The Shadow Under The Bridge

        The day was like any other day in the life of a twelve year old, except that this day was dragging!  I stared out the window of my sixth grade classroom, hoping against hope, that old boring Mrs. Thornton would end this torture they called Social studies." It's so nice outside" I thought to myself, "why can't they teach us this junk outside". It truly was a beautiful spring day, being mid-May, the trees were almost fully leaved. I could smell the fragrance of the Magnolia's, planted just outside the classroom window. I daydreamed of someday....., someday when I'd .........    Clanggggg!!!!!

        The ring of the bell caused me to jump, and like a thoroughbred in the starting gate, I was the first one out of Mrs. Thornton's class. As I boarded the bus for home, the shouts and squeals of the other children, reinforced the undeniable fact:  there were only 5 more weeks of school left - and then -  Freedom!

        Jimmy came home to find his mother doing her usual chores, cleaning, laundry and trying to take care of his little brother. He exchanged the usual banter with her,  "yeah, school was ok, no I don't have any homework, I'm going out to play.....  OK, I love you too".  As he bounded through the back porch screen door, he could  hear his mom yell, "don't slam the ..."    crash!  He knew he'd pay for that later!!  He came to an abrupt stop, "Dad, what are you doing home"? There, in our detached garage at the rear of my house, my dad was doing what I guess every good wife makes their husband do about this time of year.  He grumbled "spring cleaning". I had originally made plans to go over to Craig Johnson's house and play basketball with the guys, but ... 

THIS ...   This took precedent!!

        "Look at all this treasure", I  thought to myself.  "Dad" I said, " where did all this stuff come from "He let out a muffled groan as he put down a huge box, looked at me as though almost in disbelief and said "God only knows". He continued, "some of it is from when your mom and I first got married, but a lot of it was from grandma and grandpa". "Can I look at some of it" I asked, as though anything could stop my curiosity? "Yea" dad yelled, "just don't make a mess".  As I weaved my way through the piles of old books and boxes, something metallic caught my eye, hanging there high up on the garage wall. I stepped up onto an old steamer trunk and grabbed hold of what was in my estimation, the weirdest looking fishing rod ever made. "This has to be from the Dinosaur age"; I mumbled; "they didn't even know where to put the reel back then"; Nope, this was nothing like a  Real Fishing Rod.  I knew what a real professional setup looked like, I owned one.  A light action Garcia rod with the ultimate Mitchell 300 open faced, precision ball bearing reel. "Yup, that was a real fishing rod"  "Dad", I  yelled, as Dad unburied his head from one of the old trunks. "Whaaattttt" he yelled back"  "What is this thing"? As he looked at me holding this 8 1/2 foot stick in my hand; his demeanor seemed to change. He smiled as he slowly walked over and reached out for what I would later come to appreciate was .... a Fly Rod. "Where'd you find this old thing"? he asked?

        Before I even had a chance to reply, Dad had walked to the middle of the driveway, and was waving this thing back and forth letting out enough line that it almost reached the sidewalk in front of our house. He made it look easy as he explained that he and grandpa used to take trips to a place in the Catskills called the Beaverkill. It was kind of funny, all of a sudden, Dad had a gleam in his eye, he excitedly grabbed my shoulders, told me to wait here, and ran into the house. Two minutes later he was back with what looked like an old straw sewing basket hanging off his shoulder, and a hat ........no ordinary hat mind you, this hat would embarrass a blind man. Stuck within the band and brim, there were a minimum of at least fifty flies, some brightly colored, some very plain. All of which made my dad look like he had just been  purchased --at  some ones yard sale. And the very best part.......... right then and there, he wanted to take me down to Brook Hollow Stream near our house, right past Craig Johnson's house. Actually, I was excited too, the only tough part would be walking past all the guys with my dad in his weird getup. By the time we got to the stream, the sun was beginning to tuck behind the tall oaks and maples along the stream. Dad brought his finger to his lips, as though to tell me to be quiet, and eased down to the streams edge. He promptly proceeded to sit down. "What kind of fishing is this I thought". He motioned to me to do the same, and whispered "just watch".

        As I sat and watched,  the water rolled and bubbled over the rocks at the head of the pool, it seemed like an eternity that I had to sit there. I was beginning to get bored when Dad elbowed me and pointed toward the tail of the pool; "watch" he said. As I watched, I noticed a ring appear in the surface, then another and another, the more I examined the pool, the more I realized ...  it was Alive with fish. Dad took a fly from his hat and tied it on, then handed me the rod. I stared at him in disbelief,  "how do I cast this thing" I asked. "Just follow me" he snorted. We walked to the head of the pool, and as he stepped into the riffle , he turned and said "do exactly what I do". Of course, it was no problem for him in those old rubber boots, that looked like they were made for the fat man in the circus. I stepped into the water, took one step, and he turned quickly, then motioned with his hands to step quietly. It took us at least two minutes to wade that narrow section, I almost felt like I was sneaking into the kitchen to grab some of Moms homemade cookies.

        As we got to the far side of the stream, Dad motioned to stay low. In a very low voice, almost as though he were telling a secret, he instructed me to flip the fly straight out across the stream, then quickly flip the fly line in the upstream direction, then just let the fly drift. "I can't see the fly" I whispered, "how will I know when"....

        Before I could finish my thought, the line went taught, and the weird looking thing Dad called a reel was clicking like crazy. The fish was taking line out,  ah but wait-  here's where my fishing prowess would come to the fore. I had been in this position before, in the past, I had caught lots of fish on my spinning outfit - all I had to do was set the hook and drag my trophy in - RIGHT???? 

        The reality of the matter is - that all of this occurred in a matter of seconds.  Before Dad even had a chance to take a deep breath, I had pulled back on the rod and line with enough force that,  -  had I hooked a small humped back Whale, I would have ripped his lips off. After a short chuckle, Dad shook his head as he untangled the line from the shoreline brush. As he finished tying on another fly, he whispered again to me, "This time do what I tell you, when you feel the tug just lift the rod"

        I again flipped the fly out across and then quickly flipped line upstream, mending, as I later came to understand it. Once again, as the wet fly slowly began to swing through the tail -  WHAM !!  the trout took it, and it was off and running. First across to the far side, then back down toward the tail of the pool. Dad calmly and methodically guided me in playing the fish, and within minutes I was gazing at a beautiful 12 inch Brown Trout. Dad helped to unhook the fish, and as I admired the beauty of this creature, Dad gently helped me see the importance of releasing it, and allowing it to live.

        We took turns using the rod, and by the time the sun had set, we had each caught 3 trout. "Yeah", I thought; "This Fly Fishing thing might really have something to it after all"!!  It was at that point, I guess you could say - I was HOOKED !!!

        Over the next few weeks, Dad and I would go down to the stream on Thursday evenings, that was his early day. Each time we fished, Dad hammered me with information, Oh- SO MUCH information. I was amazed, I never knew he had all that stuff  locked up in his head - he was always so quiet at home! But now - Now he had an outlet, so out the floodgates poured. Roll cast, drag, leaders, tippets, floatant, flies- ah! The Flies , dry flies, wet flies;  the never ending names, or so it seemed at the time. Quill Gordons, Hendrickson's, Blue quills, Pale evening Duns or Sulphurs, and on went the list.

        "How could anybody remember all this stuff "I thought. I would get a reprieve every now and then, from all the heavy stuff, Dad would break in with one of his famous; "Ya know, I remember one time.... ! and he would begin to wistfully weave one of the accounts of how he and Grandpa would go up to what he fondly called " the big water". Grandpa would give him  " just the right fly ", and how just as the sun would be going down, the pool (in this story , it was Cairn's) would begin to boil, fish everywhere. As the shroud of darkness would fall, he and grandpa and some of Grandpa's friends would pull themselves from the river, and visit one of the local establishments to enjoy food, drink and good conversation. As the evening progressed, Dad would listen as he sipped on his coke with a cherry, to the banter between Rueben and Ray B and Harry and Grandpa Each with his own theory as to why a particular offering had or had not been successful that evening. Even as Dad related the account, I could detect  the adrenalin pumping within him - he always seemed to cast much faster when he talked about those times.

        As spring gracefully turned to summer, summer vacation was finally here. I rigged a neat little system on my bike to hold the fly rod, and the few flies that Dad had given me, I carried in an old Prince Albert tobacco can. Each day I would explore the stream, and each trip would take me farther upstream. I discovered pristine, untouched areas which lay beneath giant Hemlocks, where the sun would filter through and create a beautiful mosaic on the forest floor. Here is where I learned- really learned-  to read the water. Dad could only talk me through so much, this was something that had to be learned through experience. The sweet spots both behind and in front of boulders, the swirling back eddies, the deep undercut banks with hungry hemlock roots lurking just beneath the surface - all taught me well and offer fond memories.

        One particular day as I made my way home, I happened to notice an old dirt road which led to the main road. I knew that the stream had to be down in the valley somewhere, so being the explorer that I was - I was off. It appeared to be an old abandoned road which led to some kind of old summer camp or Bungalow colony. As I neared the stream, I could see an old wood bridge that that was still intact.  On the downstream side of the bridge was a large deep open pool, that led up to a deep run under and above the bridge." What a find " I thought! "I could fish both sides"! It truly was a pleasant spot; on one side of the pool, it looked as though someone long ago had cleared most of the trees and brush, and now the sun caressed the wild hay field that was softly being tossed back and forth by the breeze. The other side was shaded all the way up to the bridge with a variety of spruces, hemlocks with a few white birch scattered among them.

        In four seconds flat, I was off my bike, laying chest down on the bridge, peering into the deep run under the bridge. "Wow" I thought, "I wouldn't want to fall in there "; "that's deep". Indeed, as I later came to find out - it was deep. It was hard to see anything, between the glare on the water and swirls in the current, but the sun felt good on my back as I lay on the bridge. "Yes", this is a very nice spot" I thought. As time passed, this place on the bridge would become my sanctuary, a place to go to enjoy solitude, a place to contemplate life, and the complexities of growing older. As summer wore on, it became my private fishing preserve, as no one else ever seemed to fish there. There were times I would release a fish, and then ; recognizing on another day that I had caught the same fish again, I'd found myself smiling and talking to myself as though I had seen an old friend.

        As summer turned to fall , it was back to the old grind - school again. As the season ended, I felt a kind of sadness, as though a good friend had moved away. But I knew in the back of my mind, next season was not far away. Through the fall, every now and again, I'd ride down to the old bridge to sit and think. I'd look for trout that might be rising, but by early November they were far and few between.  I'd sit and throw bits of bark into the current and watch them as they drifted downstream. I'd watch the  mallards, and pairs of Canadian geese,  male and female swim in the quiet water on the far side, always sticking close  together, as though they sensed their loyalty to each other. "Adults should do that" I thought. My friend, Craig Johnson was going through a bad time- I felt real bad, his parents were getting a divorce. It was kind of a hush-hush thing back then, but most everybody knew. "People should be more like ducks", I thought. O.K.- water represented the problems people had to deal with. Ducks, like people had to stick their head in to get to the bottom and deal with the problems. But ducks- unlike people- never let the water sit on their heads and weigh them down and make them miserable, they'd  just shake they're heads and let the rest roll off their backs. Yea, that's the way adults should be!  When viewed from the bridge, it seemed simple enough to a twelve year old.

        As I lifted myself to make my way home, I opted to take one last look on the upstream side of the bridge. As I lay there, staring down into the deep hole under the bridge, I noticed a flash, but I couldn't quite make out what it was. Then I saw it again, and as I focused on where the flash came from, I could make out a long shadow swaying back and forth in the current. I leaned over and cupped my hands around my eyes to shield  them from the light. As I peered into the depths, another flash, this time it seemed much larger. Now I could faintly make out movement, but couldn't see a fish. The more I stared into the darkness, the more my eyes became accustomed to the water, and then it happened!!  The trout that had been apparently taking nymphs on the bottom, rose quickly through the water column, to take some kind of emerging bug. Just as he reached about six inches below the surface, we saw each other! The hands that had been cupping my eyes were now split, one clutching the edge of the bridge, the other  - the lower part of a handrail that I'm sure - in its time - was quite solid. To say the least, we were both a bit startled, and to this day, I'm not quite sure what prompted me to try to lift myself up. As I did, I guess my weight, along with the fact, that I had leaned out just a tad too far - caused the inevitable!

        The rail gave way and I hit the water with a splash - not just an ordinary splash mind you, but the same kind of splash, that I embarrassed myself with - while trying to show off in front of Jenny Tompkins earlier that summer. As the water engulfed me, two things became vividly clear: This water was COLD!!!  and I had no way to climb out on the upstream side of the bridge. It was a stone wall like trough - on both sides. I made a few vain attempts at trying to stand, but it was much too deep. I turned and swam under the bridge, and after a bit of a struggle, managed to grab hold of a small sapling and pull myself from the frigid medium. "What a dope" I thought to myself, but at least I'm O.K..  I was alright, although cold and wet, with my self-esteem slightly dented, I made my way home - home to what I knew would be my Mom's consternation and raised eyebrows. As I peddled home, I tried to keep from thinking about the shivering that was racking my body - but it was all worth it - there was treasure that lay beneath that bridge and I'd be back for it !

        As I lay in bed over the next week and half sicker than I ever remember being, my mother lovingly nursed me back to health. My panacea was thinking about that fish !!! It all seemed a little blurry now, but it was giant - 16 inches, no 17, no at least 18. All I knew was, it was the biggest trout I had ever laid eyes on. Just thinking about it made me feel better! Of course Mom's remedy was slightly different!  She always made sure - I got my medicine - with my medicine!! Basically, on a daily basis; that involved taking some kind of awful tasting cough syrup, at other times some kind of "NEW" oral antibiotic, and then a full dose of mom's medicine;  "You are never allowed near .....",do you understand? Of course, I understood, but I also understood, even at this age, that Mom's emotions were in high gear and that, after a time when Mom had an opportunity to calm down from the emotional trauma, I'd be able to reason with her. At least that was the plan!!

        Soon after I got well, the snow began to fly, and I didn't get a peek at the stream again until the following April. Dad threw the first salvo and ran interference for me by suggesting that he take me trout fishing, opening day. After a small skirmish, and some minor maneuvers, it looked as though the blockade between myself and the stream were pretty much broken through. Once more, I was on the stream with Dad at roadside pool, and it was a good feeling -  no a  great  feeling. Even though I caught nothing, everything seemed better. I felt more confident holding the fly rod, possibly due to the fact, that during the winter, over the holidays, my parents bought me my own setup. That year, the stream was quite high in April, it was nearly unfishable. Each day I would check the progress of the receding waters simply because I had the worst invisible itch to go to the bridge and fish for the trophy, but it wasn't until the first week in May that I was able to really fish  the stream.

        Friday, May 6th, was a beautiful  day and best of all, I had off due to some repair work being done in my school. Of course, Mom had a list of chores, but said I could go play when I was done. I completed all my tasks just before lunch, but Mom made me wait till a sandwich had been made and instructions given to sit on the porch steps; "to eat - and drink all your milk". Three bites  -  two gulps and I was gone!!  Much the way a cannon ball;   dropped from a three story building; is forced to the ground by gravity, I raced to that bridge. I laid on the bridge and searched in vain for my fish, but saw nothing. " Maybe he's gone" I thought. Could it be possible that when I fell in,  I frightened him to the point, that he chose to look for quieter waters? I set up my rod and fished the pool below the bridge, catching only one small fish. There were several fish taking something from the surface, but they wouldn't even look at anything that I offered them. This certainly wasn't the way I had envisioned my day off of fishing!

        That evening, I decided to tap into what I considered, the encyclopedia of fishing knowledge: Dad! After explaining my concerns about not seeing or finding the trout, he said that sometime over the weekend, he and I would scout out the situation. Late Sunday afternoon, we made our way to the bridge. This area too, brought back memories for Dad, as he mentioned that at one time this had been a labor camp for workers during the depression. The old shacks that I thought were bungalows, were actually temporary summer quarters for those that worked with the W.P.A. while they worked on all the reservoirs around here. As we got close to the stream, Dad became very quiet as he assessed the quality of this section of the stream. He walked over the bridge and back twice, looking both up and downstream, then down along the pool below the bridge, staring upstream, almost as though he were searching for the right words to say. "Do you think he's still here, Dad?," I blurted out, as he slowly walked up to me.

        As he placed his large hand on my shoulder,  an even larger smile came to his face. In a mild, relaxed low tone, as he looked me in the eye, he said " He's here son, he's here". "How do know" I asked, puzzled by the certainty of his answer. He began a dissertation of trout habitat, that although long and not fully appreciated at the time, clearly explained why it seemed very likely that my friend was still there. In a nutshell he explained there was very good cover, plenty of oxygen and food and enough depth, that he would be - much too comfortable to move. That afternoon we fished the pool. Dad did pretty well, catching four fish, and losing another three. He fooled the whole bunch on ; what I considered a miniscule fly, a size 20 Blue Quill. There was also another kind of fly that was coming off, Dad called them "Caddis flies". From the little information I could glean from Dad, apparently, there was very little known about this kind of bug! As for me, I worked that pool hard, only nipping one fish - and it definitely was not my trophy, in fact as I look back on it, the fish I nipped could have been his dinner!!

        Over the next month, I did more reading in a concentrated period of time, than in my entire life. I was extremely fortunate, in that I had 2 Libraries to choose from. My school library and the public library in town, which was well stocked, due to the philanthropic efforts of old Mrs. Wellington, whose ancestors had supposedly come over on the Mayflower! My school library had one book dated from 1934 The caddis flies or Trichoptera of New York State. The public library had two books, A review of Rhyacophilidae: 1948. The other book by Charles Wetzel , "Practical Fly Fishing" Needless to say, most of it was beyond me, and yet it helped me to realize that Mayflies were far from the only insect on the menu. It also made me consciously aware of two species of these insects, which eventually led me to my quarry and which - to this day, serve me well. My dilemma: where to find these bugs all tied up on a hook and ready to be fished. I explained to my Dad, my problem: I needed a dry fly tannish yellow in color, and one in green as well, along with something called a nymph. Once more, Dad to the rescue!!

        The following Saturday, we took a drive over to Oregon Corners, a tiny little town with a great Hardware store! It had everything a human being could want, from livestock feed to pots and pans to Gravely tractors. And best of all - it had a sporting goods department. Not just any sporting goods place either, all the supposed great fisherman of the County hung out there. Dad introduced me to old Mr. Cooper who ran the place, and briefly explained that I was in search of some specific fly patterns. Well, that's all it took - Mr. Cooper was off and running explaining how he was quite a fisherman himself. As he began his narrative of some trip to somewhere in 1921, some of the older "REGULAR"  crowd began to gather around. They all loved to hear and swap stories. You know how those old sporting goods places can be! Fortunately, Dad had the foresight to see where this was going, and politely interrupted, mentioning some other errands. Mr. Cooper turned to me as the others went on talking, and asked "what kind of flies did you need son?"  Without hesitation, and with the greatest of conviction in my voice, I said "I need 3 tanish yellow Hydropsyche, two green Rhyacophila, and two Hares Ears."

        What followed was the longest 10 seconds of my life. Everyone, standing around the counter fell absolutely silent, jaws wide open. You could have heard one of the old floor boards creak clear on the other side of the store. Each of them staring at me as though I had some strange disease that couldn't be identified. Finally, one gentleman squeaked out "a green what", promptly followed by Mr. Cooper with a sharp "what in blue blazes is a Hydro - whatever you said"? The attention for a moment seemed to shift to Dad, - everyone looking at him as though he should explain this foolishness his son was speaking. I was quite sure that they were familiar with these flies, after all, these were the "greats", so I clarified myself, "they're Caddis Flies" I said. After several - OH's and some head shaking, hand movements and mumbling, Mr. Cooper said " there's  trays of Mayflies over there" as he pointed to the first isle, "but I don't think we got any of them Caddis things"! Dad again politely thanked him and we walked over to the giant trays of flies.

        As Dad and I perused the cubicles of flies, Dad pointed to a couple of patterns that he thought might work for the Hydropsyche (Spotted Sedge). I settled for two Light Cahill's to cover that bug and two wet flies called Greenwell's Glory for the other caddis( Green Sedge), along with two Hares Ears. Dad split the cost of the flies with me, justifying it with the possibility of "I might use a couple too "Of course - he never did! Now, with what I considered heavy artillery in hand, I was ready, willing and oh - so eager to confront my quarry. Dad sensed my impatience, and as we drove home he began to explain the necessity of forming a plan in order to be successful. And so we did! He helped me realize that this trout didn't get big by being stupid, and that it would require stealth and knowing roughly exactly where he was in the pool. This trout would also dictate the way I fished for him, not my usual flogging of the pool.

        Dad instructed me to go down to the bridge each day after my chores, not to fish, but to observe. These were his specific instructions that I still remember to this day," lay perfectly still on the bridge, poke your head over the edge just enough that you can see the water, it'll  probably take fifteen minutes before he relaxes enough to come out from his hiding place. Once your in place, you can't move. After a short while look for either a flash, or a dark shadow. Find the outline of the shadow and stare at it, if it's our friend - after a while you'll see him move to take food." I did just as I was instructed, going each day to watch and observe. I would leave my bike fifty feet from the bridge, and creep onto the bridge on my hands and knees. Just as Dad had predicted, after about ten minutes or so, I saw a dark shadow slide over about a foot, then half a minute later he'd go back to his spot. During the first day of my reconnaissance mission I watched the trout for about an hour and within that time, he moved back and forth that way at least forty times! As I watched this gargantuan trout, I felt an exhilaration come over me, one that since then - has only rarely been duplicated. I felt as though I were working behind enemy lines and reporting the information back to the commander in chief.

        Over the next three days, it was much the same scenario each time. After a while, watching the fish became a bit wearisome, so I began to observe other things. There were several pairs of swallows that would swoop down and grab something just above the surface of the water. Upon closer inspection, I realized they were eating the newly hatched flies just as they were flying off the waters surface. Upon even closer scrutiny, I could see that they were not Mayflies, as Dad had explained that all Mayflies have tails and Caddis do not. The longer I observed, the more I realized that the air was filled with them. I knew I should grab one for closer inspection. "This shouldn't be too tough", I thought; after all I was the neighborhood expert at catching lightning bugs. Finally after twenty minutes of jumping, reaching, stretching, lunging and putting my body through numerous other contortions - I was able to grab one! Another lesson  in life learned: things that appear simple; usually aren't!! But there in my hands lay my reward for my tenacity. As I held the partially crushed specimen, it looked vaguely familiar, although I knew I had never held a Caddis fly in my hand before. As I examined the insect, in an undertone, I muttered the description: "light speckled tan wing, tanish yellow... this was it, this was the Spotted Sedge. "I carefully embalmed the insect inside a fresh Bazooka Bubble gum wrapper so I could show Dad, and started for home. If Dad felt my reconnaissance missions were successful, Dad and I would be back on Thursday to pursue our quarry in the waters under the bridge.

        By the time I got to show Dad my specimen, it was well after dinnertime, actually closer to bedtime. At that point my sample closely resembled a miniature shriveled up tan colored prune. With what detail he could make out on the insect, he explained that he thought that the Cahill's we had purchased would do nicely as an imitation.  I painstakingly provided dad with all the details of my observations and upon completion of my report, he smiled and said  "I think were ready"!  Thursday afternoon he got off work even a bit earlier than usual. We gathered our gear, explained to mother that we might be back late, and headed for the stream. As we approached the stream, I could feel  MY  adrenalin pumping, although there wasn't a single fish rising! Dad now gave me my last minute briefing," quietly cross the bridge, once on the other side, walk down about thirty feet and slowly wade in. Slowly work your way up till I tell you to stop" I made my way across and got into the stream, working my way up to where Dad motioned for me to stop. At that point, I was approximately twenty feet below the bridge and directly in line with the stone abutment on my side. I now understood why Dad instructed me to enter on this side, the faster current was now on the far side and the seam or foam line was on my side of that fast current. I'd need little mending to get a good drift.

        Try as I might though, I could not get that fish to rise to my fly, although I was fairly certain I was getting the fly to about where he was holding. Dad had waited a few minutes to see if I could raise the fish before he waded in at the tail of the pool. Needless to say after two hours and nothing to show for it - I was slightly frustrated. By five p.m., some fish were beginning to rise , all of them below me - between myself and Dad. So , since Dad seemed to be doing reasonably well, he having caught two and lost a third, I concentrated my efforts on those fish. My first cast landed ten feet above where a trout had just risen. It floated right passed him, and just as I was about to lift and retrieve the line, a trout smashed the fly and headed for the bottom. A few minutes later I released a meaty 13 inch trout. Dad looked up from the tail and gave me the thumbs up sign - it was a good feeling! For the next two hours or so we had a grand time, Dad and I seemingly taking turns at catching fish, first him- then me - then him again! And after each release, we'd just look up at each other and smile. As dusk descended, Dad exited the stream and gave me the old fifteen minute warning. He sat on the bank, lit his pipe and gazed up at the trees, and contemplated the beauty of the day.

        Dad looked down again and suggested that since I had a few minutes left, why not try  casting up under the bridge again. Coupled with that suggestion, he had another; " cut off the tails on that Cahill with your pen knife before you cast - and grease it up good"! Cut the tails - good grief, that seemed like such sacrilege, especially on a professional store bought fly that cost eighty five cents!! But ; as strange as it seemed to me, I knew Dad had a pretty good sense about these things. The tails were off, the fly well greased and I began my cast, the first falling far short of the mark. It was beginning to get dark now and I wondered if I'd be able to even see my fly under the bridge. My next cast landed in the fast water and was quickly whisked back toward me. The next cast, which in reality was quite a poor cast, hit the stone abutment of the bridge and bounced off and hit the water. Where it hit the water was just dumb luck, it was right where it needed to be.

        An instant after it hit the water, there was an explosion under the bridge, as though someone had thrown a boulder into the water. My Dad jumped to his feet, and uttered some expletive that I'm not allowed to repeat. All I could do was hang on as line screamed off the reel. At first, he burrowed for the bottom, the rod and line throbbing from the pressure I was putting on him. Dad all the time yelling instructions from the other side, "go easy, go easy, keep your rod tip up" After a minute or two the trout bolted for the pool below the bridge. Now the reel screamed again, except  this time he was taking a lot of line. So much in fact, that as he got to the tail of the pool, I noticed that my fly line looked different. As I came to learn later, it was my backing which I never even knew was there! I began to move toward him and retrieve some line , when he made another run straight at me. I striped line in as fast as my hands would move and by the time I had tension on the line again, he was up under the bridge again. This went on twice more before he finally began to tire.

        By now it was almost dark and Dad had made his way over to my side. He stood next to me with his net at the ready. Each time - just as I thought he was fully tired and ready to give in, he would make short bursts trying to get into the fast current. Finally after twenty minutes, Dad was able to slide his net under him. Once in the net, Dad bounded onto the shore and clicked his flash light on. And there in the light lay a glistening 21 inch Brown trout, with a hooked lower jaw, golden undersides and big spots adorning his sides. "What a beautiful fish," I exclaimed. Dad chimed in as well and added; " it certainly is a fine fish - a real trophy fish." As I removed the hook from the mouth of the fish, Dad put his hand on my shoulder and said," Son, if you want to keep him, it's all right with me - it's your decision!  It truly was a trophy fish, at least for me. Part of me did want to keep him, to able to show Mom and my little brother. And we had the brownie camera at home too, I could take pictures and show all the guys. "Yeah,"  I thought - "I'd be justified in keeping this fish"

        But there was another part of me , deep down somewhere that was nagging at me, urging me to let it go. I lifted the fish, turned to Dad and smiled. I stepped into the water, enough to be able to hold the fish in the current and I submerged him. It took a long time to revive him, but slowly I could feel the strength in him return. After a few minutes, his strength had returned and with one flick of his tail he shot from my hands back to the comfort of the deep water under the bridge. As we made our way home that evening , Dad made it a point to let me know how proud he was of me. "That was quite an achievement this evening, son". "You made me real proud".  I felt good too - it was a great fish, and a terrific day with Dad on the stream. "Proud because I caught the fish" I asked. "Yes of course, but there's more to it than that."You helped me to appreciate today that the young boy who I call my son, is no longer a boy". "You've matured into a fine young man". We just looked at each other and smiled as we pulled into the drive. I wasn't sure I totally understood, but that was o.k., we had a great memory together.

        Over the next few years Dad did help me come to understand. I suppose it was an entire series of events, and the way I handled them. That experience taught me a great many lessons, I suppose!!  I learned things as simple as patience, rather than being hasty. I learned courtesy, as well as etiquette while on the stream with others. I came to understand that my heritage had great value. I became aware of my own shortcomings, and realized that it's not my place to judge people, in most cases; they were doing the best they knew how! I came to appreciate that they'll  always be people who know it all, and that a simple thank you and a smile is all that is needed in response. I realized that there are benefits in obeying directions, and being observant. I came to know the importance of: If you have a desire to succeed at something it requires real effort and tenacity. I learned to have a deep appreciation for Mom and Dad, who - when necessary - were firm for right principles, but who also showed tremendous self - sacrificing love toward us all! I learned to appreciate the good things we have - while we still have them!!

       Now in the autumn of life, I still from time to time go down to that old bridge. I breath in deeply and appreciate each day that I'm able to be on the stream.  Every now and again, I still peer over the edge of the bridge looking for my old friend, hoping that I might still see that  Shadow Under The Bridge!

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