. Yes . . . they were forgotten by me until I met in 1971 . . . Mr. Bradford Fort . . . Flyfisherman sportsman personified.

But . . . it was on that hidden southern lake that the levee kept the Mississippi out of on Blossom's cotton-lands that I was to have a flyrod in my hand again . . . until Colorado. I was removed from the world of the flyrod but not angling. By necessity and lack of having access to good trout waters that I had to become a spin fisherman. If I may say so, a pretty good one at that. But since this is not of spin fishing I shall perhaps save those stories for another time.

Previous to 1971 and these writings there is obvious lack of equipment details. I do remember them. I just was to young to appreciate what I had in my hands at the time. I remember the whipping around of the flyline between the guides. I remember the involuntary hooking of my back-side with sharp impaling hooks the diameter of bailing wire which at times required the removal of my pants to free. This is unnerving for one feels other eyes are upon him. Many times I've found myself standing in nettles, half-raw with my bony knees. Heaven forbid if a girl should see me! Fumbling in nettles with trousers tripping your ankles is not my idea of `fun-for-a-day!' My mind freezes at the thought. Happily or unhappily, my luck always held. I survived unruffled, pure and unchaste . . . dammit!

Years melted and passed into 1969 and I was living and fishing the Rocky Mountains near Denver Colorado. In 1973 I was working for the American Sportsman's Club where I met Mr. Brad Fort . . . bachelor. In fact, it was then that he introduced me to the concept I call today . . . GINK and that also is another story for another day. The point is, for some reason I liked Brad but I could never figure out why he liked me. There are certain indicators which lets one know another is responding like . . . "Hey guy! Your alright!" Not Brad. He was hard to understand. I never knew what he really thought or felt on anything! But as promised earlier, I should tell you of Brad Fort. Yet, for your appreciation, the psychological beatings he gave me are the scars and bruises I couldn't trade anyone for. You see . . . Brad Fort is the one responsible for the revival of a fly fisherman.

Brad is single and was in his forties. He had a few articles published and is an accomplished angler of high standards and order. Organized order, my friend. We don't want to forget that.

Its said, being single for so long in one's life indicates some sort of hang-up to others. Brad doesn't have serious hand-ups. The dashing fellow has a circle of very respectable friends. This is something that wouldn't exist if shortcomings were valid. To get on with it . . . Brad is a good-looking chap . . . and knows it. This induces megalomania or self-centeredness . . . but he does nothing to prevent it! As a Brown University graduate, he's well versed in the natural and mechanical sciences. Brad Fort can be pompous and opinionated and it comes naturally to him . . . for he does have a good mind. He can become so opinionated that at times he listens without hearing another's views but more often he listens very well indeed.

Stupidity in any form brings forth immediate contempt on his part but his tolerance level is great as is his patience. To disagree with him isn't all that bad but whoa to them who are not prepared with their arguments! One does not dare make the cardinal sin by trying to insult his intellect. As a thinking, fly fishing man I'd have to put Brad Fort into Ernie Schwiebert's level or clan . . . or Schwiebert into Brad Fort's.

Trying to explain a man so others can appreciate what I went though is my only purpose here and as I look back today on it . . . it's fun to do. As far as I'm concerned, it's part of living like breathing. Like trying to tell you the inside stuff on a man like Lee Wulff. I'm the first to tell you, Brad's a damned good man.

But . . . Brad learns from others without admitting. Not that he ever learned a thing from me, but I've seen how he acquired his knowledge from others. I cannot say it's wrong, but on the other hand I've never heard him admit to a shop-keeper or another . . . "Gosh, I didn't now that." No sir. Brad is not humbling. He knows a lot and I must tell you, I never heard him use a common word like "Gosh" in my entire life! If one were to ask me what he looked like I could say if you compared him to Huge Downs it would give a fair comparison that was not a perfect likeness at all. The build and stature would be the same and even the personalities in may ways.

Brad's tutoring began one day in his city apartment when he invited me in and he brought out his fly tying things. Why he did, I'll never know. He conned me. He showed me how to properly tie a fly. Darned if my mind didn't search the years for my untouched 24$ Herter's Kit. Over and over again he instructed and he talked softly as he tied. His patience was great. With me, it had to be. All those fine, neat and beautiful hackles and materials he used were chosen from the mind of an ultimate-expert. Everything . . . he owned was "right".

Some of his remarks subtly `cut' and they slowly became `many' indicatory remarks but he never gave up. His barbs never lost their mark nor did they ever shoot over my head. Always, they landed right between my eyes. If I wasn't stubborn like a mule I'd have headaches. His insults were of hot steel. His purpose was to forge a fisherman of good stature and quality. (If it was possible).

Like considering how he was going to cut the uncut stone he had found, Brad talked calmly on. We spoke of ethics. Ethics came slowly to me because "the why" of them is important and all this was best explained with his experiences and discoveries of the short-comings of others he had noted. My God! He had the memory of a dozen elephants! Over and over he would repeat the same names and places. It was hard for me. This past world he fished in was his, not mine and that makes a big difference.

"Oh . . . I see Brad! So and so is that guy that did that trip with you on the ? ? ? . . . what's the name of that river?!"

I think he was pleased with his student. His price was not cheap or easy to pay however. One should allow much freedom to learn the ways of the trout or fish to the fly. I appreciated his snide quips . . . but I'm unusual to understand. To this day, I don't understand how he tolerated so much stupidity or inabilities to memorize quickly, from me?

Nothing he said passed me by without a great deal of thought. He took measures not to create a fishing monster. Enough of them exist on streams afield today. Glory hounds, name seekers, fishing liars, fish hogs, platitude makers, competitors. Brad had seen them all. He had fished with the best. "To many fish for the wrong reasons and to few for the correct ones," he said one day . . . matter-of-factually.

My desire was to learn correctly is probably what made him permit himself to continue the training after many times I would go skating on thin ice with him. That permitted me to even fish with him. Believe me friend . . . that was something. I suppose I gave Fort's words more thought then any other man I have known. In his teachings, barbs and insults I collected much information which I'm sure he imagined me to dense to appreciate at the moment. Always . . . I was ahead of and probably beyond ...his flippidness.

How an avid outdoorsman such as he could live in a concrete city bewildered me. Brad Fort doesn't care for restrictions by others yet he makes his own. Constantly a paradox, it was only on the trout streams I've seen him smile without any effort. In 1971, Brad fished from memories than with the hunger of now. He was Michigan misplaced but little by little he shed that cloak without realizing it and I would like to think I had something to do with it.

I mentioned earlier Brad has a memory of an elephant. An old elephant! I remember the time when my mouth was operating extremely well and I said "Once I hook a fish on a flyrod Brad, he's as good as landed."

After weeks of instruction and discussions, it was decreed we would go to the world famous Platte River and fish. It was on the ascent of the Platte that he reminded me one doesn't fish in competition with another. That you fish for yourself. Strange, how the words of my grandfather came back to me twenty-five years later! Now I was about to enterprise the trout and I once again had a flyrod in my hand. Not since 1958 had I felt such anticipation as on this day in '71. On a bright June day . . . "We were a-goin fish'n!" Ole Sam . . . with that piano-wide grin of his . . . flashed before my eyes.

"You betcha Sam. Let's go fish'n," I mumbled.

"Lets start fishing George," Brad's voice comes to focus. "I'll begin with a green caddis nymph and you try something else. That way we can search out the feed in the river faster," he instructed. "Whoever starts picking up fish can inform the other," he eyes me casually.

"Fine," I said.

I suppose I made as many errors as is humanly possible my first day on the Platte. Brad assured me if I could learn to catch fish on the Platte, I would be able to do so anywhere. I heard that before but had to believe him. The Platte is unforgiving in Cheeseman Canyon and there are thousands that can attest to that. During all this time, Brad coolly desecrated the river of it's treasures. His talents went unabashed and his victories were many . . . and consistent! I was hurt only because my mortal sincerity was so ill-rewarded. I can frankly say in the same breath that I was never upset or unconfident about the whole learning process and early defeats. I was enjoying myself! I was within myself. I knew then, Brad had a good student. Now I understood the many meanings behind the words Cotton wrote.

Brad kills few fish. But we must at times in order to eat stream-side on a weekend because they are a healthy food. Only thing is . . . I was always eating his fish . . . which made the salt in the wound real. I'm sure most of it was my imagination, but Brad's `graciousness' (always unsaid) drove me to master trout fishing! I felt his understanding and patience to be `thick'. Was I allowing my mind to go paranoid? Was I going bananas?!

We both enjoyed the camp work. It's the only time I don't mind doing dishes. We, like many others, hate laziness. Fort is a camp marvel. He appreciates details. Its the difference between misery and comfort. A laze guest always suffers and whines. Such a person may come camping once but never twice. We got along splendidly our first year. I tried to make it a point to fashion my `inconvenience' as little as possible upon him. The camping gear was his.

Our first purpose with the bamboo was to master the art of nymphing. Its said to be the most difficult form of fishing to learn. I agree. I had to. I was fishless!

Keeping an approximate guess of the total . . . it took me a hundred hours of nymphing to catch my first nymphed fish. That, had to be tenacity fellahs! All this time, I never laid one dry fly upon the water. The truth is, it took my son Teddy but ten minutes of nymphing to score his first. A brook trout.

"Oh well . . ."

It was August of '71 before triumphantcy filed my startled eyes. Yet . . . up to then I was never less a fisherman in my heart. There are however, a few events worthy of the telling that led up to that moment. Permit me to confess (it hurts) the emotions of an up-coming neophyte nympher.

I started nymph wetting by giving my undivided attention to anyone who had something worth while to say about the subject. On the South Platte River, Fort prodded me. I fished the riffles and backwaters. From other fishermen whoops and hollers continued to come upstream and downstream from MY position. Silently I hung on. (Brad never said anything but out-fished anyone on the river) Drift and float were watched for any change that would indicate `a take'. My eyes burned with concentration. Finally I'd have to give up and slip ad slid over to Brad. He, of course, never saw me coming except at the last possible moment. Then he'd politely notice my waiting presence. I knew! He always knew I was waiting for him to notice me. He saw me coming if I started to move two hundred yards away!

"Brad? What you using?" I'd begin, "I must be doing something wrong. It's been two million hours that I've stood in that one spot and, nothing?!

Is my tippet right? Am I set up correctly? Am I stupid or something? And please Brad . . . don't answer that last question."

With hawkish eyes, Brad inspected my gear with unusual and extreme care. Then his eyes would finally fall upon my questioning face with a . . . "It all looks good to me George. You should be able to catch fish with this rigging."

(Did you catch that barb?) "Honest?" I'd look worried at him, "Should I?"

But back I'd go. In total trust and belief in the master . . . back I'd go.

In the river goes my nymph and back and forth it's fished.

Nothing.

For another hour I'd hang onto his words from previous days. "Always. Always believe t hat a fish is in the riffle you fish!"

Across the river stands Fort . . . catching fish! He hasn't moved! I go home fishless, as I should.

During a regular weekday, he shows me a green caddis pupa he had left in h is vise. His looks so well done I could have eaten it myself. I tie some. They looked it. Back to the river we'd go.

After half a day of total, sweaty concentration do I finally wade to Fort's side. "Why doesn't my caddis pupa work Brad? Look at it. Does mine look right to you?"

Brad looks. (While a trout worries his line and his rod is vibrating in a disgusting manner).

"It looks good enough to me. It SHOULD catch fish George."

"Do you really mean that Brad? It should catch fish?" I'd ask again in amazement.

"Yes, I mean it George," vows Brad as if he had just taken the presidential oath. "I SHOULD catch fish. Excuse me a moment," and he turned away to combat the mad trout still trying to break his tight line. "I'm a little busy right now."

I wade away praying for strength. "Dear Je-e-sus. Please provide me sanctuary from this cocky kingfisher!" I'd swear under my breath.

So, as I fished I'd think, "If Brad says it'll' catch fish then I must be where fish ain't." I go down-stream and fish with all the belief and relaxation I can muster. But I go home fishless . . . as I should.

Later . . .

"What's that in your vise Brad?"

"It's a Caddis larva and a special matching tie I'm coming up with."

"Oh?"

"Yes George. It is."

"Well? Where did you get those little green things in that vial with a cork in it?"

"From the South Platte George."

"Well now! Maybe I'm learning something. That's interesting!"

"I regard that as a pleasing revelation," quips Brad.

"O-oh boy," I think . . . "Sarcastic even with the word `pleasing' thrown into the same sentence and breath!)

Back on the river we play the game. I fishless, the master quietly continues to and calmly releasing trout. One after the other. I eye him icily from the other side of the river. It's only fifty feet across, at best.

I think about the situation. "He's got a caddis worm and I've got a caddis worm. Just keep at it George. You'll be alright George. Hang tough!"

Three hours later, I'm not alright. I wade through slippery rocks and multiple water hazards that many times nearly sweep me away to find out. Slo-o-oowly, Brad turns around. His sultan, ruling, sun-tanned face waits for the question. He says nothing! I swallow hard to speak. Water is dripping off my face.

"Brad? Does this nymph look proper to you?"

Brad takes my limp nymph into the palm of his manicured palm and inspects it. Closely! He blows tenderly upon it. He holds it gingerly up to the sun. He fe-eels of it. He pre-e-eens of it. Between perfectly groomed fingernails, he gives my nymph all the concentration he possesses. He methodically inspects the model before him.

"My God!" I think. "I wish I hadn't asked."

He hands it back.

"Yes . . . I know Brad. It should catch fish."

"We-e-ell, maybe not. The coloring may not be right."

Oh heavens. I've been blackmailed. I've been set up! But I hang on his every word . . .

"Why do you say that Brad?"

"Well here. Look at mine."

I look at his. His is tied better. It's on a size 14 hook but tied size 16. It looks wormy. The dubbing is perfect. Everything about his caddis larva is better than mine. I'm astounded. All I can muster is a . . . "Gosh!"

"YOU . . . should have some like these George."

My mouth is hanging open. "I can see that Brad. But I don't have any like THOSE Brad."

"Gee . . .!" I stammer.

Long silence follows. Brad says nothing. Then . . . like a drowning man reaching for a straw . . . I couldn't help myself.

"Could I have ONE Brad?"

I said it before I could stop.

"Yes, you can have ONE George, but I don't have many." (dig!) "You should understand one thing."

I answer sincerely . . . in spite of the fact I know its coming.

"Unless its an extreme emergency . . . never do you borrow or as for a fly from another. You should always (it was the way he said it) have your own, or you're not a complete fisherman unto yourself. In this case, it's an emergency because you don't have the proper fly."

"Well? I? I? . . ." I stammer.

"No! Please don't be upset. What I say is fact. Al-lways pay enough attention to what a river gives the trout to feed on. Are you doing that? Since your not . . . don't allow someone else to do it for you in the future."

I'm naked before him. I answer the question with a . . . "I guess I'm not."

I wade back across the river with my tail between my legs but my treasure is tight in my fist.

I go home fishless as I should. Only I'm now wondering if I'm being deuced at my expense. Primitive instincts are beginning to become suspicions. I still didn't catch any fish and I now think that nothing I'm using is right. Did he hand me a trick fly? A rotten one? No! It can't be! It came from his box. Wait! Maybe he tied a bad one just for me and laced it with vanilla? Ridiculous!

I now start my studies in entomology in earnest. Brad starts me off by suggesting I buy Matching the Hatch by Ernest Schwiebert as I should have done earlier. As he has tried to pound into me before . . . you become a fisherman only by earnest study and hard work. As anything in life, nothing is handed to us free. You must earn the right and reputation of `Angler'.

Make no mistake about it lads, I learn quickly. My flies improved and I read and studied the masters like a college student cramming for exams. I read every line and memorized every important issue set forth in Matching the Hatch. My desire was to conquer my ignorance and once Brad Fort had me pinned between him and Schwiebert, I possibly had a chance to rise above stupidity. Only knowledge could do this.

I collected samples. I turned over stones. I studied coloring and size. I tied my imitations with `single-wrapping-care'. Soon we were again off to the demanding South Platte River . . . once again.

That day I hooked my first nymphed fish on a perfectly tied little green caddis pupa. A monster of over three pounds! The strength of the fish and the surprise of my first fish . . . oh! It was just to much! My size 14 hook held as my rod surged forward with startling command . . . by the fish, of course. It was after three great leaps as it careened down river through rapids and many yard of peeled line that everything suddenly went limp. Sickeningly . . . l-i-m-p. True to good elephant humor and a distance of forty-five yards up=stream came BRAD FORT'S words of endearment.

"THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU N-E-V-E-R (SHALL I SPELL IT FOR YOU?) N=E=V=E=R LOST A FISH ONCE YOU HOOKED ONE!"

The human Venus fly-trap won. I was had. I would have it no other way. Brad is Brad. Instructor personified.

Overall '71 was a very informative year for me. I admit I learned more then, then all the 25 years of previous angling adventures in my life. During this time, I bought my first rod. It was to stiff. My second, a week later was better, but still didn't have the touch I was seeking. My third was just right. I began to feel I was learning and that I was `with it'. All this time Brad would never concur with my choice of equipment. He simply handled them and said they were nice. He wouldn't let me know what was right for me. I was the one to determine that. It was his way of showing . . . respect.

There are certain things that for some ungodly reason are never told beginners. These idiosyncrasies must be discovered for one's-self and to humor the gods . . . are.

We watch the veteran with confused thoughts and muse, "Why does he have THAT? Why is he doing THAT?" Of course you never ask. What it is they are doing looks too simple. To raise a question would be a gross exposure of extreme stupidity. So? We don't ask, do we? And . . . we suffer the consequences. For example.

The first time I went fishing with Brad Fort, he assembled his gear and clothing with what I thought was overdue slowness. I mean . . . slow! I was ready to go on the path down the Plate River Trail two minutes after the car stopped! So . . . I had the privilege of shifting my weight from one leg to the other for fifteen minutes. All the while Brad fumbled with this, than dallied with `that'. Soon his boots were finally on. Then the seasoned fishing vest came forth like a great unveiling of a national treasure! All of a sudden . . . THERE IT WAS! On the front of his vest, dangling like bait, was a pair of nail clippers!??? "My God!" I thought. "He trims his nails in midstream!"

After collecting a pipe, tobacco, and other trivia from the Porsche's glove compartment, he locks everything up[ and straightens up saying with a satisfied grin . . . as if it was a anemones command. "Okay George. Let's go."

I couldn't believe my eyes. Brad h ad assembled himself as if he were about ready to go on a space launch. NO! As if he were about to step onto the stage of Carnegie Hall for the lead role of War and Peace! All I could do was mumble a . . . "Brad? You look so good I wish I had a camera."

Brad reaches inside his vest and produces a camera, sets it up and hands it to me. "If you insist," he smiles.

Later, as we fished and as I gnawed my loose leader ends with my teeth, Brad Fort clipped his with the nail-clippers. I cannot express how annoying that snipping, clicking sound was. It's simple proficiency was disgusting!

Another time I slipped and fell down and got thoroughly doused. I built a fire and three fishless hours later I was dry and warm again. One doesn't fish in his underwear. Not Brad. Naturally he was comfy warm in dry, extra sweat-socks he always carries with him when the weather is cool. It doesn't take us dummies but one trip to be better prepared the next time around. At least . . . not this dude.

So it was I came to him as a creek-bottom raised boy with creek-habits. With a flyrod it was apparent the trout took gentlemanly finesse and a degree of thought. I studied Brad like a scientist would a moon-rock and he knew it. I brought out the best in him in return. I praised him and he took it all in with the quiet humility of a prima-donna. Brad is best explained by how hard it is to be great and humble at the same time. It was all there and he earned the right.

Brad does well. We all know that by now. He doesn't brag. He understands. He is an excellent teacher but he can knife a smart ass down in verbal dispatch. Unless you're sharp you'd miss it.

I remember the time this gentle man was showing us his new rod. He had saved long and hard for it. But what he bought was bought without thought or without him getting proper advice. Then the man produced his brand new reel on this fly rod and he babbled . . . "And I also was able to buy t his new automatic reel."

Brad takes the reel in his hand as if handling sheep-dung and turns it over this way and that inspecting it. Finally he says, "I imagine this means you will be able to land the fish faster?"

"Oh my God!" I think. "I hope this man doesn't throw us out of his house!" But the knifing remark went over the poor fellow's head.

`The Ways of the Trout' can be all-encompassing. The subject fills my mind often. I fish often now and maybe a little to often. Brad has gone down the quiet trails in another direction. Possibly someday we will fish together again. I would like that. Others have wandered in and out of my casts. I have met many friends and I have one thing I have learned. We can study all our lives the ways of fish with the fly rod but when the last coil is laid down, much will remain to be known.

I feel now, over the years and though study that I am now a fisherman. A fly fisherman. Not seasoned with perpetual casting but rather set firmly in the right direction. A direction of proper attitude. All the years have jelled because not long ago a man came my way. Whether the images of the past were my grandfather, my childhood friends, or Ole Sam . . . or even the ones I fish with today, they all have given meaning and purpose in the makings of a fly fisherman.

I will always remember them.

gg