then they came. People started coming to my house for fishing advice. More and more people wanted to come and see the vaunted fisherman. It seemed they all thought I was the one to ask about fishing on the Yellowstone. I didn’t know how to answer. I was too old to be much good at lying anymore, so in the end, after a couple of attempts to avoid it, I told people the truth. I told them the only thing I had ever caught on that river was the girl.
They always thought I was joking.
At first they would laugh, and then they would see that I was serious, and some of them would shake their heads and leave. But some would persist, and think that I was just not telling them the secrets to fishing out there. They wanted me to guide them, they wouldn’t believe me. And then one day
They did.
The newspaper printed an article entitled: “Fly Fisherman still fishes after 8 years of not catching anything.” I think it was meant to be an article on persistence, but it ended up being quite the opposite. I became the laughingstock of the community. Once again I was reminded of the sad inconvenient truth that if you don’t produce anything the world rejects you. In a few short weeks time I went from being a nobody, to the hero, to the estranged castaway in society.
And it hurt.
I still went out to my river every day, but for some reason I felt bitter towards it. I felt betrayed by that very thing I had loved so much. I was sick of unrequited love, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I even vowed one night that the next morning I would snap my pole. And to my everlasting shame, when I woke up the next morning,
I did.
That night I sat huddled in a corner by myself and cried myself to sleep. I couldn’t live without fly fishing, and that pole had become a part of me. Every time it creaked, every time the line got caught in its old thread holes I would curse my luck, but deep down it made me proud that I could take care of it. That I could take care of that old pole. And I realized I was a fisherman.
The next day, which was just a few days ago, I went back into town and faced the ridicule from the clerk, who howled with laughter when I told him I had broken my pole. I bought a new one and high-tailed it out of town. I never wanted to go back. I’m done with society and its rules. I see all of them, and I see that they’re enslaved to a system that won’t ever bring them happiness. I used to think just as they feel, that production was the only way to be happy in this world. But the truth is happiness doesn’t come from what you produce or what you can buy or attain in life. Those are all capitalistic lies to make people productive.
That gentle swish of my pole, that thwack on the water of the dry fly. The feel of that cold rushing river against my thighs. The touch of that cold autumn wind. The fragrance carried as if by an angel of flowers in early summer. The vision of the sun creeping gently over the purple peaks covered by a silent mist like a swan protecting her young. That is my love. And I’ve never been happier than I am when I’m-
Fly fishin’.
V
I don’t really know quite where to begin. My name is Jenica. I was the girl this great man saved. It turns out he was a millionaire, and he left all of his money, his land, his cabin, this little book…to me. I was pretty confused when I first heard about it. He was such a friendly old man. I went to see him a few times a month ever since the accident. He would always treat me so well, and he taught me how to fly fish. I never would’ve guessed he’d never caught anything. I caught something the first time I went out with him on that river. He seemed so happy for me. I guess he didn’t have the heart to tell me.
Yeah I saw in the papers that awful article about him never having caught anything, but I don’t think the man writing it had ever met him. My dad said it was just people’s way of using libel and slander. But I guess he really hadn’t ever caught anything. Now that I think back, he always seemed to flick his line back a little too quickly. It almost makes me think that he didn’t want to catch anything. He was just happy to be there and have the chance to fly fish.
And it makes me sad to see the way people treated him. All because he wanted to just keep doing the thing that he loved.
My whole family went to his funeral, but we were almost alone in doing so. There was one other elderly gentleman, dressed from head to toe in a great black suit, and who even wore a bowler hat. Yeah, he came too. His face was as wrinkled as a spider web. He was one of the former partners of my old friend. It turns out our friend had at one time been one of the most sought out investors in the country. But more than that, he said he was a great friend, and had kept in touch right up to his death. He said it was a shame that he had lived so humbly, that so few knew who he was. But he was happy that the caretaker had allowed the title of fisherman to be printed on his program. He said that in all those years he’d never heard of him being as happy as he was since he came to Montana. After the ceremony the man turned and squeezed my shoulder and told me that his friend almost never put his money into a bad investment, which I think meant he thought I was a good investment, and he left.
I guess now I should finish his story, because I was the one who found him. I came to the cabin one chilly fall morning. I had my pole with me, he had just bought his new pole a few days before, and I was pretty excited to see him use it. He always seemed so agile with that old pole of his. I knocked on the front door, but instead of hearing him call out to me to come in like I normally heard. I heard nothing. It was the first time I hadn’t heard his expectant, kindly voice. I waited for a moment before looking inside the cabin, but no one was inside. So I went out back to the river bend, and there I saw him, laying there in his suspenders his hand still grasping his pole in one hand, and in the other grasping a large dead brookie.
The doctors said he died of a heart attack. He was probably overcome with emotion at having caught a fish. I’ve heard of people saying that someone they knew died of a broken heart, but I don’t believe he did. He was too strong of a man. He had persisted in following his heart through years of derision and loneliness. I think his heart was too big. He died doing what he loved, and I’m guessing it exploded from joy. He truly was a fisherman.
Now that his story’s ended, I feel I should include a small note I found at the end of this book. I think this was what he wanted to be the shining conclusion of his book. And I can’t agree more, as he was the man who taught me to love fly fishing.
It has often been said that if you give a man a fish you feed him for a day and if you teach a man to fish you feed him for a lifetime. But fly fishin’ does much more than just feed a man. It’s as if he releases his soul into that vast wilderness with each consecutive cast. Indeed, if you teach a man to fly fish you free his soul. And now I return home, free.
Fly Fishin' - A Short Story Page 3