The South Fork of the Provo
Father’s Day 2011-- of course we’re going fishing. Yes it’s raining in steady, constant sheets. No it doesn’t stop us, especially Greg; he’s a pretty hardcore fisherman. He’s the guy in the photos. I think part of what makes him a good fisherman is his determination to catch fish, and just stay with it. I can’t say how many times I have been fishing with him and the sun is a slice of glowing orange sinking into the horizon, and he’s wading up to his belt tying on a new dry, eking all he can out of the day to get one more fish.
But for me this river contains so much more for the than just this one day. This stream forces me to go down Memory River—sorry. Driving up the road takes me back to childhood, driving home in the back of Jimmy’s Toyota Celica with wet Levi’s on, after spending the whole day casting a spinner. The biggest obstacle I faced on the river then, wasn’t from fish; it was to convince my cousin Jimmy and my brother Pete to let me tag along with them. They were part of the big guys club, and what little kid doesn’t want to go with the big kids? Equally what big kid wants a tag-a-long? We had a lot of cousins, and all of them were older than me except one— Jimmy’s little brother David. But ultimately I think I played it right and I got included. I was only two years younger than Pete and four years younger than Jimmy. David “The Lizard King” was three years younger than me—ouch.
There is one crucial bit of information I need to add here: Pete and Jimmy loved to fish, but they loved to smoke even more. They would steal a pack of Kent cigarettes from our grandpa’s storehouse out in his shed, and smoke their lungs out. Grandpa would buy them in cartons, and once a carton was open, how would he notice a pack missing here or there? There was no better place to enjoy a pack of pilfered smokes than on a river bank. How our parents did not know is beyond me. Smoking was serious taboo, and if you did it, you sure as hell did not want to get caught!
They both knew that I was aware of them smoking, but they had to keep up the pretense; and they could not bring me with them, and smoke in peace. I just had to find the right way to play it. I just came out with it one day, “I know you guys smoke, I don’t care, I just want to come with you,” the statement hung in the air.
Getting your ass kicked by Jimmy came in two techniques: One was the big right hand held up high, just held up high—most of the time it didn’t even come down on you, it was just held above your head in a menacing taunt. He absolutely enjoyed floating his big paw above your head. Try to picture a sort of “Hail Hitler” posture, and you’ve got the general image. Technique number two: pull your ear—hard. Of the two the open hand of pain was far worse. Pete preferred the mental torture. Simply put, he messed with your head “Look I don’t care, I won’t tell, I just want to come,” I pleaded. Jimmy’s hand floated. I was in complete shock at how quick the verdict came; I was all geared up for it to get ugly. They just looked at each other for a second then said, “Okay let’s go.”
Looking back it was some of the best times I had as a kid. I always had so much fun with them. I am grateful they included me; they were wild, crazy and exciting; and they taught me a lot about fishing. At 16 they got cars, and we went everywhere, and fishing was number one on the list. It’s weird, but they both had Toyota Celica’s; Jimmy had a bright orange one, and Pete had a red one. They were rear wheel drive, but we would go up hills that to this day I have no idea how we made it. We loved exploring new rivers, and places to camp. We would travel down dirt roads for miles and miles, and 9 times out of 10 we would find ourselves at a rocky, steep four wheel drive road. Jimmy got off on Pete and I saying, “No Jimmy turn around, it’s way too much, we can’t do it.” This was like a mantra, a routine we repeated over and over. The argument would end with Jimmy revving his motor up; winding the rpm’s up to the red line, jamming the stick shift from first to second. He would look straight ahead, and not say a word, then giving it hell, literally bounding from rock to rock, until we reached the top. I honestly can’t remember a time when we did not get to the top of every hill.
Why do fishermen love to go back in the past, be nostalgic, sentimental, and tell about their selected memories, memories that are twisted and bent into a shape that fits their fancy? I think it’s about remembering the points that made you happy, and the feelings that defined you. Who has bad memories of fishing, or of exploring the woods? Think about it, if you find a sweet river or whatever, you keep going back to it over and over again, and that’s what you remember. The problem with taking pictures of the experience is that it makes it harder to bend the truth. But we all know that photos never really show the length or girth of a fish. They sure as hell don’t show the might or power a fish has. I think that’s why I tired of taking those “catch of the day” pictures—you know the ones where you are holding the fish up.
Writing these memories down makes me think about what it would be like to go fishing with them now. David lives in Phoenix, and I rarely see him; although we talk all the time on our morning commute to work. At least once a month I bring up the idea of meeting half way between his house and mine and doing a couple day fishing trip. We did fish holy water together once as adults. I have not seen Jimmy in years, I think the last time I saw him was at his dad’s funeral about 3 years ago. My brother Pete lives in Portland, and he is really busy. Years ago Jimmy rolled his Celica, and I blew the motor in Pete’s car once I got my license. Grandma and Grandpa have both died, and the shed has been torn down. I’m pretty sure they don’t even make Kent cigarettes anymore; and everyone kicked the habit years ago anyhow. All the same I should call them and say, “let’s go fishing,” who knows maybe they will?
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