Ghost Fish (Part 6 of a Story for My Son)

Me, in a boat, obviously still
excited after almost stepping on a
sleeping 1,000-pound class brown (grizzly)
bear on Admiralty Island, Alaska

Conclusion

By Paul Clark (aka motomynd)

On a trip to Canada, in August 2000, I stopped to fly-fish a small stream while my hiking companions trekked back to camp. I was catching and releasing trout on a Royal Wulff dry fly when what looked to be maybe a 350-pound grizzly materialized out of the brush and stood less than 20 feet away, just across the narrow creek. We had been in the area several days without seeing any sign of black or grizzly bears, so I had carelessly left my can of bear pepper spray in my backpack, which was leaning against a tree several strides behind me. The bear could get to me before I could get to the pack, so I tried to stay calm and develop a plan. As luck would have it, I had just made a cast when the bear showed up, and a trout struck the fly, hooked itself, and jumped into the air. The bear became animated and jumped into the creek, same as the Chesapeake Bay Retrievers I used to raise would dive in and try to land fish for me. With the bear now barely 10 feet away, and its wet hair clinging to its ribs, I noticed it had a surprisingly rangy build: it looked and acted hungry. I landed the trout and heaved it across the creek; the bear spun, clambered back up the far bank, pounced on the flopping fish, and quickly devoured it.
    So now I had a plan. I spent the next 20 minutes or so catching trout and throwing them to a grizzly that could just as well have eaten me—until the bear vanished as quietly and mysteriously as it had first appeared. With the bear gone, my pulse descending from the stratosphere, and one of the most amazing outdoors moments anyone could hope for wrapping up on a winning note, all I could think was, “damn, I wish Atlantic salmon would hit a fly like these trout.” Forty years of my life in microcosm: jaded, yes.
    I think especially hard and deep about moments unappreciated as I write this at well past midnight, in my study, in the bedroom where I slept as a child. It is the house where I grew up, from toddler to college, which I for some strange reason bought on a whim after my mother died—even though I lived out of state at the time and doubted I would ever return to a 150-year-old house I didn’t exactly cherish while I was being raised in it. I didn’t have a plan, but I had a vague idea to tear down the house and set aside the property as the only wooded refuge in the area for birds, deer, and other wildlife.
    Unlike water, time doesn’t mend perfectly, but it apparently repairs what we didn’t even know was broken.
    I’m retired, and I live in the old house with my much younger wife and our four-year-old son. And we are slowly resurrecting the very house I formerly hoped would cave in so I wouldn’t have to pay to bulldoze it. Even more important than salvaging the house I grew up in, I’m trying to instill in my son a sense of place, the importance of here and now, that I didn’t grow up with.
    In less than six months here, we’ve built a quarter-mile running trail—built it the hard way, stride for stride together, with me arduously pushing one wheelbarrow load of cedar mulch after another as my son chose the exact route he wanted the path to follow. Caving to his requests, we’ve “camped out” in the backyard, at one point sleeping more than 100 nights in a row in a tent by our pond, with me going to sleep every night wondering why I never could get my parents to sleep even one night in a tent in that yard. We have watched through the tent netting as birds and deer came to the pond at first light, less than 15 feet from where we lay, trying not to blink, and we have put more than 200 miles on the cedar path, running stride for stride as we play chase and put in some fairly rigorous laps. Amazingly, between backyard work and workouts, and almost daily trips to local parks, we have also found time to at least get the house back to livable—if not yet back to the point of hosting family and friends.
    The wheel of time has taken a turn Upstate too: Atlantic salmon are back! Thanks to local initiative and a desire to diversify the fishery, the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation has rolled back some of its Pacific salmon efforts and actively rebuilt the Atlantic salmon population. Several online videos show people successfully fly-fishing for Atlantic salmon in Grindstone Creek, where I hopelessly cast for them so many times, and in the Salmon River, where I possibly caught and released one that night so long ago.
    Which means I have reason to go back. Not just to drift a high-floating dry fly at sunset—this time with at least a slim chance of catching the spiritual offspring of ghost fish—but to show my son the place our family came from. Of course, that is after I finish instilling in him the importance of being fully connected to where he and his family live now.

Copyright © 2020 by Paul Clark