Gone Feral: Tracking My Dad Through the Wild Read Online Free Page B

arrived. Dad barely looked at him and started setting up nearby.
    “This’ll be tender as an old maid’s first kiss,” he said, choosing a fly from his tackle box, then tying it to the end of the line. He is a master of the colorful metaphor. A few of his best sayings: It was raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock, or It’s as cold as an Eskimo fart.
    The fly in his hand was a commercial fly called a Rooster Tail. I was a little disappointed that he didn’t tie his own like Paul in
A River Runs Through It
. He showed me how to attach the fly to the line, and the hidden hook that would get lodged in the trout’s mouth. I didn’t know about fishing etiquette, so I wasn’t sure we should be so close to another fisherman, but my dad seemed unfazed and showed me how to cast. The rod had a cork handle.
    “It’s not your wrist,” he instructed. “You use your whole arm, so it’s an extension.” He cast to show me. The line swirled in the air, once, twice, and then softly landed, like a real insect might, in the middle of the shallow river. He started reeling in, pulling gently so the fly danced across the top of the water. I liked the motion of fly-fishing, and the idea that we were trying to fool a fish. Dad was wearing a white sweater and a baseball cap; he looked nothing like the man next to us, with his official-seeming fly-fishing khakis and multi-pocketed vest.
    We were fishing for trout—rainbows, cutthroat, or browns.Dad showed me how to cast a few times, whistling and casting, then pulling the line in slowly. He watched the current of the river and aimed for the quiet spots. He was relaxed and spry, utterly in his element. The uneasy feeling I had from the night before disappeared. The man next to us stopped fishing and watched Dad. His athletic casting was a thing of beauty. My heart swelled with pride—he was like Paul in
A
River
Runs Through It
!
    We had only one pole, so after half an hour of instruction, I had my chance to cast. He had made it look easy—but my first cast sent the line into the reeds along the river. Startled, I pulled too hard, and the line snapped. The fly was lost. I felt horrible.
    “It’s OK, babes,” he said when he saw my stricken expression. Looking for a better spot, we picked our way to the edge of the canal. He tied on another fly. He pointed out ripples on the surface of the water and I cast. And cast again. And cast again. I was getting the hang of it but I sensed Dad was bored with my amateur attempts. So I handed him the rod, sat on the grass, and admired Dad in his element.
    The day had gotten hot, so he had taken off his sweater and stood there in a gray T-shirt. He didn’t have a belly like most older men: His stomach was flat, his arms were tanned, and when he pulled the fishing rod back, his biceps bulged. He was wearing Levi’s, and like mine they sagged in the butt. Apparently having no ass is hereditary. His dark eyes were narrowed in concentration, scanning the water for the perfect spot. Every once in a while he would stroke his nose, which had flaring, Napoleonic nostrils. He paced along the river bank with the bandy stance of a cowboy, making cast after cast.
    Dad told me that he had learned to fish in Hillsboro,Oregon, when he was a young boy. When he was three years old, his father, Fred, had packed the family station wagon, drove south, and never came back. Word came that Fred had started a new family in California. Then, a few months later, he died in a fiery car accident. Dad’s mom, my grandmother Jeanne, never quite recovered. She tried to get work as a realtor, but mostly took up drinking and smoking. She foisted her sons—Dad and his older brother—onto her dad, a man everyone called Big George.
    Big George was a drinker himself, and a stern taskmaster. He made the boys sleep on stiff cots to build character. It was a kindly neighbor who took my dad and his older brother, Fred Jr., under his wing and showed them how to fish. Seeking escape