Maine Outdoor Journal

I am daydreaming about fishing with Henry. It will be a while before that happens. Right now he’s about as big as bait, but he’s already doubled in size since he was born in the middle of August and by the time he doubles again he’ll be wriggling around and it won’t be safe to leave him unattended on a high perch and he’ll have to do time in those detention centers called cribs and playpens. And not long after that he’ll be able to pick up a stick and wave it back and forth, and isn’t that all it takes to be a fisherman?

Henry is my grandson. His mother, Nicole, and his Aunt Sara – my daughters – never took to fishing and it is their only flaw as far as I can tell. So I had to wait for a new generation to come along and now he’s here. Henry already has a fishing vest from L.L. Bean and a floppy fishing hat, and that’s a start. We’re planning the rest of the outfit. I have a sweet little Loomis six-and-a-half-foot 3-weight that will make a fine starter rod. (Of course he’s a flyfisherman – what did you think?) But before we go flyfishing Henry and I will dig some worms in a manure pile and he will catch his first trout on a baited hook, as I did.

I’ll introduce Henry to flyfishing on the same stream where I first cast a fly. What was so great about that stream for a beginner was that it was full of little brook trout that would gobble up any fly I tied on, and as a beginner I was thrilled with even a six-inch brookie, as Henry will be. He can wade in his shorts and sneakers, as I used to do, or in jeans when the bugs are bad.

Once Henry has the knack, we’ll move on to different waters and bigger fish. I’ll put him in the front seat of my Old Town on a pond with a population of big feisty brookies and there he will discover what a trophy brookie feels like on a 4-weight rod, and he will also learn the meanings of the words patience and persistence. He might even learn the meaning of the word skunked, because while that pond holds a lot of nice trout they don’t always cooperate with an angler.

Of course I’ll take Henry to the camp at Upper Dam and introduce him to the thrill of catching a landlocked salmon on a Doug’s Smelt or a Straw Man. He will experience the company of other anglers, other gruff old coots like me who will tell him stories of fishing, and of great places to fish, and of the fish they have caught and lost. I hope Henry becomes a good storyteller as well as a good angler. And by good angler I mean one who respects the fish and their habitat, one who appreciates the crafts of rod-making and fly-tying and the artistry of the cast and the drag-free drift; an angler who is respectful of other anglers and doesn’t hog the best spots; an angler who knows the value of keeping the silence of wild places and the secrets of good spots.

And maybe one day Henry and I will set up a woods camp and backpack with float tubes into a high mountain pond, or take a driftboat down the West Branch, or even drive north to the Margaree or the Miramichi to cast to the great Atlantic Salmon.

So many fish to catch, so many places to go.

Seemingly infinite time stretches out ahead for you, Henry, but not for me. Don't take too long. I’m waiting for you, Henry. And daydreaming.