Time Flies: Fly Fishing Through Generations

There are things that are ephemeral and those that are eternal; the fleeting ripples of a rising trout or the momentary flavor of ripe whortleberries on the tongue, the dull thud of boulders rolling in a stream swollen with snowmelt, or—in the case of the events of our family backpacking and fly fishing trip in the Beartooth Mountains of Wyoming—the passage of knowledge from one generation to another. I am forever in awe of the timelessness of open landscapes and the magic that comes from the relationships kindled within them.

Young George has caught a fish before—but never one on a fly. When I was his age, fishing was life. There was nothing I would rather do more than walk the lake shores of my upstate New York home and cast for perch, bass and sunfish—much to the chagrin of my piano teacher. On the special days, I would meet my grandfather early in the morning and we would walk down the hill, out onto that creaky metal dock and into his small, aluminum fishing boat. In the winter, we pulled our sleds down that same hill and onto the frozen surface of the bay armed with rods, augers, ice skimmers, thermoses, extra gloves, etcetera. In either case, when we left the shore we didn’t come back until the sun began setting. For better or worse, we were out on the lake, and we were together.

Being an amateur archaeologist and an avid student of local history, my grandfather was one of a small group of founders of a small, local museum—The Oliver Stevens Blockhouse Museum—at the outlet of an Oneida Lake. On that side of our family, we are among the second settlers in that part of New York state. And as we cast our lines in the lee of Frenchman’s Island or the shallows of Pottygut Bay, the place was alive not only with the creatures in and around the waters, but with the events and characters of the near and distant past. In my minds eye, and at the age my son is now, I could visualize the fish pirates setting their nets along the swamps and the market hunters beating drums amid the cattails to stir their waterfowl quarry, and the rippling banners over the bateau of Sir William Johnson as he and his men crossed the lake bound for Fort Niagara during a campaign of the French and Indian War (only for some of them to meet their end in the infamous afternoon wind storms and swells that this lake can muster). The crushing jolt of those same whitecaps pounded the lessons of the past into my mind as I hid beneath the small decking at the bow of that open boat on inclement days—my only view of the outside world was through my grandfather’s sturdy legs as he stood erect, steering against the wind and spray. I could clearly picture the French explorer Samuel Champlain being carted north in a basket upon the backs of on of his Algonquin compatriots following an assault on the Iroquois fortifications near present-day Syracuse. Clear also were the linen-clad boys—my earliest relatives–operating the first ferry to cross the river, long before any bridge came into being. My grandfather imbued me with his passion for this knowledge, for that place and for the sharing of it with others.

In the evenings and on winter nights, my grandfather shared with me the finer points of how to tie a fly: carefully wrap the thread all the way down the hook and attach some bits of hair or feather, wrap some other materials around the shank for the body, finish with more feathers or fur and top it off with the drop of glue to secure the lashings. From these lessons I carried forth making insects that had long gone extinct or had yet to evolve. I received no greater joy than when these fish-tricking concoctions fooled an unsuspecting crappie or bluegill. And, I am certain, so did my grandfather.

When my grandfather passed, I inherited the majority of his fly tying supplies and fishing equipment. Among the so many boxes of hooks, jig heads, bucktails, hackle necks, calf tails, spools of thread, bobbins, vices and such, were several flat, plastic containers—the ones of the divider sort sectioned off into many small square compartments—full of finished flies. These were lures crafted by the hands of my grandfather. I remember clearly the first time he ever showed me these boxes and the delicious names of the flies inside: bronze blue dunns, quill Gordon’s, royal coachmans, spinners, green drakes, etcetera. At the time he showed them to me, it was with a bit of fond remembrance for the days when he was a serious trout fisherman. “He was a big fish fisherman,” said Lester Gillett, a friend of my grandfather’s who learned from him and later went on to become the area Trout Unlimited president and traveled the world for the expressed purpose of fishing. “When they started stocking, and the fish got small, your grandfather quit.” Lester said this with a certain reverence. Those times seemed like ancient history to me as a child—they could have taken place shortly after Champlain’s crossing for all I knew.

When we stepped foot on that pass in the Beartooth Mountains of Wyoming this September, young George was in the lead. Scablands of exposed granite and pockets of deep blue water came into view. Conversation was minimal, joy was in the air as we hurried down onto the shores of the first nameless, wind-rippled lake. Jenny was kind enough to set up camp so ‘the boys’ could ground that electrical current in the air that surrounded George’s first flyfishing expedition. This was also his first backpacking trip in which he carried himself and his own gear, rather than being one of the packages himself.

“Now we always carry our rods like this,” I showed him, holding the rod just above the reel and letting it hang down in a forward position so that the remainder of the rod extended up and behind him. “So no matter what happens, what trees you walk through, the worst that can happen is that your rod is pulled apart at the joints instead of getting bent and broken,” I said to him in clear tones.

He nodded without words and so the day unfolded—more lessons, advice, laughter, great schemes and theories on the psychology of fish, birds, bugs and all manner of things. It was during this time that I felt it pass—like wind over a high ridge or water through a flume–that untouchable something that goes between a father and a son, from one generation to the next. It was with great pride that some of those original, physical landmarks of my own growing up—some of those very flies from Grampa’s box, now placed in a small canister in my hip pocket, that clover-honey colored cane fly rod that belonged to my son’s great, great grandfather, bearing the inscription “Glen L. Stallknecht” in black ink just above the handle, were with us on this day. It made me feel small, grateful, proud beyond expression as we dined on the delicious flakes of trout cooked over an open fire. I knew that day, as George hooked his first trout on a fly and then cast for a second, it was not just me watching over the delicate S curved line of his back cast…

To see a short video documentary of our trip, click here.

Photos: Jenny Golding & George Bumann