Back Cast

It's weird what sticks.

I'd have to look at the framed diploma hanging by a bookcase at home to know for certain what year I graduated from college, but I can tell you that in 1971, my third-grade teacher, Beth Crow, wrote a note to my parents on my report card concerning my "slow progress in math."

One of the curiosities of life spent outdoors, or indoors, for that matter, is that we're clueless as to what will stick, what will hang with us as days turn to weeks, months and years.

I know Dad taught me to fish, there is no uncertainty of that. He introduced me to small streams, big rivers and farm ponds.

He taught me how to cast a fly rod, string a worm on a hook, row a drift boat, clean fish, catch grasshoppers for bait in the morning when they weren't as willing to flush, string fish on a forked willow branch for easy transport, crimp split shot with my teeth and fix leaky waders with a bike tire patch.

I know he did these things because we spent countless hours fishing together. It's just that these things, and others, I'm certain, don't stand out, don't jump to the front of the line in my bank of memories.

What does, when I think about Dad and fishing, is running from snakes.

Where we fished together in the high desert country a long way from here, we'd bump into our share of snakes – rattlesnakes, bull snakes, garter snakes, snakes we had no names for. We'd keep an eye out for them like we would the patches of poison ivy. It was inevitable that at some point we'd encounter both.

We each carried snakebite kits that held, among other things, a little suction thingy and a razor-like blade. We never had to use them. Years later, I dumped the guts of my rubber, waterproof, Army-green-colored kit in the trash and loaded it with wooden matches for starting campfires.

Dad, who had an interesting way at looking at life and a sense of humor that often couldn't be shared in public, also carried split shot in a plastic prescription pill container. Shaken vigorously, the split shot would knock against the hard-plastic insides and sound every bit like an unseen rattlesnake coiled under sagebrush.

He's slip the container from his pocket when I wasn't expecting it, like on the long hike back to the pickup, and give it a long shake.

While I wasn't allowed to cuss, that's what I wanted to do, once my heart left my throat and settled into my chest where it belonged.

He thought it was funny. Harmless. A way to put a stamp on a day of fishing. Like with a lot of things, he was probably right.

Dad has been dead for 30 years. He never met his grandkids, but he would have liked them. They all fish and appreciate a good laugh. I think they get some of that from him.

Happy Father's Day.