To the Last Fly

 Despite my longing for solitude, I’ve spent countless hours fishing with friends over the years. Years later, my mind often takes me on a bizarre journey back in time to the exact moment I cherished their company. One such friend was Willie, a simple soul who worked for me spraying trees. Initially, I was taken aback by his speech pattern and his peculiar habit of repeating words in sentences without any context or meaning. However, beneath his quirks lay an honest man with a deep passion for fishing. He knew all the hidden gems where trout sought refuge in the secluded creeks and brackish waters that dotted the south shore.

As a native of the north shore, I was utterly captivated by this newfound world. While I was a decent fly caster, I wasn’t particularly skilled at fishing and aspired to improve. Willie would arrive at work every morning and embark on his assigned route. Occasionally, I would find a large brown trout in the office refrigerator. One day, my curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn’t resist asking him a question. This question led to our first outing on a rainy day when work was slow. That day, I caught my first south shore trout, and I was instantly hooked.

Now, let me clarify that I had been fishing for most of my life. I received my first fly rod at the tender age of 12. I had caught plenty of perch and bluegills and even managed to catch a few odd trout here and there. However, the mysteries of the streams remained elusive to me. While I could swing a streamer and occasionally catch a few fish, the dark art of nymphing was beyond my skill set. Forget about fishing dries; I was utterly confused by the various hatches and expert charts. But as I learned the value of patience, I gradually acquired some of these essential tools.  

In the early nineties, Bill complained of vision problems and headaches. He tried to ignore them, but his boss noticed the low production and wanted to fire him. Bill confided in me that he probably needed to quit and move on. It was easier said than done for a guy in his late fifties with no real skills than doing tree work. So, I suggested that I drive him along his route and do most of the work so that he could at least get paid. After two weeks, Bill said he couldn’t see anymore and driving to work was an issue.

So, he left. We reunited for an evening session at Connetquot, and we both had a fantastic time catching brook trout by the dozens. That evening, he shared some heartbreaking news with me—he had brain cancer and had only a few months to live. He also asked me to keep an eye on his house and gifted me a special token of his affection—his father’s fly rod, complete with the last fly his father ever fished—a dark Hendrickson. I still have that fly in one of my fly boxes as a memory of a decent man.