Return to Childhood

I always say that every trip is an excuse to fish. This was one trip that we knew we would someday make, but when it came, we wished it had not come so soon.

Our family gathered on October 28, 2017 in Smithfield, Utah, to bury our dad in the town that filled the memories of our childhood during our frequent vacations to visit grandparents. It was on those trips that I have my earliest memories of fishing with Dad. At reservoirs in southeastern Idaho with really old relatives, chumming with cans of corn, sitting in lawn chairs, and waiting for the tip of the rod propped up on the forked stick to start bouncing when the fat rainbow grabbed the worm and marshmallow on the other end of the line. Crawling through brush and hanging tightly to Dad's leg in the rushing torrent of the streams running down from the mountains to the east. Dad dipping worms behind the rocks, then handing the rod to me or Rob (or a sister) to bring in the wiggling trout. As we grew older and the torrential streams became tumbling brooks, we graduated from worms to flies, from tiny creeks to the somewhat larger rivers. Almost always finding fish. Always loving the time together.

Marianne (our sister) and Dad at Smithfield Creek

As the time came to make the plans for the burial service, Rob, Tom, and I talked of visiting these streams that had been such a big part of our childhood memories. Tom had a family commitment, but Rob and I determined to visit a couple creeks in the afternoon following the graveside service. I bought my license online the day before leaving, and found out Utah only offers a minimum of a 3-day license. At first I was bothered by the extra cost, but then realized if I left early enough, I could fish Friday evening too and visit another of our favorite streams. So Mom and I left early, getting to my cousin's in Logan about 4:10 pm. By 4:35, I was rigged up and heading up the Logan River, stopping near Red Banks. Alone on the stream, the sunny, fall evening and the crystal clear water tumbling over the boulders made for a perfect respite from the challenges of the last few months. I found ample numbers of beautiful trout, then cried that night with the realization that for the first time I couldn't call Dad and give him a report from my trip.

Logan River cutthroat

Matching brown

The next day dawned clear and calm, but chilly. Family and friends gathered at the cemetery, a juxtaposition of joy and grief, joy from reunion with family we had not seen in many years, grief at our temporary separation from Dad. After the service and a luncheon at the home of one of Mom's childhood friends, Rob and I changed and slipped out to the nearby Summit Creek (or Smithfield Creek as we always called it growing up). Driving up the canyon, areas we had fished as kids were now lined with homes, backyards abutting the creek. But we soon reached a brushy stretch of creek next to the road, I am sure one where we had fished with Dad as children. Rob and I parked at the side of the road, walked downstream, and entered the stream.

Rob entering the creek

How could this tiny stream have been the fear-inspiring torrent of my childhood? But shin deep on me now would be a fearful thigh-deep on a young child, and I saw in my grasping Dad's leg while wading across the creek as a child, a metaphor for the strength a parent brings to their children as they help them pass through the experiences of life that can at times seem challenging and overwhelming, a strength that I must now find fully on my own.

Me, crossing Smithfield Creek (it is a little smaller late in the fall when we fished it this time)

Taking turns tossing our flies into the likely looking pockets, we wondered if there were still fish here. So much had changed in the fifty years since we had been those young children fishing with our dad. But shortly after entering the stream, a small rainbow darted out and grabbed Rob's renegade. A short time later, a nicer one grabbed my elk hair caddis. All was going to be OK.

There are still fish here!

A beautiful rainbow on the EHC

We continued up the stream, laughing with joy at each fish we brought to hand, like those little brothers years before. We may no longer need Dad's strong leg to grasp onto as we wade through the streams, but we know it will always be there for us as we wade through the challenges of life that remain ahead of us. His memory, his example, his love, will always be there for us to grasp and hold on to, even though he may be gone. Love you Dad! 

At High Creek, the second memory we visited