FlyAnglers.org

"I don't need a sign. You start thinking about these trips and that Sam for a month before you go." Mary was in her old blue bathrobe, fixing breakfast. When they first got married, 5 years ago, George had told her he could get his own breakfast but she said she liked doing for him and wouldn't hear of his leaving the house for the day out fishing without her being able to spend some time with him.

George thought once again how lucky he had been ... still was for that matter ... to have found Mary at his age. "Mind you," George thought, "I'm not old, 60 isn't old these days." Still, he was constantly amazed at how much he loved her. He reached out and took her hand, "I love you," he said with a grin.

"None of that, now! You've got to get going or you'll be later than usual." She said grinning back. "And don't forget your lunch like you did last year."

"I'll be fine, stop fussing" George teased.

"Hmph!" Mary faked being mad but he knew she enjoyed their banter as much as he did.

"What will you be doing today, while I'm off being irresponsible?"

"Sue and I will be shopping for Karen's birthday present". Sue was Mary's daughter from her first marriage. A great girl, and Karen, Sue's daughter turned 15 next week.

"Another assault on Kmart?"

"You have no idea!"

George laughed out loud at that. Mary was always telling him that when it came to women shopping together, or women in general for that matter. He had to agree though, women were alien territory.

"I must be the most ignorant man in the world! Give us a hug, and I'll get out of your hair and you can plot your strategy with Sue"

"Get off with you" Mary laughed back up at him.

He put his vest and waders in the station wagon, loading his 3wt, no sense in anything bigger, and he had not succumbed yet to the "as light as they make" snobbery. Waving goodbye to Mary, he headed out for the hour's drive.

On the way he thought about how he had met Sam all those years ago, right on Simpson's Creek at the 'lunch log'. He smiled when he thought about that meeting. It was his first time on Simpson's Creek. He had found the creek on a topographical map, saw it crossed state highway 39, and thought it looked promising. When he arrived, he had seen a pick-up parked next to the bridge and hoped it was a deer hunter doing some scouting before the season. George really thought it would be another fisherman, but wanted an excuse to not have to drive around looking for another place.

He had been working his way upstream from the bridge on since 9:00. It had been a slow morning with only a half dozen small brook trout taking his #16 Adams. It didn't bother him much because Simpson's was such a beautiful little stream. Nestled in a mountain valley, it had a good gravelly bottom with the occasional deep hole and good bank-side vegetation to keep the sediment down.

He was looking for a place to have lunch when he saw another man sitting on a big cottonwood log, figured he belonged to the pick-up and knew why catching had been slow even if the fishing was good. The man was a good 10 years older than George, wore a slouch hat, and George could see a lovely bamboo rod leaning against the log. And so it began. He introduced himself as "Sam, Sam Beckett, with two t's, part-time forest ranger, full-time fisherman". Sam, it turned out lived in the opposite direction and had been fishing Simpson's Creek only a year longer than George. "As nice a piece of water as you could want" was Sam's opinion and George had to agree.

George came back the next year, and there was the pick-up parked by the bridge and Sam was again waiting on that cottonwood log. After that it became an annual meeting even though they never openly made it official. Their lives only crossed on that Saturday but, over the years, George learned a bit about Sam's other life, the life away from Simpson's Creek. He had worked for the Forest Service ever since graduating from college in 1965, married and had two sons and a daughter. Sam had lost his wife to breast cancer five years ago. "Good thing the kids are grown," Sam told him, "Don't think I could raise a youngster on my own." And George filled Sam in on his 'away life' too. His degree in engineering and that he ran his own company.

George almost missed one year when his first marriage broke up but he was glad now he had made the effort. No, they didn't know many of the details of each other's lives, George didn't even know the names of Sam's kids. That was OK though, because as Sam said, "We're here to fish, not gossip".

And fish they did. They would work upstream together in the afternoon,sometimes spotting for each other but often as not 'hole hopping' as Sam called it. Each fishing a hole alone while the other fished the next and then walking ahead. Why, only last year, George had caught that 9" monster. Sam had said "I know they don't naturally belong here, are overpopulated and stunted but this is why I fish for brookies this time of year." The fish was the most beautiful thing George had ever seen. A deep rich green with flaming markings, a male brook trout in full spawning colors.

Before he knew it, George was pulling over at he bridge, and sure enough, there was Sam's old pickup sitting there like a stern school teacher, admonishing him for being late again.

George rigged up with the #16 Adams he always started with. He could guess what Sam would be using, a #18 CDC emerger. Lord, how they had become predictable. The stream looked good. The springs in the headwaters kept a good flow even in dry years. George took a lovely 6 incher from the first riffle and steadily worked his way up. For a change, George was catching fish at almost every hole. Sam had the habit of fishing only half the holes up to the lunch log to leave something for George "to play with". Trouble was, Sam never fished the same holes twice in a row, so George had to fish every hole. Sam said it helped "build character". George smiled to himself, thinking how he was going to give Sam a hard time about how getting on the river later in the morning could be the best strategy.

As he approached the 'lunch log', George noticed it wasn't Sam but a much younger man. The young man got up and said "You must be George". George nodded,. "My name is Steve Beckett. Sam was my father." Then he paused and took a beep breath. George knew what was coming and said it for him "Sam died."

A nod, "Two months ago."

George sat down, not trusting his legs.

"Dad never mentioned your last name, so we couldn't tell you. He took us fishing all over but never here and made us promise not to come here on our own until after he died. When we asked him why, he just said, You'll understand when you're older.'"

George just stared at the ground. After a minute the young man continued, "Dad left this to you, said in his Will to give it to you right here" When George looked up, Steve was holding out a rod tube. "It's the Payne he always used here. He said to tell you "Bamboo is a proper rod for the wild square-tails, not that modern piece of nonsense".

"I love to flyfish myself," Steve said to fill in George's silence. "I'd be honored if you'd fish with me for the rest of the day. Maybe we could meet here like you and Dad did."

George just looked at the unlined face and said, "Thanks, but no, I'll be headed home now and I won't be back next year."

George got up to leave and Steve opened his mouth to say something, but George just held up his hand....."You'll understand when you're older."