The Old Man

Old man, take a look at my life, I'm a lot like you...

The old man made the walk every evening I was there. I never saw where he came from and I never found out if he was a local, or like me, a tourist. His walk passed directly by my van on his way down to the beach and into the water. We usually exchanged pleasant nods, no doubt due to the language barrier, which was for me a subtle recognition from one fly angler to another. Nothing more needed to be said on either end. He represented his era with a fiberglass rod, Pfleuger Medalist, neoprene waders, an old-fashioned vest, and a hat that had seen plenty of sun and rain in its lifetime. The gear was simplistic, well worn, and honed to the specific task at hand. From his perspective, he found me tinkering with my spey rods, changing out shooting heads, tying flies, or gearing up the single hander for a striper session. The exorbitant nature of my equipment, and its volume, stood in complete contrast to the old timer's approach. I usually felt a slight sensation of embarrassment as I overthought and complicated the most simplistic of fly fishing pursuits...the swung fly. 

One evening while tying another unneeded fly in the van, I saw the old man pass by out of the corner of my eye. I didn't think much of him and his evening session until I peered outside. The sea was calm from the slack tide and the scant amount of the wind. Anticipating a nice sunset, I grabbed my camera and made my way out onto the jetty. Over the next hour, I watched his four count rhythm as he slowly worked all of the water in the area. With each passing minute the horizon morphed into shades of purple, red, orange, and yellow as the fading light passed down below the angler. 

The moment gave me ample time to reflect on where I was at in life. I contemplated my fortunate encounter with the Atlantic Salmon I landed the day before and my misfortune at getting stranded with my van deep on a muddy backroad. Pondering deeper brought me to my life status: single and not owning a home at the age of 38. I contemplated whether or not I was doing it right or wrong. Societal pressure and the weight of norms have always lingered in the back of my mind. The old man living out his life with the backdrop of a setting sun made a wry smile spread across my face as I realized that I was exactly where I needed to be.

The old man seemed locked into the task at hand except for one brief moment where he stopped fishing, paused, and took in the show provided by mother nature. I couldn't help speculating about his personal story and what brought him to this particular moment in time. His silhouette reminded me of the ending of A River Runs Through It. Rather than casting within the half light of the canyon of the Big Blackfoot River in Montana, the old man did the same in the fading light of Gulf of the St. Lawrence. He continued fishing well past dark. I made my way back to the van to upload the images onto my computer and wait for him to pass by my van on his walk out. I wanted to talk to him, get his contact information, and share the images I took of his session, but I never saw him again. The moment faded and now exists only in image and memory...

"Now, nearly all those I loved and did not understand in my youth are dead...even Jessie. But, I still reach out to them. Of course, now I'm too old to be much of a fisherman. And now I usually fish the big waters alone...although some friends think I shouldn't. But, when I am alone in the half-light of the canyon all existence seems to fade to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot river and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. Eventually, all things merge into one and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. And some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words and some of the words are theirs. 

I am haunted by waters..."