Warren Masten Goes Fishing With Dad
by Warren Masten
Around this time, every year, I make up a P&J sandwich, grab an apple and
a Coke, and go to the private beach that keeps the ashes of my father. I
always enjoy the quiet time I spend with him. It is a chance to let my mind
wonder into the world of days that might have happened. Times that might
have been. I do not regret the times I couldn't spend with the man, I was so
young when he passed my way. No, I do not regret those times, rather, I
enjoy making and molding scenarios around the things I like to do. I am not
the clutching child in these times that I create, but a peer. I know my
father enjoyed the great outdoors. I have been told he was always trekking.
So this day I can visualize myself with him on the trail to fish Barlow Flats
in the Big Sur, Kegan Cove on Prince of Wales Island, or Henry's Fork, Idaho
for that matter. He carries a fine split bamboo rod and boxes of beautifully
tied flies. I, sometimes, have trouble with the clothes he wears. I keep
visualizing him as I last saw him in 1941 on that late summer day. So, I
hang upon him various outfits that I think will suit the man. He usually
ends up looking like someone on the cover of one of the early Outdoor Life
magazines... comfortable in high-laced boots, Levies, and plaid shirts. A
tired, weather worn hat, wide brim turned down, crowns his head.
We come upon a run much like that I have fished on the Waititi in New
Zealand. We gaze at the water through poloroids and spot several heavy fish
working along the banks. He takes the first set of riffles and I wonder to
the next, about fifty yards downstream. He is soon hooked up with a nice
fish and I see him lean into the weight of it. He says something I cannot
hear, but from the look on his face, he is happy. I am happy for him. I
take a few fish on nymphs in the next hour, working any pockets I can find to
pick, and he works the top with Adams and Caddis patterns. His fly line
licks the water silently, guided by a steady hand. His movements are not
hurried. He takes time to lay each presentation right where it belongs. I
watch as he misses setting up on a large brown that boils over his tiny
pattern. He shouts a great shout and his laughter rolls across the water as
he teases himself for his carelessness.
When we have satisfied our need for courting these bright fish, we move
over to a grassy slope to compare notes and enjoy the late afternoon lights
that play upon the water. He sits close beside me as we talk. I am filled
with contentment and the peace of the moment.
A hush of spent surf swinging up the beach brings me back from my
reverie. I cover his vessel, once more, with smooth, sand-worn boulders,
thank him for sharing this time, and go home.
Love ya, Dad.
