It was one of those Fall Saturday mornings that possess a blend of cool breeze and soft rays radiating through the branches of trees rooted on the eastern horizon. An old man, dressed in olive green nylon fishing pants and shirt, sat on the ground, deftly tying a dry fly to an invisible leader. He pulled small scissors attached to the flap of his shirt pocket and snipped off the end of the leader emanating from the new knot. After carefully replacing the scissors, he pulled clippers from the same pocket and removed the barb from the fly’s hook so that he would cause the least damage if a fish was too small and needed to be released.
A bird noisily burst from the bushes. The man jerked toward the sound, revealing the stiffness of his neck. His frown curled into a brief smile, redirecting the wrinkles etched in his face, as a dark blue fowl disappeared behind a dense collage of brush. A chorus of soft background sounds reclaimed the day. He pulled worn sunglasses from his floppy hat and replaced them on his nose, stood and walked toward a small stream at the edge of the meadow.
Once reaching the bank, he crouched next to a twisted Fir tree and stared upstream at crystal clear water flowing around a protruding rock. The form of a trout facing the ripple cascading around the stone methodically swayed in the current. The fish conserved energy in the protected calm water and took advantage of food sweeping around the rock, close to its mouth. The old man’s face regained its smile as he studied this myopic example of natural survival. He eased into the stream and approached downstream toward the trout, knowing that his skittish prey was keeping a sensitive eye out for any predator movement on the surface.
His friends who fly-fished, made up an odd coalition of several ideological camps joined by contempt for bait fishermen. The presentation of a weightless hand-tied fly and several feet of delicate leader, attached to a heavy line, required coordination with almost ballet precision. The function of stalking a wary prey and enticing it to strike an artificial fly gave rise to a certain amount of snobbishness. Worm fishermen be damned!
Added to this, the fraternity was divided into several groups. The old man fished only with dry flies. This made him a member of the most elite collection of the fly-fishing fraternity. The experience of watching the trout rise to take the fly, breaching the surface of the stream, was exciting and gratifying. The presentation and look of the fly that was impressive and realistic enough to cause a trout to expend energy necessary to move to the surface was the ultimate accomplishment.
Actually, wet-fly fishing provided opportunity for more and bigger fish. Wet flies sunk down to the big trout lying in the safety of the depths. It didn’t require the fish to expend energy necessary to rise to the risky surface which older, larger trout were less inclined to do. But the ultimate satisfaction, he thought, was only provided in fishing with a dry fly.
Another division was among those who kept their catch and those who were “catch and release”. The argument was that there is less impact if the trout are returned to the environment and the violation of killing a life form averted. The old man didn’t buy this argument. He felt that fish shouldn’t be hooked merely for the sport and fishing was only legitimate if it was part of the balance of nature. He thought that the loss of the life of any animal could only be justified if it was for the purpose of food. He argued that the better good was accomplished if life taken from the stream substituted for life taken from commercial harvesting. It was part of the balance and not corrupted by corporate efforts to raise and produce fish for consumption.
His argument against vegetarianism was less intellectual–“Bullshit”.
He used to argue with his drinking buddies that dry-fly fishing fit into the natural balance and rose to an art form. He pointed out to anyone who would listen that the reason he was able to catch the fish for his meal was because he tricked wild fish into believing they were about to kill another life form for their meal. But he had long since quit arguing about his passion since he saw logical flaws in all positions in the debate—including his own.
Ironically, after the old man would catch the necessary number of trout large enough to bring home, he would continue to walk the stream with the same concentration and pleasure as he possessed when casting his fly. He didn’t try to explain these moments to anyone because it was beyond his ability to describe—even to himself.
It was in this philosophical mindset the fisherman moved toward his target, knee deep in icy water. Dark blue sky contrasted with greens of the vegetation. The stream’s gurgling sounds, fingers of cold from wind and water and smells of bark and moss emanating from the bank invaded his senses.
The white-haired fisherman straightened out his wiry body and pulled his rod back, drawing line curled on the surface of the stream into the air. When his arm reached 2 o’clock over his shoulders, he moved the rod forward, propelling the line. As it straightened out in front of him he pulled back. The line sped backwards over his head. He loaded again and pushed it forward. It extended over the stream and the fly flew beyond the trout and the rock. It floated, then descended onto the moving surface and retreated back toward the prey. Only the fly and its invisible leader were positioned to pass by the fish.
The fisherman pulled line out from the reel with his left hand to maintain tension as the fly floated back toward him. He held the tip of his rod downward in anticipation of a strike. His silver blue eyes remained fixed on the speck floating back toward him on the clear, sparkling creek. The trout began to rise toward the surface as the fly floated toward it—Excitement– Anticipation. A hint of red flashed as the side of the fish angled upwards.
Then, inexplicably, it reversed its course and drifted back to the bottom of the eddy.
What the hell! What caused his prey to change its course? It was a good-looking fly, the old man thought as his twisted lips created a dimple in his right cheek. I tied it myself! The reason for the disappointing turn of events really didn’t matter. He would come up with a theory after a drink later.
Just as he pulled the fly off the stream for another cast, his cell phone announced an incoming call. As a matter of policy, he didn’t allow the outside world to intervene in his fishing adventures through his satellite cell phone, but he had a date to talk with his grandson. He took time to imprint the image of this site in his memory, and then pulled his phone from his shirt pocket.
“Hello. Hi Bobby, how are ya doing? Yes, I was expecting your call. Can you meet me at the cabin in thirty minutes? You’re there now? I’m just a short hike down Willow Valley. Great! I’ll see ya there.”
He reeled in his line; broke down his rod and began his walk back to the family cabin. Very few people visited this area so there was no beaten path, but the walk was unencumbered for the most part. He stuck close to the stream and walked casually. Without conscious effort, his eyes scanned the surrounding area. The rocky creek bed twisted among grassy fields, trees and bushes. Occasionally openings in the forest revealed majestic grey mountains, topped with snow, rising from the horizon. An eagle glided into the winds dipping off the edges of the rocky elevations.
Occasionally the old man stopped to admire trout rising to the surface in eddies created by twisting currents. Chipmunks scurried through the rocks.
Soon he walked into a small opening and spotted his cabin. He finished building it last year to replace the old family hangout in Wyoming. The new abode was nicer and more remote. As with all family decisions and projects, there were several voices of descent but the old man’s money garnered the right to make the final decision.
The three-bed-room cabin was a collage of traditional and modern devices. The nearby stream fed a small water tower, equipped with a water purification system. The outhouse stood forty-five feet away, near a line of trees. The “pioneer” look of log walls and rock chimney contrasted with solar panels covering the roof. Otherwise, no power or phone lines, satellite dishes or other evidence of connections with the outside world existed. Past the outhouse a rocky trail entered the clearing. The grandson’s new black Range Rover sat next to the old man’s faded and dented pickup.
The cabin door opened and a tall young man dressed in a gray Ralph Lauren wool sweater draped over faded jeans stepped out.
“Granddad.”
He walked toward his grandfather. Tussled brown hair protruded from a wool cap and over his ears. The two men formally embraced.
“So, how are you Bobby?”
“Fine.” Bobby’s eyes cast down, evidencing that his answer was not entirely true.
Awkward silence.
Granddad laughed. “Come on Bobby, what the hell! Lay it on the table and we’ll kick it around.”
Bobby grimaced and shot a glance at his granddad. “Whatever. ” He spoke with a voice too low to be heard.
The old man waited. Finally Bobby continued.
“So everybody is telling me what to do but I want to spend some time finding out what I want to do.”
“Great!” granddad exclaimed. “Problem solved. Let’s go fishing.”
He got up and began to assemble his fly rod but Bobby just sat and stared. His grandfather stopped and looked back at him. Cross-examination, the old man thought, sometimes is best accomplished by agreement rather than argument. He fought off a smile while waiting out the pregnant pause.
Bobby shrugged and said, “Look, nothing has gone right since I graduated from high school. Now I need to talk to the admission guys at the university and discuss everything with my parents. They don’t want to know what I want.”
The old man ran his fingers though his hair and looked his grandson in the eyes.
“Do you know what you want? What issues do you anticipate will come up when you talk to your parents or the folks in admissions?”
Bobby hesitated and rolled his eyes. “I haven’t thought it through, I guess.”
The old man stood up and walked toward the creek. He stopped, turned to face Bobby and put his hands on his hips.
“Any truth about one endeavor has value when studying another. You like tennis? Think about the athletes you admire. Invariably, the commentator at a major tournament will describe the brilliant speed of the athletes. The truth is that the speed that determines a win happens before the first step. Is the opponent positioning himself for a cross-court or down-the-line shot? What is his strength he likely will rely upon? How should the athlete position himself on the court after his shot?”
He paused to let the description sink in.
“The same strategy creating an edge in tennis has application to your interaction in any other confrontation, including the discussions you are going to have with your parents or officials at the university.”
Silence. “Have you read The Art of War?”
“Yeah,” Bobby said with a confused look.
The old man smiled.
“Great book on military strategy and tactics that has remained relevant for thousands of years. My guess is that Sun Tzu would have made a great tennis coach.”
“So your suggestion is that I need to anticipate, when I’m talking to folks, whether they are going to give me a drop shot or a lob?” Bobby’s voice trailed off.
“Yes, that’s right!” his granddad exclaimed, ignoring Bobby’s glazed eyes. “Also you need to have an idea as to what shot you want to send back. The complicating factor with my metaphor is that everyone knows what ‘win’ is in tennis. That’s not quite so clear in life’s efforts. It’s important that you have that figured out as well.”
Bobby shook his head and stared into the distance.
“Win is a product of going the right direction,” the old man declared. His voice was giddy and he didn’t seem to be concerned about the lack of evidence of Bobby’s understanding or interest in his words. “What direction are you taking?”
Bobby rubbed the back of his head. “Well, I don’t think college is relevant to my life. I don’t know what I want to do.” Bobby stopped and gazed wistfully at the sky.
His grandfather broke the silence. “Let’s direct our talk to things you want. Surely there are things you know that you want.” Grandfather smiled. “Ever row a boat? Not a canoe, but a rowboat with oars in oar anchors? You know…where you pull your boat forward across the lake with your arms and legs working the oars while you are facing aft.”
“No, granddad, I don’t think I have ever rowed like that,” Bobby replied with a hint of impatience.
The old man put his arm around Bobby’s shoulder. “Well, I think rowing would be a good idea. Let’s go to the lake and try it out. I got this major cool rowboat I brought from the park marina on the other side of the lake.” He carefully placed his fly rod on the porch and led his grandson down an obscure trail.
The two men walked in silence past the meadow behind the family cabin. Once again, chipmunks chattered as they ran in front of them. Soon they crested a rise and the lake, glistening from the morning sun, appeared. A big bull Elk and three cows splashed in its shallows.
It was a large lake, far from the family’s cabin plot and in the national park. Few campers made it to this remote part of the lake. None were present on this day. A light, cool breeze wafted across the water’s surface to greet the two men. The path led to its shore and a small rowboat, tied to a tree stump. It was large enough for only two riders. Its brown, varnished wood contrasted with the aqua blue waters. Two oars lay in its hull.
“Well, granddad…lets do this.” Bobby said solemnly.
His granddad smiled and sat on a large rock. “Great Bobby, but lets first decide where we are headed. One of the problems with rowing like this is that, mostly, you are looking at where you have been. Where should we be heading for on the opposite shore?” He gestured to his grandson to come closer. Bobby approached to his grandfather, turned and looked across the water.
“I don’t know, granddad, I’ve never been on the other side. It’s too far away to see much.”
“Good point, but we have to make the best decision we can to start off our adventure. Let’s not worry about what we can’t figure out and concentrate on what we can.” He climbed off the stone with some effort and walked closer to the far shore. Bobby followed him.
The old man spoke up after squinting across the lake. “To the left looks like a stone cliff rising from the water. Not too hospitable for a landing.” A few moments passed. Both stood together and stared at the far shore.
The old man broke the silence. “The right shore looks like marsh and lowland. I’m not keen on landing there. Looks like the shore close to the cliffs has a river entering the lake and the land around it looks inviting. That might be the best chance we have for a hospitable landing. We don’t have all the best information we might want but a ‘no decision’ condemns us to just sitting where we are and not embarking on our adventure.”
Bobby’s eyes cast down. “Makes sense to me granddad. Let’s do some rowing.”
The old man smiled knowingly. “Well good for you, Bobby, not many people accuse me of making sense.” Both men smiled.
Granddad put his arm around the neck of his grandson. He stared at the far bank. “Pick the spot on the shore.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Bobby shrugged, and then extended his open hand, indicating a place on the other shore. “Right off the stream.”
“Great, you climb in first and get the oars locked in. I’ll push us off,” said the old man.
Bobby complied and boarded the small rowboat. It jerked back and forth as he plopped down on the board seat. Granddad stepped into the water and pushed the boat into the lake. He stiffly pulled himself into the rocking craft. Once it became stabilized the two faced each other. Bobby looked aft as he rowed and his grandfather faced the bow. Ripples emanated from the boat, crossing the lake’s surface. Small fish below jetted away as the two passed over them. Bobby clumsily worked the oars but began to gather a rhythm.
Bobby worked the orbit of the oars with his arms and legs, creating noises made by the interaction of wooden oars with metal anchors and splashing of the water. A strained look on the face of Bobby contrasted with the tranquil, half-smile worn by his grandfather. With each pull of the oars the vision of the bank they departed became smaller.
The old man sighed, “The trick is to keep the sensations of the bank and lake we are leaving in you memory. Not all of them—but the important parts.”
Bobby nodded his head and made a guttural sound of agreement.
The old man continued, “I think it isn’t so much a memory problem as an awareness problem.” He thought a moment. “You know how people don’t remember where their car is in the supermarket parking lot? How they forget names of people they just met? Well, I don’t think they forgot. I think they just never registered and stored the information to begin with.”
Bobby interrupted, “Sounds like your talking about yourself, granddad.”
Both men laughed.
“Okay, okay, so that just proves I’m an expert at this”, the old man chuckled.
Both men silently observed the unique colors, sounds and sensations of the disappearing bank. Awareness. The old man broke the long quiet, “Take a look over your shoulder to be sure you are still heading the direction you planned. Sometimes just looking at where you have been doesn’t feed you accurate information as to where you are going. You can end up at a place different from your planned destination because of a collection of minor unintended changes in course. You could end up going in circles if you’re not careful. Also, now that your are closer to your goal, you have a new vantage and you might want to alter your plans based on better visibility.”
Bobby nodded, stopped rowing, and looked over his right shoulder. They drifted in silence. “Still looks like a good destination…maybe a little more to the right to avoid the trees.” He leaned back and looked around. “I’ve drifted a little off course.” Granddad smiled but said nothing. Bobby used the oars to slightly change the direction of the boat and began to row again.
Time passed as they rode in silence. Finally, the old man held out his hand. “Let’s stop now and experience our new place in the journey.” Bobby pulled in the oars, stretched and pivoted around to view the shore. The boat rhythmically moved, interacting with small waves caressing the bow. Now they could faintly hear and see the creek splashing over river stones as it made its way to the lake. It cut through a delicate green meadow sprinkled by the colors of wild flowers.
Bobby’s granddad interrupted the silence. “Looks like a pretty good direction you took, Bobby.
Bobby took another look over his shoulder. He rolled his eyes and looked down. “I guess you want to talk to me about school…and what I’m gonna do.”
His granddad smiled. “Not really.”
Silence. Finally the old man broke the void of the moment. “I think we have experienced enough of the rowboat adventure. Let’s go back now.”
With an expression of relief, Bobby turned the boat around and set a course for home. They retreated back into an uncomfortable quiet. As if on cue, a beaver came into sight while swimming by the boat. Both men smiled and glanced at each other. Granddad noticed that Bobby’s smile had less evidence of a smirk than before. The dark brown beaver slapped its tail and disappeared.
The journey back went quickly. Bobby was getting better at rowing and a pleasant wind pushed the boat home. As the shore grew closer the men relaxed and began to chat about random topics. As it became obvious that his granddad wasn’t going to lecture him, Bobby’s facial expressions softened.
When they got close to the bank, the old man jumped from the boat and guided it to a landing spot. Bobby pulled the oars into the boat; carefully walked to the front of the unstable craft and jumped onto the bank. He grabbed the rope from the bow, pulled the boat further on shore and tied it to a small tree.
The two men put their arms around each other and walked back toward the cabin. The mild wind picked up energy and delivered a lower temperature. High, white, billowing clouds appearing over the lake move toward them.
When reaching the cabin they gathered some bags that Bobby promised his parents he would bring to them. Both carried the load to Bobby’s car only to discover it to be encumbered with random stuff. Granddad suggested that everything be removed and a plan made to make everything fit.
Granddad rubbed his chin. “When loading in a tight fit always load the big stuff first and then others in descending order of size. If you do this you will be able to accommodate much more in your limited space capacity.” He hesitated and smiled at his grandson. “This is true every time….and, yes it is also a metaphor for everything else in your life.”
Bobby feigned a smile and non-responsively said, “Well, my parents wanted me to talk to you about what is going on. I don’t think we really got around to that.”
“Sure we did,” said his granddad, “Your parents are locked into their generation and don’t understand what you are going through. The university hasn’t given you an opportunity to set up an educational experience designed for your interests. You need to find your own way!”
Bobby stared at his granddad with his mouth open as if he was going to say something.
His granddad filled the void of silence. “So I’ll just tell them to leave you alone and you will be able to find your own way. Since you are ready to be your own man and not wanting to be a child, I think I can help you find a job and a small apartment so you will be independent and won’t be subjected to so much advice,”
Both men walked in silence for a few moments. “Some day you may decide you want to row to that stream we saw on the other side …or maybe staying on the shore where you are is all that you will ever want.”
He looked back at the cabin and said wistfully, “Certainly I’ve already given you all the advice I have. Which was about as effective as my fly presentation this morning.”
“What?”
“Oh nothing, grandson, just making a silly comparison. Decide where you think you would like to be when you’re my age. If you are not there now…well…do some rowing.”
Bobby gave him a quizzical glance but said nothing else. Eventually they packed everything in the trunk and hugged. The old man picked up his fly rod and ventured back to find the trout that had escaped him. Bobby got in his vehicle and drove off.
Bobby’s phone rang. “Hello. Yeah, I’m just leaving the cabin. Yeah, I spent some time with granddad. No, nothing much was said. Really, I think he is going senile. I was supposed to talk to him about the crap I’m going through with my parents but he didn’t seem to give a shit. He randomly talked about Chinese war generals, tennis, rowing and stuff…nothing about what I’m going through. I know, he was a major player but I think his age has fried too many brain cells. I know, but I do love him.”
He rolled his eyes by habit and drove down the trail toward the rest of his life.
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