# My Grandfathers River



## pezvela (Nov 3, 2007)

I pulled the truck off the dirt road. The old house and the barn had been gone a long time, but I could still see them in my mind. Over 60 years ago this had been the place of my birth. Now all that remained were cracked concrete pieces and weeds, Everything else was gone except the river.
[attachment=4:3652i2s3]ranch.jpg[/attachment:3652i2s3]*

I took the rod and my vest from the truck and walked towards the river. On both sides of the dusty road grasshoppers rose in flight in great profusion. They were what brought me to the place of my birth, the grasshoppers and the hopper wind.

As I moved to the river my thought were of my grandfather. As a small boy I would join him in the mornings. Breakfast at the large table. Cooked on the wood burning stove. He had milked the cows before I had crawled from bed. Some mornings I would join him in the truck as he delivered the milk, still warm in heavy steel cans, to the creamery in town.

My grandfather didn't fish, but my uncle Bud did and he would take me with him occasionally because I was to small to venture down the bank alone. Bud had a bamboo fly rod the color of burnish gold and an automatic reel. Mine was a hand-me-down steel pole with an old reel spooled with braided line. A snelled hook was looped to the line and two or three small split shot adorned the leader. During those summer days I learned the basics of fishing.
[attachment=3:3652i2s3]jack1.jpg[/attachment:3652i2s3]

August and september were the best times for a boy to learn to fish. Grandfather grew hay for the milk cows and the fields that surrounded the river were infested with grasshoppers, much to his disdain. Unruly fliers, these hoppers, would take to the air like fighter pilots. As the mower approached, with a pair of big horses drawing it ,they would take to the air and the hot wind would sweep them away. Some would not make it across the river and would land clumsily on the moving stream. At the crash landing site awaited hungry trout who fed on the hoppers ravenously.
[attachment=1:3652i2s3]grasshopper.jpg[/attachment:3652i2s3]

When the summer winds blew the hoppers to the river, the trout fed on them almost exclusively. Hatches of caddis and mayflies were unscathed. A single hopper provided as much protein as a hundred caddis and the trout knew this and often threw caution to the wind. Bud and I sought to take advantage of the usually wary trouts gluttony. I gathered the fat insects along the river. Armed with a mason jar I would run in front of Bud gathering the easy ones that were relatively immobile in the mornings cool. My fingers covered with the sticky "tobacco" they spit when they were grasped. When the pint jar was so full that more would escape than I would put in, we would start to fish.

The snelled hook would impale the grasshopper just back of his head. This didn't appear to to injure them mortally, as they would live long enough to fish through several holes unless a trout got them first. Upstream we would go, man and boy, fishing the holes and taking great advantage of the trouts gluttony. As my grandfather urged the team of horses along the field he would lift his old sweat stained cowboy hat from his head and salute the pair of us.

These were the memories of those days a half century and longer, ago. Today I returned to this beautiful river that flowed through my grandfathers ranch to fish and to remember. To fish it, perhaps for the last time, and to hope that as I moved along the river, more of those fleeting moments that revisited my mind would return. I was here to pay homage to the old man who had given me so much in the only way that I knew how.
[attachment=2:3652i2s3]river.jpg[/attachment:3652i2s3]

Although my vest was laden with boxes full of artificial hoppers, some almost works of art, I had chosen to fish like I had as a boy. Live bait fished through the deep holes. Lairs that held sausage fat trout.

Catching the wily hoppers proved far more difficult than I had envisioned. Although the infestation was tremendous, it took me a long time before I had six fat hoppers in a plastic box. Crouched like a waiting lion in the weeds and grasses I clumsily managed these few.

I waded the river slowly. The current pushed at my legs in the deeper runs and threatened to sweep me away. Quietly in ankle deep gravel bars, I approached the hole. Stripping line from the reel, I flipped the hopper, impaled on a light wire hook, into the head of the pool. The hopper floated indignantly until the two tiny split shot drug it underwater and into the mouth of the brown trout. No need to set the hook. The trout did it itself as it turned to return to the depths. At the feel of the steel, the heavy trout shot from the water as if catapulted. I could not hold back the smile of sheer joy.

For 5 or 6 minutes the struggle took place. The trout first tried to find escape in the deep snags that filled the hole, but I managed to keep her away by applying as much pressure as I dared on the leader. When she discovered she couldn't get into the roots and snags, she turned and raced downstream taking advantage of the swift current. I stumbled down the stream after her, determined not to lose her.

The run was only thirty yards long, but swift and deep. She knew her habitat well and it took some effort to get the fish through the run and into the tail water where I managed to get the thrashing fish to the shallows.

I killed the beautiful fish quickly and not without some remorse. As one grows older death is not taken lightly.[attachment=0:3652i2s3]brown r&r.jpg[/attachment:3652i2s3]

The trout was now quiet as I removed the hook and took my camera from the vest. For a long time I set there watching the river and the hen brown trout with her olive and gold coloring. Dark spots with halo of crimson covered her thick sides.

Over the symphony of the moving river I thought I heard my grandfather gently urging the big horses on as he mowed the summer hay in the field nearby. I waved my hat above me and saluted. "Thank you old man, I whispered as i moved up the stream, "Thank you for the trout.....and the river"


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## LOAH (Sep 29, 2007)

YEAH!!!

How wonderful that you were able to revisit old memories in that old familiar place. Excellent story, as expected, and I'm really glad that you were able to catch such a nice fish in the way you remembered.

I bet you felt like a kid again.

Nice job, pez.


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## luv2fsh&hnt (Sep 22, 2007)

A spine tingling tale.Thanks for sharing.


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## wyogoob (Sep 7, 2007)

Nice story and pics.


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## Ryfly (Sep 13, 2007)

Are you a professional writer? That should be in a book. Excellent work.


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## stevo1 (Sep 13, 2007)

Every one has that river or stream, but lack the words that you are gifted with. Strong work!


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## netresult (Aug 22, 2008)

Another great story pez! nice well fed brownie. I'm happy for ya!


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## Packout (Nov 20, 2007)

Great story. Thanks for taking us down your memory lane. I love taking home a nice fish for a good, healthy dinner. I am certain you left plenty to sustain the river for future generations. Very well written.


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## Leaky (Sep 11, 2007)

*Are you a professional writer? That should be in a book. Excellent work.*

+ 1 zillion, gooooooood job, :!:[attachment=0:b8nazrda]Leaky 1939.jpg[/attachment:b8nazrda]


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## dunn_gary (Sep 11, 2007)

Now that was a proper post! Reminds me of duck hunting with my grandfather!


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## fish-n-fool (May 26, 2009)

One of the best stories I have ever read.
Thanks for sharing

If you don't make money writing you should.

fnf 8)


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## lehi (Sep 13, 2007)

Wow that was awesome!


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## Nor-tah (Dec 16, 2007)

Nice job and great story. Healthy looking fish. I hope the places I fish are the same years from now...


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## Pez Gallo (Dec 27, 2007)

Great post Vela. I think many of us have a connection with a river or lake and some male role model from our youth. Your post was a great telling of your story and connection with the past that helped me feel a connection to my youth with my grandad and dad. Thanks.


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## rukus (Apr 11, 2008)

Well done. Oh to be a kid again!!


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## REPETER (Oct 3, 2007)

Awesome. You truly are a master tail spinner. And pics to back it up really add to the excitement and flavor of an already epic tail.


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## hunterfisher (Sep 14, 2007)

Thanks for taking me with you on this journy.


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## GaryFish (Sep 7, 2007)

Great story! Had me reaching back to memories with my Grandpa - fishing live hoppers in eastern Idaho. Thanks a ton!


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## orvis1 (Sep 7, 2007)

Giving LOAH a run for his money! Nice report :mrgreen:


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## willfish4food (Jul 14, 2009)

Excellent post!! Thank you for taking the time to post a fantastic story and report.


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## Oaks (Nov 16, 2007)

Wow, that is some quality writing. Thanks for bringing it to the forum.


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## Catherder (Aug 2, 2008)

Great work! Writing like this has taken on special significance since Dad passed on a couple of years ago. There will be a short trip I will take (alone) in the near future to where Dad taught me to fish and then later, fly fish. The feelings I will likely have will probably be quite similar to what you so eloquently described. Thanks again!


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## Size Matters (Dec 22, 2007)

That is one of the BEST REPORTS I have ever seen on this forum thanks for sharing watch out LOAH you have a contender. :mrgreen:


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## LOAH (Sep 29, 2007)

I've always enjoyed pezvela's posts. It seems that he has a few different writing styles, as well.

Back when he was writing about the pike a lot (and his Mexico trip), his reports always played in my mind like an old private eye movie. I imagined him talking through a cigar and telling 'just the facts, ma'am. :wink: 

These latest reports are of a more solemn and humble tune, as he reflects upon his earlier years. I've said it before and I'll say it again, his reports are my favorites to read.

Good stuff, pezvela. Keep'em coming, please.


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## nate1031 (Jul 2, 2008)

Very enjoyable. Thanks for sharing a beautiful story and fatty of a fish.


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## Artoxx (Nov 12, 2008)

I loved that.
Not much more that I can actually say, so I will repeat it.
I loved that.
Thank you.


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## Guest (Aug 20, 2009)

Excellent post! Brought back memories of my own childhood in the river bottoms of Provo. We fished with live hoppers as well. It saddens me when I drive through my childhood home now because it has all been developed. The woods and fields are all gone. As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, you can never step in the same river twice. Time marches on and nothing ever stays the same, except maybe in our memory.


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## grousehunter (Sep 11, 2007)

Beautiful story, thank you for sharing.


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## Jed (Feb 25, 2009)

Nice story. That's a nice fat trout.


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## TLB (Jul 13, 2008)

Thanks for sharing such a special place and memory, it brought back a flood of memories that I hold dear of my Grandfather and the outdoor skills and ethics he taught me growing up. Outstanding post!!


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## MeanGene (Nov 18, 2008)

Thank You, All I can Say is THANK YOU   That was just what I needed today!!!!


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