The Joyous Arrival
As the boat glided towards the dock, my father, a spirited 66-year-old, stood with a slight wobble, his arms spread wide in triumphant jubilation. “Whoa!” he shouted repeatedly, his face beaming with an infectious smile. This wasn’t just any ordinary catch; it was a trophy fish, the kind that ignites a childlike wonder in even the most seasoned anglers. My father’s exuberance was a testament to the pure magic of fishing, a passion he had cultivated and shared with his sons over countless expeditions.
A Family Tradition Born
Our fishing odyssey began with Uncle Lester’s influence, inspiring my father – a biology teacher and farmer with a profound love for nature – to introduce his four sons to the enchanting world of fly fishing in Canada. The tradition took root in 1985 when he first ventured to Manitoba with two of my brothers, Mark and Doug. The following year, it was Dave’s and my turn to experience the thrill of casting lines in Ontario’s Skinner Lake.
Lessons Beyond the Rod
These Canadian fishing trips became more than just opportunities to catch fish; they were classrooms without walls. I vividly recall a day when my father and I fished alone, and he launched into an hour-long discourse on the life cycle of gypsy moths as they fluttered around us. His ability to make even the most seemingly insignificant creatures fascinating was unparalleled. In those moments, I realized that my father wasn’t just my favorite teacher in high school; he was my lifelong educator in the grand subject of nature.
Resilience and Humor on the Water
My father’s toughness and good humor were as much a part of our fishing trips as the rods and reels. Once, when a barbed hook lodged in his finger, he calmly explained the physics of why it couldn’t be pulled out backwards. With gritted teeth, he pushed the hook through his flesh, allowing me to snip it free. After a quick bandage, he was back to fishing, his resilience a quiet lesson in perseverance.
A Bittersweet Final Voyage
In 2001, our last fishing trip together at Skinner Lake was filled with poignant moments. As my father, battling pulmonary fibrosis, napped atop a beaver lodge, I circled in the boat, casting my line and etching the scene into my memory. The realization that this might be our final fishing adventure together struck me with bittersweet clarity.
A Legacy Etched in Stone and Memory
The following spring, my father passed away, leaving behind a legacy of love for nature and family. As we laid him to rest in a small, verdant cemetery near our rural home, I couldn’t help but think that his headstone, adorned with his beloved Angus cattle, was missing something. Perhaps the blank backside was waiting for an etching of him and his sons, arms spread wide in joy, surrounded by the Canadian waters that had brought us so much happiness.
In crafting these memories into words, I’ve come to realize that my father’s greatest catch wasn’t any fish, but the enduring bond he created with his sons through these shared adventures. His legacy lives on in every cast we make, every story we tell, and every moment we spend appreciating the natural world he so loved.
