Casting for Memories

I am about to depart upon a fly fishing trip in the mountains. Lacking appropriate fishing gear of my own for such an activity, last week I began sorting through my recently departed father’s equipment in order to come up with what I needed. He loved fly fishing and it has been nostalgic sorting through his rods, reels, flies, line and other such trappings, of which there is a great quantity. When you tinker with the remnants of another man’s passion, it reaches across the years and you sometimes begin to feel as if he’s right there with you. All the more so in the case of my father, who was always eager to share his skill and knowledge in this area. I was generally an eager pupil, but rarely could translate his tutelage into the catching of many fish. The fact is that I really haven’t the temperament or the passion for fishing. Consequently, I tend to cast for a while and then, like Ferdinand the Bull, wander off to the welcoming shade of a nearby tree to write poetry or otherwise daydream. Such activity is extremely satisfying for me, yet of but little use to one who is eager to advance the numbers of his catch or fill the evening’s frying pan. My father and I well understood one another’s priorities and struck upon a mutually agreeable compromise in our fishing ventures. He caught the fish and I told the story. Now, having not fished since his passing, and armed with his old equipment, once again I venture out into the wilderness with the hope of catching a few wild trout … and perhaps more than a few poignant memories as well. An important step in the process of dealing with loss is when move from actively mourning someone to honoring and cherishing their memory. Nothing could honor dad more than my standing in a mountain stream, casting with his rod, and thinking fondly of him. And that I shall.

Today’s poem comes from a trip to the same area in 2001 and is based upon the experience of the Patton brothers, who have fished that same little corner of the Sierras since the days of youth with their own departed father. I offer it in their honor and take the liberty of now claiming a portion of their emotions for myself. If you’ve still got your dad, give him a call today. Better yet, take him fishing.

These Mountains We Shared
When I look back across the years
at the good times that I’ve had
I think the ones I cherish most
were up here, with my dad
Those were the best vacations
we were always eager to go
Camping and fishing and hiking
in the mountains he loved so
And I’m still coming up here
after thirty years and more
Still fishing in the same old creek
still camping like before
Still doing all the things he loved
and taught me to enjoy
In the happy summers of my youth
when I was just a boy
So many things remind me of him
when I’m up here, even now
It’s almost like he’s here with me
at least it feels that way somehow
In the dusty talk along the trail
and the whisper of the breeze
In the laughter at the campfire
and such simple things as these
Sleeping underneath the stars
and camping ‘neath the trees
Remind me of the part of him
that’s such a part of me
It makes me proud to be his son
and sad that he is gone
But in these mountains that we shared
... his memory lives on
By Frank Carpenter ©