Birthdays and Boat Ramps

[flyfusion]

By Derek Bird

I’m always a little stressed when I pull up to the boat ramp with my dad. I’m eager to get my gear set up, and in doing so, I’m trying to avoid as many people as possible. My dad, however, appears to be there to connect with as many people as possible. To be sure, he loves fly fishing, but he might love talking about it with random strangers even more.

When we arrive at a boat ramp, Dad’s never in any rush to set up his gear or take it down. I’ll inevitably look up from tying on a fly or getting the boat ready, and Dad is nowhere to be found. Then 10 minutes or so later he’ll walk up to me with a new friend and say something like, “This fellow wants to meet you. He reads your articles in the magazine.” Though I broadcast my thoughts, I often do what I can to avoid the spotlight. I make small talk with the stranger, all the while fighting through what I feel is an awkward moment…

For my dad’s 80th birthday, I wanted to take him fly fishing. More than that, I wanted to keep him away from busy boat ramps, so we headed out into the middle of nowhere for a walk-and-wade. Not that I didn’t want him to do his favorite activity on his birthday, but the window where the trout are active and taking flies in autumn can be quite short, so there’s not a lot of excess time to chat.

Away from civilization and boat ramps on his birthday, Dad grabs his rod from the truck. I offer to help him tie on some new tippet and ask him what fly he wants to start with. He holds open his fly box and invites me to have a look. “What do you think?” he asks. “I plan to start with a nymph. Do you want me to set up a nymph rig for you?” I say, quickly getting a few jeers from my brother and nephew at the mention of a nymph. “Dry,” he says.

“OK,” I say. “I’ve got an October Caddis I’m going to tie on for you.” After I finish the blood knot attaching 5x tippet to his leader, I tie on the mangy orange caddis pattern. “They might not take it right away, Dad. The sun will likely need to be up for another hour or two before they start rising to your fly.”

Dad’s still fishing with his kids and grandkids. I want to be like that when I’m his age. Time has a way of slowing us all down, but I’m sure my dad is going to live until he’s 120. He’s not allowed to leave us any sooner than that. Besides, he’s a young 80. He still works out in the gym a few times a week, and he’s out here in the middle of nowhere hiking along stream banks with his boys.

I’m not sure I’ve come to terms with the role reversal time has forced upon us. Though it’s more and more difficult, I still recognize the boy I was in the early 1980s when Dad would take his boys out on the backroads in search of lakes and rivers. As a kid, he showed me what flies to tie on and the knots to use. He taught me how to cast, and he dealt with the bird nests in the reels. He took that on. He tells a story from when I was very young, when he took me to a spot on a river just one valley over from where we are now, where he met up with some friends. His kidless buddies ran down to his favorite run as he set up his kid’s gear. I’m not sure I ever thanked you for that, Dad. I don’t remember it, probably because it was a good moment for me. You made it a good moment. I guess you’ve more than earned the right to embarrass me at boat ramps.

We arrive at the stream, and I land four good-sized trout on nymphs before the dry-fly purists decide that they’re maybe not as pure as they were when they left the vehicle. I call to Dad to join me on the other side of the stream. Though he’s 80 today, he’s sturdy and has little trouble negotiating the stream crossing. I’m only moderately worried about him. He arrives, and I tell him I’d like to change his setup, so he hands me his rod. I tie on the “secret” nymph I started the day with. Because of the odd flow and the depth of the run, I don’t give him an indicator. I let him know he’s going to have to pay attention to the tip of his floating line. “If it dives or pauses, set the hook,” I instruct him. On the first cast, the line pauses, and he doesn’t pull up. “Dad, you’ve got to pull up when the line pauses,” I remind him. “Here, let me show you.” He hands me his rod, and I send the fly into a seam where I know there’s a trout, and after three or four seconds, the line pauses. I pull up, and there’s a nice-sized trout on the other end.

“You make that look easy,” he says. I release the trout and hand the rod back to him. It happens again. The line pauses, and he doesn’t see it. “Set the hook,” I say. He pulls up, and nothing’s on. He swears in frustration. He’s still got fire in him. In his prime, my dad was a highly competitive fastpitch player. He pitched against some of the best both provincially and nationally. As a kid, I lived at the ballpark on the weekends watching Dad pitch no-hitters and one-run games. In his youth, my dad had a lot of what people used to call “piss and vinegar.” Though certain senses may not be as sharp as they used to be, there’s still some vinegar left. I admire that.

He heads back across the stream so he can nymph from the high bank on the other side. From that vantage point, he can see the trout in the clear water. “When you see a fish move and open his mouth, set the hook,” I call out. “He’s likely moving for your nymph.” A few minutes later, Dad’s into a fish. He takes out his net and lands the biggest trout of the day — one that’s fitting for his 80th birthday.

The next day on my flight home, I sit beside a stranger on the plane. She turns to me and asks, “Are you from the Kootenays?” “I am,” I reply, “but I don’t live there anymore. I was just in town visiting family.” Before long the conversation turns to my children. I’m well into the conversation before I catch myself. I’ve been talking about my adult kids and their accomplishments for the last 10 minutes. The plane isn’t a boat ramp, but it might as well be. Looks like I owe my dad a birthday fishing trip next year on a river with a boat ramp.

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Photo: Arian Stevens

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