For many, traditions and hobbies are passed down from generation to generation, father to son. Although, I have learned a multitude of skills from my father, fly fishing was never one of them. For that particular niche, the situation played out in reverse, son to father.
As "big poppa pump" came into town to exchange vehicles, I rushed a quick fishing trip in despite a few inches of rain from recent thunderstorms. I grabbed all the gear and drove the half hour to our destination where I carefully rigged up both of our rods. I was excited because the water quality had improved greatly. After finishing the leaders and tippet I reached for my fly boxes. They were MIA, left on top of my fly tying desk from my hasty exit. We had no flies.
After a long hard laugh, we contemplated heading to the golf course to hit some balls but that wasn't something I wanted to do. I'd rather be fly fishing. I tore the truck apart looking for errant flies from past fishing trips and found a few discarded egg patterns from a steelhead season long ago. I also found one of Adam's sculpin streamers he swings for steelhead that has a size 4 stinger hook trailing behind it. I tied on the streamer for myself and gave the egg pattern under an indicator for my father. We hit the stream and were able to land three trout in roughly an hour. We made something out of nothing. Unlucky and lucky at the same time.
Two Stockers on a Steelhead Streamer.
A much more recent trip had us heading over the mountain to once again fish in higher flows. With the temperatures in the low 90s, we decided on wet wading to stay cool. It was a bad choice. Our water shoes did not grip well in between the loose round boulders of the flowing creek. As we made our way upstream, my father struggled to keep up. Wading was hazardous and he no longer had the agility of his youth. After a rough section, I turned to find him struggling out of the flows with my rod in both hands, chasing down his hat downstream. By the time I made it to him, he had emerged from the water relatively unscathed. The rocks had given out from under him and he fell in slow motion into the water. My rod acted as a cushion between his shoulder and a large rock. It literally broke his fall.
The Only Fish Before The Fall.
I quickly made sure everything was okay, before we had another nice laugh. My father was soaked, his short shorts revealing pearly white legs in need of some sun. It was a sight to behold. He apologized for the rod but I could have cared less. I was glad he was alright. We hiked on out of there and called it a day. Hopefully, the third time will be the charm and big poppa pump can lose his string of bad luck on the water.