Fishing Tale - A woman reminises about her husband off at war.

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Fiction

Fishing Tale
Fiction by Karen C. McKee

           It's early, around 5:30am I'd guess by the barely visible
glow on the eastern horizon. I groan quietly as I drag myself out of my
sleeping bag and wrestle on my jeans and sneakers. Rising carefully, I
let myself out of my tent and squat down next to my cold fire pit in the
misty, solemn air of the late summer morning. Adding wood, I relight the
fire and put on some water for instant coffee.

            Muttering imprecations about age, stiff knees and sore
knuckles, I go about cleaning myself up. I scrub my face, pouring cold
water over my head and raking my fingers through my short, gray mop.
Sipping hot coffee, I fill my thermos with more and button my campsite
up. Climbing into the pickup, I check to be sure nothing has been
removed or tampered with during the night. With locks and alarms, why
was I even bothering? Who knows? Habit, I guess. You don't live a life
in cities all over the country without becoming accustomed to locking
everything up and checking it anyway.

            I drive through the camping area and head for a parking spot
along a gravel bank I'd spotted the day before. All through the
campground, no one was even moving yet. Not a sound except the permanent
residents. I like that; the quiet. As I've gotten older, I've learned
more and more to appreciate my own company and the lack of conversation.
It's not that I don't like people. It's just that sometimes I like their
absence more.

            Reaching the parking spot, I get out of my sneakers and into
my waders and vest. I assemble my 5-weight St. Croix, attach the reel,
grab the box of nymphs and midges, and head for the water. I can see the
sky just beginning to turn rosy as I wade out toward the center of the
stream. This was a beautiful, quiet area at this time of the morning.
Later I know it will be filled with noisy kids and beer belching
weekenders with their wives. But for now it is mine alone and quiet.

            I enter the stream and slowly work my way back up around a
bend to a place that I had never noticed anyone fishing in the other
time I'd been here. Perhaps I'll get lucky and have it to myself today.
Sighing, I settle into a calm spot and began casting my line out.

            I have never once caught a fish on a fly rod. I've never
even had a bite that I know of. I've only been fly fishing once with my
husband. This was my second fly fishing trip. On that first trip we
stood in a nearby spot in this stream and I fell in love with the quiet,
peaceful place. There was something magical, almost mystical, about the
cool water flowing around my hips and legs, the smooth, methodical
motion of casting. Looking down and seeing the fish moving around me, I
left reality behind for a place of utter beauty that day. If I never get
a fish on the line in my life, I'll never forget that feeling. That one
time was enough. I hope it was enough.

            Ken has always been a fisherman. His father and mother both
loved to fish. Of all their children, Ken is the one who inherited the
love of the sport. I had once gone fishing with them before his mother's
death. She taught me how to spin cast for trout in a stocked stream. It
was a lot of fun and I thoroughly enjoyed her company. But she became
ill soon after that and we never fished again. Sometime after her death,
Ken switched over from spin casting to fly-fishing. As with all his
interests, it seemed like he went off the deep end, spending money in
pursuit of the "right stuff". I assumed it would be like so many other
of these interests and fade away in time. But it didn't.

            It seemed like whenever he needed to think about things he'd
take a day and "go to the stream" as he called it. He always released
anything he caught on those trips. But along with the fish, he'd release
whatever else he was burdened with. I told myself this was a good thing
for him, but fishing still wasn't a priority for me.

            Then my husband was activated by the reserves and sent to
Afghanistan. For three long months we endured erratic emails and
occasional phone calls. I was desperate to feel close to him when he was
going through so much so far away. In the past I've tried to interest
myself in Ken's hobbies enough to at least discuss them with him, so I
determined to learn enough about fly-fishing to understand what he was
saying. I thought it would be nice to share that with him when he came
home.

            I went to a local store and with the help of the resident
fly-fishing expert picked out a nice rod that seemed to feel right in my
hand, a middle of the road reel, line, leaders and flies. I got all the
"right stuff" to be a beginner. In addition, I made arrangements with
the expert to take a starter class with him on a local pond to learn how
to cast a fly. I was going to be all ready when Ken came back to impress
him with how much I'd learned. I daydreamed of camping trips and the fun
we'd have sharing a stream and each other's triumphs over the ones we
caught and misery over the ones that got away. We had many conversations
about my efforts to learn how to cast. I would accuse him of
long-distance kibitzing. He'd laugh and tell me how much he was looking
forward to coming home and learning to cast from me. It made the days go
by a little faster.

            I never felt like I really got all that good, though the
expert said I had a nice casting style. I guess it takes years of
practice. Maybe someday. The water is cool through my waders. The air is
still. I can hear tiny sounds of small creatures around me. Occasionally
a splash as something breaks the surface. Below in the dawning light I
can make out the shapes of the brown trout working their way along the
streambed. Once in a while one eyes my nymph, but none really goes after
the bait. I'm sure my presentation needs a lot of work. Right now, I'm
in this stream, in a quiet place, remembering.

            Ken finally came home from Afghanistan. They tried hard to
patch him up, to make him presentable, but after I carefully placed his
rod and reel and vest in the casket, it was sealed back up. There are
some things no one should ever have to see. They gave me a flag and
spoke eloquent words about the sacrifice we had made for our country.
But the one thing they never gave me was that second fishing trip. So
here I stand, in a quiet place as the sun rises, with tears streaming
down my face, remembering. It has to be enough.

Copyright Karen C. McKee, June 2003.
Posted 07/15/2003