“Big Bertha” rattled, creaked and groaned her way up the steep and bumpy, dirt road. Big Bertha, that was the nick name we’d given dad’s old blue VW bus. It was just me and dad, because the big boys were too old to hang with us, the girls had other things to do, and mom refused to be in any car driving that treacherous and forsaken road. The narrow way laced with jagged edges and the steep drop offs were too much for her, but I loved every mile. I felt like I was hanging off the edge of the world.

We were headed to a special place tucked high on top of American Fork Canyon for one reason, to catch fish. It seemed fishing was dad’s only relief in life, which was fine with me ‘cause it was my favorite thing as a kid. He started taking me with him when I was just 5 or 6. Dad was a man of few words, so his instructions were more of a self-serve, watch and learn variety, than a lecture. We’d get to a river and he would go off and catch his limit of fish. If I wanted to learn, I had to follow him closely because he, and the fish, waited for no one.

I watched and observed for years and all I ever caught were snags, branches, rocks and trees, but never a fish. Oh, once, when I was about 7 or 8’ish I had one on my line for a bit, I watched in horror as it flipped off the hook and back into the water. Have you ever wanted something so bad, it hurt? Then you almost get it, I mean you were so close you could see it, and almost touch it, only to be denied? I cried tears over that fish. But things were about to change, I could feel it in my bones.

“Big Bertha” let out a sigh of relief and sputtered to a stop as dad parked in the clearing next to an old spruce. We could hear the creek through the thick brush.

It had rained sometime during the night. It was one of those crazy cloudbursts that left the ground soggy, the creek high and the trees low as the rain balanced delicately on each leaf and needle. It was the kind of storm that left the air so humid and chilled you could see your breath at dawn in the middle of July. Dad swung open the side doors of Big Bertha and there we stood, rigging our poles with the night crawlers we’d caught together, in silence, the night before.

I was so excited I left dad with Big Bertha and hurried down to the creek for first dibs. A thick curtain of willows stood between me and the creek, funny things happen when excited boys walk through curtains of willows heavy with summer rain. By the time I made it to the creek I was soaked from to head to ankles, only my feet were dry.

I’d already spooked the fish from the first hole by the time dad made it down to the creek. I stood on the bank as dad stepped into the water in his black leather dress shoes. Dad always wore black leather dress shoes. We worked our way together downstream. Before long we came to a big log jam creating the perfect fishing hole, the water came in fast and clear on one side, then drifted back around slow and deep into a big pool to the other side.

Then something happened that had never happened before. Dad motioned to me to come down in the water with him. He was letting me have first shot at the hole. So down I went in my ruddy old sneakers and splashed my way right up next to him. I clicked the bail on my little green ZebCo reel and let the current take the fat worm as the line slip through my fingers. Down it went, fast at first then it drifted slow and deep to the far end of the pool. Bam, it felt like electricity coming up through the line, and then it was gone, for a second, then bam again and again. “Give him some line,” said dad! So, I did and bam, bam, bam. “Now set the hook!” So, I did, and it stuck, and the fight was on!

I was happy and scared, excited and thrilled, all at the same time. Dad just barked out orders and I followed. “Keep him in the water as long as you can, bring him up to the bank, don’t let him go back to the logs, he’ll get caught up, bring him up low to the bank, now just roll him up on shore,” and I did and the fight was over! But no one told me the fight was over and as that fish flopped in the grass, I jumped with all my might, throwing my pole on the way down. I tackled that fish with everything I had! It was not going to get away, and it didn’t! I had done it! For years I’d tried and tried, then all of the sudden, just like that, I was the proud catcher of an 11 inch rainbow trout!

Dad and I fished together the rest of the day and I’m proud to say, I caught a total of 3 fish. As usual, when dad caught his limit of 8 it was time to go. Together we sloshed back to Big Bertha completely dry, except for our feet, of course. That was one of the best days of my childhood. Oh, Dad and I made it back there a few more times that summer, and I always managed to catch at least one fish out of that log jam, though none where quite as exciting as that first fish. Before long school started back up, fishing season ended, and winter set in.

I thought I was going to burst with excitement as dad and I chugged back up that old dirt road the following summer. We parked, rigged and headed out just like we’d done many times before. I b-lined it to my favorite fishing spot but as I approached, well, something was wrong. My log jam was gone! The winter was long, the snow piled deep and when spring had finally sprung, the runoff washed away my favorite hole. It was like a part of me was missing and I almost mourned! I thought about throwing my line into the fast current, as if in a desperate attempt to fish in the past. In my mind I could see where it all had been and could easily drop a line. But before I could, Dad said from behind, “Come on, let’s go find a hole”. And we did.

It’s true, the river was a bit different that year, some of the best holes had been washed away. But it seemed for every one that had vanished, another formed to take its place. I just had to find them.

To many times I’ve tried fishing or living in the past. I’ve chased the ghosts of magical moments. Those precious times when everything came together at the same time and place leaving me wanting for more. More; love, laughter, smiles, connection, fish, blue skies, sun, and rainbows. More. But like the river, life is in perpetual motion and nothing stays, or stays the same. As the years flow by, I’ve come to rely on that constant change. I can hardly wait to see what it brings. I’m confident it’ll be more magical moments, I just need to find them.
Copyright © 2019 Ward E Wilson