Written by American Fly Fishing 2:42 pm Nostalgia

Ponderings & Wanderings: Fathers and Sons

Editors note: The “Ponderings & Wanderings” department in American Fly Fishing encompasses a wide range of stories, from the humorous to the poignant. In our latest installment, from the January/February issue, artist and author Chris Smith muses on the inevitable evolution of family dynamics. Along with his three coauthors, Chris has written numerous captivating essays in a series of three books that are now available as a single volume titled The Lost Branch Sportsman’s Club, available on Amazon. —John Shewey

Story and artwork by Chris Smith          

Having logged ample river time since spring, my usual frantic urge to plunge into the water as quickly as possible had been replaced with a leisurely drive and a good cigar. I didn’t really care if someone was in my spot. It’s a river, after all, and plenty of “spots” await anglers intent on just being there instead of finding happiness only in their pet places.

So, when I arrived around 10 a.m. on a late summer morning, taking time to don waders, assemble gear, and hike downstream around a pair of river bends, I wasn’t surprised to see them standing together, fishing in my favorite hole.

Anglers are notorious for claiming parts of rivers—even entire rivers—for themselves, like Lewis and Clark reincarnated, and damn anyone who dares invade those same places. Thirty-plus years of fly fishing for trout, however, is sufficient time to soften sharp edges, and temper selfish eagerness with an understanding that this wonderful sport is for everyone.

They hadn’t noticed me yet, so instead of passing behind them for waters downstream, I crept to the bank and decided to watch for a while.

They appeared to be a father-and-son tandem. The dad was in his late 50s and his son had to have been mid-20s, maybe pushing 30. They were fishing together, something not always manageable on a small river. Casting a long line and not spooking fish are tasks made more difficult when two anglers stand next to one another, so spreading out is the norm. Besides, we all want to catch fish, which isn’t easy in a crowd, and two anglers can definitely constitute a crowd on small waters.

But this duo fished together. Over the gurgling riffles, murmuring cedar waxwings, and low humming of the stream, I could hear them converse. Not dad telling his son how to fish or where to cast, but a conversation that, to me—also a father—sounded more like poetry. A chuckle here, an “ooooohhhh!” there when a fish rose. The younger lad had clearly outgrown the contempt with which most teenagers regard their parents. He genuinely enjoyed being there with his dad, whose adopted duties of father/teacher/guide were in the process of being replaced with the role of fishing buddy—even though we dads are oblivious to the evolution when it happens. It’s the perk savored by the parent whose kid realizes that Dad knows what he’s talking about on the sporting spectrum, and therefore grows closer to the Old Man—probably after abandoning him during those dreadful, rebellious younger years.

Good fathers teach their kids as much of the sporting life as they can in a very small window of life, motivated by a hope that the children fall in love with the outdoors instead of seeing fishing or hunting as just something to do together. When that love manifests as time spent with one another, chasing trout or ducks or deer, well, that’s more than the proverbial icing on the cake. And it does happen.                       

My dad set the perfect example when my brother and I were kids. His love was bird hunting, and so it became ours, a hobby that morphed into all outdoor pursuits. It was pretty simple with my own son. I just followed the same recipe. He began tagging along as a toddler, steering the duck boat and tracking deer and catching bluegill. Now, as a senior in college, his biggest hurdle is going to class when the mallards are migrating.

I watched a little longer, but with a strong sense of hope for their bond, like pulling for a favorite team. I wanted them to know that feeling when intimate experiences that can only happen in the sporting world are shared with someone so personal. Quietly camouflaged within streamside vegetation, I strained to listen as the pair of able fishermen planned and plotted how to reach a large brown trout that was slurping hoppers under an overhanging cedar. They made cast after cast over the fish’s window, but couldn’t tempt the fish; grunts and groans emanated each time the offering drifted by unscathed.

Finally, and sooner than I wanted, the son hooked another fish, a fine brown pushing 20 inches. The next few moments are etched in my memory. I watched the two of them enjoy the ultimate reward reserved for fly anglers endowed with enough patience and honed technique. The trout made a few leaps and a powerful run, and the tall pines swallowed up the last of the whoops and hollers. They netted the fish, admired it briefly, quickly snapped a few photos; I couldn’t hear what they said, but the tones were reverent in nature. The two anglers shared a final look at the beautiful fish as they set it free. With a snap of its tail, the trout splashed water on their faces and they laughed.

I, on the other hand, was stirred to melancholy, and I’m still not quite sure why. My son is healthy and happy. He just wasn’t with me on this outing. I hadn’t lost something that this experience had somehow dredged up from a dark past, but I felt a pang of sadness nonetheless. Perhaps it was memories of our times together on the river, or a realization that these moments are precarious and precious, tempering optimism that more lay in store for both of us dads with a knowledge that life is anything but certain.

Whatever it was, I was bleary-eyed when they turned back upstream toward their vehicle, deciding to call it quits on such a note that couldn’t be topped. I understood, having ended trips for the same reason.

I hoped my presence would go unnoticed so I wouldn’t interrupt their shared reverie, but they caught a glimpse of me and paused in midstream, slightly startled. I simply smiled, eyes still wet, and silently nodded my approval, and in it, a thanks, for what it was worth. The dad, sporting the same amount of gray hair as I, and the son, strangely similar in build and confidence to my own boy, smiled and nodded back, understanding completely without any words spoken.

Then they faded around the bend, and I have never seen them again.

I fish that stretch of river often, though not that bend anymore. It belongs to them. But each time, I just sit for a while and remember.

Chris Smith is a Michigan-based writer and artist, and the coauthor of two books of essays, Around the Next Bend and Another Day Afield.

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Last modified: February 3, 2025
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