A LETTER FROM FATHER FELIM McALLISTER TO BISHOP HARRY HACKLE
CONFESSIONAL LETTER
TO BISHOP HARRY HACKLE
FROM FATHER FELIM McALLISTER
1 June 2000
Dear Bishop Hackle:
According to the ancient truism, confession is good for the soul. Therefore, my dear bishop, since you are so intimately acquainted with the dark side--with the symbiotic relationship between heresy and infidelity--I come to you, fully persuaded of gaining a sympathetic hearing.
As you well know, I am a fly fisherman. The whole world, or at least my church, has written me off as an idolatrous aficionado of cane, fur and feathers. The spectacle of me with a spinning rod in hand, chucking crawlers to chunky trout, would be shocking indeed. However, conscience compels me to confess a very recent indulgence in this most horrid abomination. Imagine me, the champion of angling orthodoxy, succumbing to the allurement of infidelity. I have become a heretic, a defector from the faith once delivered to all fly fishermen. Alas, what have I done? The guilt, oh the guilt!
One of my parishioners, a man new to Massachusetts, new to my congregation and new to fishing, asked if I would show him a spot where he might secure the services of several brookies, browns and rainbows. I immediately thought of the Swift River, specifically the over-stocked stretch of water between Cady Lane and the first dam in Bondsville. The plan was to steadfastly canoe upstream for some distance and then drift-fish all the way down to the dam, picking up the risers as we saw them. A pretty decent plan, I thought, until Scott sheepishly indicated that he was seriously unprepared to venture into fly fishing and would prefer to cast nightcrawlers with a spinning rod instead. I was dismayed almost to despair.
Through no fault of my own, I was immediately confronted with an ethical problem of monumental proportions. Should I impose my personal convictions upon the situation by requiring the exclusive use of the fly rod? Should I capitulate by caving in to the contemptible practice of fishing the lowly nightcrawler? Or should I compromise by simply suggesting that we cast our respective rods of choice? Without question, compromise would have been the wisest solution to my dilemma. Naturally, capitulation won the day. Old memories of instant success with a wiggling worm seduced me quite soundly.
On the appointed day Scott and I drove to the Swift, unloaded the car, loaded the canoe, lit a cigar, and shoved off. As we paddled upstream the dreadful determination to exterminate a few of the the river's finned inhabitants grew dramatically with every synchronized stroke. We spoke of nothing else.
The trout betrayed their whereabouts with rises too numerous to count They were hungry and hardly selective; I was pretty sure the limit would be ours for the taking. One cast--night crawler only on a number 10 howok, no splitshot for weight--and my suspicion was confirmed. A rainbow, a very large rainbow, suddenly ignored the mayflies on the surface and slammed my crawler as if it were his last meal. And it was.
Scott picked up two brookies, lost a behemoth brown, and chattered endlessly about the big one that got away--only this was no fish tale. Another cast or two and I took an ill-tempered landlock, totally bent upon destroying my tackle. Salmon are not stocked in the Swift, so he must have washed over the Windsor Dam spillway early in the spring. The landlock was released and, for that matter, several more rainbows were let off the hook as well.
Scott and I traded cigars; I gave him a La Fontana and he gave me a Romeo Y Julieta. We talked tobacco for awhile, then switched to theology for awhile longer, and during our discussion I sensed a kindred spirit in this man. Suddenly my friend's rod doubled, his reel started to sing, and he had his hands full with a huge hold-over rainbow that eventually jumped its way right into our canoe! We laughed hysterically, and praised the Lord for his strange providence.
As I began to impale another nightcrawler with my hook, it dawned on me that we were having fun, that I was having fun. Then, I thought of all the trout I had caught, none of them with a fly rod, and I felt bad. There was no sportsmanship in the whole affair. I mean, I caught these poor fish on a a big fat worm, the segmented seductress from hell! What skill is there in that, I ask you?
I am rambling, I know. Forgive me. However, because you are such a committed fly fisherman yourself I knew I could count on you to absolve my iniquity, so to speak. I will never take another trout on live bait as long as I live. I swear it.
Sincerely,
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�copyright 2000, Perry Fuller
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