It has been my blessing for more than twenty-six years to have been married to a fly-fisherman. It was very nice the way the Creator of the Universe worked it out, too: our first three and a half years together were spent in Berlin, Germany. We enjoyed our stay there immensely, and one of the reasons probably was there was no trout fishing in Berlin. Perry did buy his Orvis cane rod while in Berlin, but he couldn't spend entire days on a stream contemplating the advantages of dry flies over wet or thinking of ways he could convince me he really did need another seven and a half foot, five-weight rod. As a result, I was blissfully ignorant during those years of how complete a fanatic my sweetie would become.
First, as I say, there was the Orvis Battenkill rod. I knew nothing about fly fishing or cane, but even then I could tell there was something incredibly special about that piece of equipment. I loved the way it felt, as though it were alive, and I held it in high esteem among our few belongings. Even in our direst financial straits, I never allowed him to sell it.
Perhaps I should have, though, for it was followed by two graphite rods, then three fiberglass rods, a custom cane built to his specifications, another fiberglass rod, plus more reels for the rods, more lines, more leaders, umpteen kazillion flies (and some of them downright scary looking). . . Suddenly, it seemed, almost before I realized it, I knew the road to Orvis and a fine fly shop in Maine by heart. I found myself spending great amounts of time cutting old leaders from my vacuum beater-brush, and pulling lost flies out of the bottoms of my poor feet.
I have had the heck scared out of me by a hellgrammite, I was once almost carried away bodily by mosquitoes, and I have had to dig out a tick I got while keeping my husband company as he fished. I have been astonished by great blue herons taking off from their wading and I have nodded respectfully to the old owl that hangs around one of our favorite streams. I have seen dragonflies in metallic blue-green, cardinals in red, and king-fishers in buff and grey. We once spent nearly half an hour watching a musk-rat cut plants for food and take them into her nest while the baby ran back and forth on the bank, then joined her as they went inside, their work finished for the day. All this while my sweetheart was fly fishing.
Most times, though, I let Perry go alone. He leaves the house in a pair of old work pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt that badly needs ironed.
"Straight out of the pages of the Orvis catalog," I tease.
"Well," he says, patting his breast pocket to see if he has everything, "I'm ready to go."
"Okay, honey," I say. We hug and kiss. "Have fun, say hello to the beavers for me." These particular beavers have no fear and one once charged him, veering off at the last minute.
"I will. Want me to bring home a trout?"
I think it over for a millisecond. "Nah."
He leaves and I read or take a nap. He comes back. He has spent time in prayer, he has pursued the mighty trout, and he has probably smoked a bodaciously stinkin' cigar to keep the mosquitoes away. When he returns he is so much more himself. I know I could never give him a bad time about going fishing.
This is my gift to the man I love, that he be able to use a fine cane rod to fish for wily brookies, browns and rainbows in calming waters. Aside from my own love and affection, that's one of the best things I can give.
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