Old Man

 “Don’t worry about them. They won’t bother us,” remarked Todd, a native Albertan and a good friend who didn’t even need to look away from the nymphing rig he was tying to know I was a little uneasy about the free-range cattle that were inching closer to us as we were setting up alongside his Tacoma. One cow in particular, large and jet-black, was ahead of the rest and aggressively mooing at us every thirty seconds, its ear tag dangling in the wind, bringing back a memory of my previous visit to Alberta. 

Two years prior, as Todd and I were crossing pasture land (with permission, of course) a small drove of cattle began to form circular ranks, pushing their young to the inside as we passed. I asked Todd what they were up to and he coolly remarked, “They’re getting in a defensive position. They probably think we’re bears.” 

The moo of the jet-black cow brought me back to the present and after a few more minutes of its clockwork bellowing, Todd set his rod against the tailgate, walked to within ten-feet of the beast and casually said, “Shoo. No treats for you.”

The cow didn’t budge, Todd shrugged his shoulders, and we went back to work. In the few minutes we were setting up the clouds had rolled in and the wind picked up, blowing flies and tippet across the tailgate. Everything portended rain and I thought about my rain jacket balled up in a suitcase back at the AirBnB, which was no less than a hundred miles away at this point. 

“My third trip to Alberta and I still haven’t learned my lesson about the unpredictable nature of mountain weather,” I thought. I hadn’t seen the AirBnB, a shower, a fresh change of clothes, or a tooth brush in about thirty-six hours, having slept the previous night on Todd’s couch after a day of drifting the Bow River followed by an early evening of hiking for bull trout in Kananaskis Country. At this point, we were at our second river of the day and the fifth river in the past two days with a stillwater dry fly outing planned for the following morning.

Todd sensed rain as well and proceeded to rummage around in the back seat of the pickup, finding two rain jackets. He then came over to my side of the truck and handed one to me, warning that it had seen a few thorns and branches in its time and might not be entirely waterproof. It was better than nothing and I thanked him as I put it on. The rain began as we locked up the truck; it was one of those sideways rains carried by the wind.

When we walked downhill to the water I thought about how fitting it was that we were fishing the Old Man River. Having severely lacerated my foot in a shark fishing mishap the month before, I was walking slowly with a limp, still favoring my left foot. Also, the previous day’s adventures had left Todd with a sore hip that slowed him down and left me with slices in both heels from brand-new wet-wading shoes the manufacturer insisted could be worn without socks and which I had no choice but to wear again to the Old Man. As we approached the river I saw it was a fast-moving, fairly wide section of water with numerous drop-offs into deep pools intermingled with large rock structure throughout. The bank from which we approached had a manageable incline, but the opposite bank was a steep cliff wall at least a hundred-feet high where the river had cut through the rolling hillside as it went down along a wide bend.

The particular section of the Old Man we were fishing held mostly cutthroat and bull trout, so we each carried a nymphing rod but Todd also brought an 8-weight rigged with a heavy streamer for the sections that looked good for bulls. Todd got into a few cutties quickly while I was still trying to shake off the skunk from the previous evening’s hike for bull trout and our early morning small-stream cutthroat session, during which I missed a few takes on a hopper. After about an hour with no action I had to remind myself that this was Todd’s home water and I was fishing out of my comfort zone with my 9-foot 5-weight and an indicator rig instead of my usual 10-foot 3-weight Euro setup. 

After another hour of alternating between nymphing for cutties and chucking streamers for bulls with only a quick follow from a wary bull trout, Todd decided we needed to change things up and suggested we walk downstream to a point where we could cross the river and then work our way upstream along the cliff wall to fish a deep section he knew of with multiple ledges: prime bull trout water. 

As we walked downstream and crossed the river, the wind and rain picked up. When we reached the cliff wall on the opposite bank Todd said we had to climb about twenty-feet up from the river and he pointed to a ledge that jutted out from the wall where we could stand and walk for a distance to get to the next fishable section. 

Todd led the way and when we came to the ledge it was clear that both hands were needed, so he passed me his rods, climbed up, and then took all three rods so I could also climb up unhindered. After handing off the fly rods I reached up, placed both hands on the ledge, and firmly planted my right foot on a small chunk of protruding stone to push up to the ledge. Shortly after putting all of my weight on the foothold, it crumbled and fell out from under me. At that point I had my elbows and hands firmly planted on the ledge and the instant I felt the weightlessness under my feet I used the momentum from the initial swing of my dangling legs to push up using only my upper-body strength. While struggling up I felt a pop and a tear in my left shoulder and before sliding down to what would have likely been a non-fatal but definitely vacation-ending fall, Todd grabbed me under the arm and hoisted me up the rest of the way. 

Hunched over on the ledge, I quickly felt my shoulder pop back into place. With the tearing sensation fresh in my mind and the pain still very acute, my first words were, “I just messed up my casting arm,” even before thanking Todd for saving me. Without another thought of what had just happened I held my 5-weight and went through casting motions to make sure my arm could still function by keeping my shoulder stationary, using only my wrist and forearm to cast. After a few successful attempts to assure myself, we were ready to move on. 

As we walked along the ledge, Todd remarked that most of the cliff wall was sandstone and I shouldn’t have put all of my weight on it, especially in the rain. He followed it with “I guess I should have mentioned that beforehand.” I just laughed and continued on as the wind and rain relentlessly beat at us. 

When we approached the point of the ledge where we could proceed down to the water, a sizable chunk of the sandstone cliff wall crumbled and crashed into the river about thirty yards behind us. At that moment I looked directly up at the outward-jutting wall looming over our heads, resigning myself to the possibility that it could be lights-out at any time. 

We both laboriously re-entered the river and Todd handed me the 8-weight, pointed to the underwater ledge, and instructed me on fly placement and presentation for this particular spot. After a few casts the pain in my shoulder was spreading to my forearm and wrist and I had to hand the rod over, telling Todd to have a go at the bull trout we knew were in there. On his first cast he coaxed a colorful bull out from under the ledge but it wouldn’t take the streamer. As the fly hit the water on his next cast, another chunk of sandstone crumbled and crashed into the river, much closer than the previous one. I also noticed that the rain was becoming more intense and had soaked through my jacket, causing me to shiver with each cold gust of wind.

As I stood there clutching the nymphing rods in intense pain from shoulder-to-foot, soaked and shivering from the rain and the wind, and watching Todd bomb out casts into the deep pool while clearly favoring his hip, a thought entered my mind: “We’re insane and we’re probably going to die doing this someday.”

For some that might be a wake-up call to step back, think about their priorities, re-assess the role fly fishing plays in their lives, and take it slower and easier going forward, but that’s just not me. In that moment a beaming grin shaped itself in spite of my stoic, weather-beaten facade and a single tear, imperceptible in the rain, ran down my cheek, with both stemming from the overwhelming joy I felt at having found something in life I loved so unconditionally and with so much passion that nothing would ever stop me from doing it to the fullest. While I didn’t land a single trout and my shoulder was left in significantly bad shape for a few months, I consider it one of my most successful days on the water in that it tested my commitment and resolve to pursue what I love in life with the assurance that if I remain committed to fly fishing it will continue to inspire, motivate, and heal me for as long as I can do it. Accompanying my joy at having fly fishing in my life was a sense of sympathy for those who don’t have something that, as a great woman has described it, sets their soul on fire. However, where there is joy and sympathy in the world, there is always hope that they too will find their way.