‘On moving to Colorado, Ben was a regular visitor to our cabin on Tarryall Creek. Here he rekindled his earlier fly fishing skills. Tarryall, with its easy wading and stock of wild, modest brown trout suited him admirably. With family and dogs for company, his important needs were all satisfied’
In early March an old fisherman passed away here in Colorado. He was not one famed for his angling accomplishments or literary prowess, nor a die-hard fisherman or even an especially talented one, but my father-in-law, Ben, fished consistently for more than eighty years. He was anhonest-to- goodness, lifelong fisherman. It was never an obsession for him, but always a pleasure.
I knew him for the last thirty years but only when he moved to Colorado fifteen years ago did I spend regular time with him around the water. His childhood and working life were spent in upstate New York. He succumbed to the popular allure of Florida’s sun in retirement before the less publicised realities of humidity and hurricanes persuaded him into that final move to Colorado, ‘only’ 200, rather than 2,000 miles from his daughter.
The headlines of his life mirror that of so many Americans; second generation immigrants from Poland, military service – Navy and Coast Guard, a family business of precision engineering; a wife and two kids. His fishing had a similar familiarity to it and, with the greatest respect, was notable for being unremarkable; streams and reservoirs with trout, bass and pike, many of the fish being recent deliveries from a local hatchery. He covered the full gamut of angling styles – bait, lure and fly – though on reflection I realise that the stories he shared were long on characters and atmosphere, short on technical detail. All this experienced on public water, available to all for the modest cost of a state fishing licence; no specimen hunting and definitely no private clubs or syndicates.
Family is the recurring presence in almost every story about Ben. In early married life he fished most weekends with his father-in-law at a local reservoir. He used a row-boat for access, worms and minnows for bait, rainbow trout the targetand dinner the objective. My wife and brother-in-law recount that this same opportunity tested their patience as young children, but they responded more enthusiastically to the fast paced action at local ponds catching sunfish (‘sunnies’) and bluegills with bobber (float) and worm. This would be the British equivalent of a small pond teeming with stunted perch and roach.
Ben was not a joke teller but did enjoy recounting humorous anecdotes. His short repertoire became very familiar to us. Now, as the saying goes, “You needed to be there”. This isn’t material that anyone should work into their stand-up comedy routine but I will share just one…
Ben was also a baseball fan – his team, the perennially underperforming New York Mets of the 1960s and ‘70s. Sunday afternoon baseball was an American staple and coincided with the weekly fishing with his father-in-law, so an AM/FM radio was always in the boat. Now, please understand that Ben was a reserved and considerate gentleman, so his radio would not have been obnoxiously loud, but on rowing back to the dock one afternoon, he drew a rebuke from a shore-based fisherman, perhaps a Yankees fan:
“Turn that god-damned radio down, no wonder none of us can catch any fish.”
Quick a flash, Ben pulled up a stringer of trout from the bottom of the boat, held it up and replied:
“You should get yourself a better radio!”
Ben loved this story. We loved it, and still do, because of the pleasure the telling gave him.
House moves and garage clean-ups saw the periodic discovery of old fishing tackle; cheap tackle boxes, plastic or pot metal, the products of a hardware store not a specialist angling shop. Unopened for years, in some cases decades, the content was a typical assortment of rusted hooks and swivels, hardened, plastic lures, and brittle monofilament. Salt corrosion testified to occasional forays into coastal, or at least tidal, waters. Most of the content was fit only for the rubbish bin, but some battle-scarred lures survived well enough for display at my cabin.
On moving to Colorado, Ben was a regular visitor to our cabin on Tarryall Creek. Here he rekindled his earlier fly fishing skills. Tarryall, with its easy wading and stock of wild, modest brown trout suited him admirably. With family and dogs for company, his important needs were all satisfied. Although the cheapest rod would have satisfied him, he continued a family tradition, being the third of us to own a split cane rod custom made by Colorado rod-maker Mike Clark.
Into his eighties, accommodations were made so that Ben could continue to fish. A “Gator”, a small John Deere off-road vehicle, was acquired to drive to or from the more distant water. Those in closer company kept a discreet, watching eye and later more overtly helped his passage between swims. It became the unspoken routine that I would make a fly recommendation and tie the appropriate knots; buoyant flies with a prominent wing or hackle, erring on one hook size bigger than the natural equivalent. Eventually those younger eyes also alerted him to strikes and unhooked the victims. He fished as he lived these latter years; uncomplaining, satisfied with the most modest of pleasures, and worried only that he was a burden on others.
Time ran its inexorable course. Now aged 91, his last fish was released in the summer of 2021. Truth be told, the small, feisty brown trout took his fly when stationary on a tight line at the end of a drift. Both Ben and the trout were surprised. After that he continued to watch his daughter or me fish, enjoying the company of a beer and the dogs from the seat of the Gator. This past year, on a sunny afternoon on the cabin porch the familiar, modest stories of fishing past were recounted again; the ‘Radio story’ was doubtless among them. In the company of family, dogs and a beverage, with the stream in sight, his contentment seemed complete.
The days before his passing were a sad decline that is familiar to many of us, the blow softened only by the absence of pain and the company of loved ones. With hours to fill, fishing was a regular topic, one-sided as the conversation increasingly became. During his final hours I updated Ben on the Tarryall, remarking that the ice was starting to melt, that we should be fishing earlier than usual this year. Two weeks later, my parting optimism has proven a little premature. There is an open channel in the faster water but after several inches of spring snow yesterday, a deep overnight freeze has narrowed the channel and rocks on the stream bed are again layered in translucent ice. The first migratory birds have returned – bluebirds a week ago, red-winged blackbirds the past couple of days – but they are sheltering tight in the willows, their courting calls and theatrics on hold for warmer days ahead. Had the sun prevailed later today I would have made those first casts of the year. A small nymph cast from a precarious ice ledge, more in hope than expectation. As it was, the sun fought a losing battle with low clouds and an increasingly leaden sky eventually yielded more snow flurries. Those first casts will wait another few days. Instead, the dog and I enjoyed a couple of peaceful walks, the wood stove was lit early and a modest toast was offered to a special, departed friend.
Writing & Images – Paul Adams, March 2024
You must be logged in to post a comment.