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I think, after all these years, my father and I spoiled each other being fly-fishing partners. Neither of us, on our own, has really found another fishing buddy with whom we have similar views or ideas on fly-fishing, who understands what it is we talk about. While we have good friends we have fished with over the years, and continue to do so with to this day, it’s still not the same for either of us. Sometimes the others just don’t get it.
I learned everything I know about fly-fishing from my father, and, I think, he learned a little patience from me growing up under his tutelage. The fact I am sitting here writing this is proof. Now, after so long, we can sit together streamside and say little, or nothing at all, and be oddly comfortable. In fly-fishing there is no argument between us. One will point to something, a bug, or a rise, and grunt some kind of acknowledgement and send the other off hunting and casting. Or, if nothing is truly happening out on the water, we can sit and reminisce about other times when there was. There were many, many other times. For us fly-fishing is so much more than ‘doing’ now.

My home stream, the Little Red Deer River, is still recovering from a horrendous flood in 2005 where most of the fish were either killed or sent very far downstream. I hear tell of there still being good trout around and I have caught one or two, but it is not where it should be. Maybe after a disaster like that it will take five years for the stream to come back. I do hope it comes back, for it was very promising before the flood came.
I took Dad down to the Little Red this past summer. It was a shot in the dark, but as much as we might catch something it was also a way to find out the condition of the stream. On first glance the river water was clear with good flow and the bottom clean. Many insects were flying above the water and in the water there were clouds of small fish from a centimeter to four in length. New runs, riffles and holes had been carved and in calmer flats we could see many rises, but they were small and mostly a type of minnow called Dace. But once in a while there was a splash of something just a little bit larger, but try as we might we never did catch anything. Just as well.
The banks of the Little Red are now a jungle of flood broken trees and branches. Poor Dad had a bit of a rough go of it as I dragged him through. I forgot he’s 85. I’m 50 now, but oddly enough Dad doesn’t seem so much older than me when I compare to what I thought when I was fifteen and he 50. We picked our way around and over until we came to spots we wanted to cast a line to. It wasn’t too long before we both had given up hope of catching anything, but we had fun poking about and looking at probable lies for future trout.
I took photographs as we explored. Most were of Dad standing in his familiar pose, all his attention on the fly at the end of the line. The scenery was grand: a beautiful stream, bright sunshine, green bush and tall, tall trees. We would occasionally stop and compare to memory sights and smells of other places and times. In the trees, as if to heighten recollection, we could hear the cheery call of the Chickadee and above the trees the occasional shriek of our old friend the Red Tailed Hawk.

By the time we had decided to quit the sun had come quite high in the sky and the air had certainly warmed from its earlier morning crispness. We got out of the jungle, found the road and began to walk back to my van. Talking of the disappointment only briefly, we concentrated more on being together, enjoying the country and wondering what Mom was up to back home at the house. Idle father and son chatter. It was a pleasant walk down memory lane for the both of us.
We’re going to try it again this summer. Maybe there will be ‘bigger’ fish to be had, maybe they will have found their way back home again. I would be happy just to see one. Its only February with two feet of snow on the ground and the Little Red frozen, but I am beginning to feel the itch to cast again and I know my father is, too. And that’s good.