Bronco

PLANTING THE SEED

Every so often someone will ask me when the seed was planted that developed into my passion for fly fishing for trout.

Looking back, I would have to trace it to a summer day during the mid-1950s in Northeastern Pennsylvania. I was maybe 5 or 6 years old at the time and I was with my Grandfather Jerry Lindenmuth. Jerry was a coal miner by trade, but his true passion was fly fishing for trout in small secluded streams.

It was a hot summer afternoon in late June or early July. I was so excited! We drove several miles outside of the small, rural town where my grandparents lived. The 1952 Chevy coupe that Jerry drove was black; it was hot inside even with the windows down. We pulled off the side of the gravel road and parked at a place Jerry called the Beaver Dams ... though I don’t ever recall ever seeing any beaver dams. We walked into some dense woods. The first thing I noticed was how cool the air temperature felt, then the damp, musty smell. The creek was small, easily jumped across, lazily meandering through the woods. Later on, I learned that the creek originates further upstream and is the headwaters of the Little Catawissa. Catawissa is an Indian word meaning “pure water”.

This was my first time out fishing with Jerry. I wasn’t actually going to fish, just watch and learn. I was entrusted with carrying his fly rod: a nine foot, South Bend, bamboo beauty. Jerry must have grinned and shook his head at the sight of me trying to negotiate my way through the woods.

I watched in amazement as Jerry made one perfect cast after another with that nine foot bamboo rod. He hooked one Brookie after another with ease. I asked him time and again, “How do you do that?” and he would turn, smile and say, “Just watch and learn.” It was the first time I had ever seen anybody fly fishing and I was mesmerized.

As Jerry fished the creek, we gradually worked our way back toward the car. We came to a culvert that passed under the road. The creek ran through it. Jerry stopped and motioned me closer and said, “There is one sitting right in there. You see em?” I looked at the creek’s water disappearing into the dark opening of the culvert and said, “How do you know? I can’t see anything in there.” Again he turned, smiled and said, “Just watch.”

Jerry executed a perfect roll cast dropping the line, leader and tippet right where he wanted and let the fly drift into the dark- ness. No sooner had the fly crossed into the culvert’s shadow, BAM!, a splash and a taut line. Jerry pulled out another Brookie. I looked up at him in amazement and said, “How did you know that trout were there?”

He looked down at me, rubbed the top of my head and said, “I just know and someday, so will you.”

I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. The seed had been planted. I got to fish with Jerry many more times before he passed away. I eventually learned to fly fish and even catch a few trout. Jerry always caught fish. He was the greatest fisherman, in my eyes.

April 2020