The old man stood by the stream bank, quietly listening to the sounds of the stream. As the sounds of the rippling water combined with the rustling leaves and bird calls, he allowed the sounds to flow around and through him.
It was as if he were trying to melt into the environment that surrounded him. These sensations brought back pleasurable memories. But, memories were hard to come by these last few years. Time had finally caught up with the old man in a way most of us would readily understand. Memories of his late wife, of their long life together and of the fishing trips to small streams such as this had held on longer than most of the doctors at the nursing home had been alive. They were young and couldn't understand the importance of keeping those memories locked in his head. Memories were all he had left, and he knew if he lost them, he was finished. His memories, and his life, were slowly slipping away.
His son didn't understand either. The old man and his wife had enjoyed exploring the small local streams with fly rod in hand and had tried to encourage their son to follow in their footsteps, but he never joined in their enthusiasm. And now, as an adult, their son was focused on his job, his family and the pressures of a world to which the old man had long since been unable to relate. Sometimes, as they rested on the bank after fishing a particular run or pool, they would discuss their son's life choices. They were both proud of their son, but wished he could see what they saw in the quietude of stalking these small streams with the long rod. “A life misspent" he would sometimes declare, risking the mock, disapproving glare from his wife.
He knew this time was his, but was it not supposed to be. His son had brought him home from the nursing home for a short visit but, as usual, business had intruded into his son's affairs and while the son was busy on the phone, the old man had walked out the back door to the old shed in the back yard. He wasn't sure his fishing gear would still be there, but it was. As he looked upon his collection of fly rods and the many boxes of flies gathering dust on the shelves, another memory of his late wife was called to mind.
Margaret had also been a fly fisher, and the two of them had spent the happiest years of his life chasing trout in these streams near their home. They rarely kept their prizes, choosing instead to pick wildflowers for each trout brought to the net. This was only done on "special days". Special days meant something to them alone. Bouquets on the dining room table were the "trophy on the wall" for them. They ate fish of course, but it was always big bluegills from the local pond.
The old man's eyes struggled to help him string the old cane fly rod. Doubling the leader back onto the fly line, he attempted to fish the nail knot through the guides. He knew if his shaking hands lost their grip on the line, this would help prevent the whole line from rushing back out of all of the guides. He was glad the leader was still there on the line. He wasn't sure he could still tie the knots that this kind of leader demanded. Finally the rod was strung, and he shifted his attention to a fly box that he had brought with him. Mists clouded his mind as he fought to concentrate on the selection that he needed. That was happening a lot more often lately. Picking a gold-ribbed Hare's Ear nymph from the old box, he labored to attach it to the tippet. He didn't know the condition of the leader or tippet, but it didn't matter now; he wasn't sure he would ever be this way again. This was his last trip, and he knew it.
Finally rigged, he gently stepped into the water, his mind registering the familiar sights and sounds. His waders had almost undone the whole trip with their complexity, but after struggling for quite some time he had them on now, and he was doubly glad. He knew the water would be cold and unforgiving if he made a mistake. Unable to see clearly enough to tell if the old waders had cracks that would admit the cold water, he'd already decided not to wade very deep. Being unsteady in his gait also made this a wise decision. He was fishing again and that was all that mattered.
Gently playing out some line, he prepared for his back cast. He had already decided on a piece of pocket water to try first. After a couple false casts, he gently laid the nymph upstream of his intended target. It was coming back to him, the casting, the loop control, and the mends. Time stood still for him as he worked the water. The ache in his heart gave way to feelings of pleasure that he had not felt in years. He didn't care if he caught anything, he was just happy being there, experiencing the thrill again. He wasn't polished as a caster, but it didn't matter either. Age had taken a toll on his flexibility and timing, but he felt young again.
As he rounded the logjam, he spotted the other angler. The determined, graceful casts and cut of the waders looked familiar. "Maggie?" he called, confused and with his heart in his throat.
"Well, who else would it be, Tom?" came the gentle reply. "I've been resting this pool waiting for you. What kept you?".
He thought about his reply and then said "I can't remember, honey."
"Well, you've probably been working too hard. Come on, the trout are here. I've spotted them already. And today is a special day for you, so don't forget the wildflowers here too." He looked around and only then noticed the carpet of flowers lining the stream bank.
And they fished. Floodgates of emotion welled up in the old man as he once again fished with his "Maggie." It was happiness coming back from decades in the past. He hoped it would never end, but an old man must stop at last and rest. "Maggie, I have to rest some here. I'll just watch you fish for a while."
"Ok, Tom, join me when you can" she said. She resumed working the water like he remembered her doing years ago.
The old man leaned back on a slanted rock at the water's edge and watched his beloved Maggie fish. His eyes grew heavy as he prepared to give in to the tiredness that possessed him. Just a short nap would be okay now, he thought.
They found the old man's body the next morning, lying on that slanted rock.
The old man's few remaining friends were not surprised, for they knew of his love of fishing. He had regaled them in the nursing home with tales of his fishing trips. "When you have to go, you can't do worse than doing something you love with someone you love." he had declared often. They knew that is what he had wanted for this trip. His son finally knew it also, because nestled in the old wicker creel by his side was a bouquet of wildflowers. For that special trip. The last one.
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Hatches Magazine Subscription
Price: $6.95 for each issue
The Premiere issue is ready for shipping & the Fall 2008 issue will be available September 1st.
