Coping

Ethan

By: William P. Hall

Will this be the angler’s last year of summer trout fishing in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula? Will Ethan find a job somewhere else, say Oregon or Washington? If so, can the old man find another Ethan?

He caught his first trout in 1938 while at a boy’s camp in Nova Scotia. He used a bamboo rod given to him by his father. No doubt, he was hooked from that day forward.

Later in life, he fished for trout all over North America, visiting close to half of the 100 most popular trout streams. He also went to exotic places such as Argentina, Chile and New Zealand. With only a few exceptions, he concentrated on fresh water rivers.

Over the years, he participated in major changes in equipment technology. In rods, he went from bamboo to fiberglass to graphite. He went from rubber boots to neoprene stocking foots, to the nifty modern breathable jobs. On the advice of experts he overloaded his vest with useful items (forceps, clippers) and the not-so-useful (stomach pump). Yes, and he even learned to tie flies in an amateurish way.

Now, the extraordinary pleasure experience in the magical sport is coming to a close. The infirmities of age and partial blindness are accounting for this unhappy reality.

He has addressed macular degeneration support groups, telling them how he copes with semi-blindness while still getting pleasure from life. These options include such props as his reading machine and the binoculars to watch Vanna White post letters. As far as sight impairment and fly fishing goes, adaptation can be summed up in one word: Ethan.

About five years ago, the macular degeneration problem resulted in his inability to drive, having to give up his license. For two dozen years he had driven himself during the summer to his favorite access points on the Paint River in the Ottawa National Forest of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He had made a map of the river and its tributary, Cooks Run, so that his wife would know where he was on a summer afternoon. “I’m going to #5 on the map, ‘The Quarry’ or to #8, ‘Mean Man’s.’ If I am not back by 6:30, you’ll know where to send somebody to look for the body.”

Old age means that former fishing buddies who could drive him have either died or cannot wade any more on doctor’s orders. Was the Paint River now inaccessible or was there a way to cope?

What about Ethan? At the time Ethan was in high school, the son of the caretaker of his summer cottage. At his request, Ethan paid him a visit and he asked, “Ethan, what do babysitters get paid up here?” Ethan replied, “I think about $10 per hour.” “Well, Ethan,” said he, “how would you like to be paid $10 an hour to take me trout fishing and I’ll teach you how to cast in the bargain?”

After a positive response, the grandfatherly fisherman gave casting lessons in his driveway to the high schooler, using a piece of yarn in place of a fly. He also gave instructions on the two most essential streamside knots, the clinch and the double surgeon knots.

Then, he gave Ethan the key to his Ford Explorer and they set out for the Paint. Over time, Ethan became exposed to some two dozen access points of the Paint River’s South Branch and Cooks Run.

A unique partnership of old man and his young apprentice has ensued. Of all the ways to end a fishing career, none could be more satisfactory, more companionable. He’s had dozens of guides who have been competent and helpful, but this relationship is different. In fact, in the early goings the old man really was the guide.

It takes about a half hour of driving from the cottage to the nearest access to the stream. This is prime time for talking. The old man and the young man have gotten to know one another in these past five years. Although he fishes on occasion with some of his own children (now fully grown), this Ethan relationship is something special. It’s a form of legacy.

Ethan now can outcast him. The young man has a nifty roll cast, helping to keep his hook from fly-eating alders so prominent in these streams. Ethan has talked his father into night fishing for brown trout and they’ve come back after midnight with some beauties over 20 inches. Night fishing is not for the old guy who has trouble enough in the daytime.

Their routine is a marvel of adaptation. On his own in the early days, the old man would dry fly up stream and wet fly down to the place where the Ford was parked. Nowadays, upstream wading is difficult and seeing the trout hit a dry fly is a challenge.

So the new routine is to park, suit up, walk to the stream and head down using a wet fly, the Willy’s Killer, his own design and the only one he still ties. When they get to the take-out point, Ethan pulls the old man up the bank with his strong arms, then walks back to the Ford, and drives to where the old man is waiting on a rock or a stump. Ethan’s last helpful act is to pull off the old guy’s waders.

The senior angler tires easily these days. He’ll tell friends, “I can’t stand for two minutes at a cocktail party, but I can stand thirty minutes in a trout stream.” He has been doing back exercises every morning for forty years to cope with muscle spasms. Now the old back hurts like hell after some time in the river, so he hits the bank or a familiar rock in the river for a few minutes rest. One of his favorite rocks is a flat rock above Turner’s place where he and Ethan sit while the young man replaces the dry fly with a Willy’s Killer.

Ethan is always nearby to help with a tangle, retying a fly lost to a high branch, or just make a change in flies. You see, one curse of macular degeneration is it’s impossible to get a tippet end into a fish hook eye – unless of course, you’re in your early twenties.

Another adaptation to the elderly body is the wading staff. For years he distained using any such assistance. He was sure footed and, without a staff, he could handle the rock strewn banks of such challenging rivers as the Lochsa and the Selway. Recently, however, the wading has become more difficult, more treacherous.

He has bought a four-piece collapsible staff for easy packing in the bag on western or southern trips. For the UP, he and Ethan devised a perfect (and inexpensive) alternative. They took an old three wood with a wooden head and steel shaft and bashed the head off on the garage floor. With the shaft in a vise, they bored a hold in the handle, made a wire loop, and securely fastened a length of clothes line to the loop. Voila! Here was a good staff easily tied to the suspenders of the waders.

On their last trip together in late September before the season closed, they parked by Turner’s and fished downstream to The Trestle. The day was raw and cloudy. The clear water was as black as ink. Maple trees in bright scarlet and orange stood out starkly amid the dark pines. Side-by-side they fished down this usually productive run. They used nymphs, streamers and wet flies to no avail. Not even on strike. As he noted, “At this time of year, the brookies are either dead or smart.” More likely they have their minds (and reproductive organs) on matters other than eating.

So the season came to an end, actually with a very enjoyable and companionable wade amid classic surroundings. No regrets here.

But what about next year? Ethan is out of college and job hunting. He may well move on and the challenge will be to find a replacement or hang up the rod.

Whatever the outcome, if the old man has witnessed his last jumping Brookie or golden sunset on the Paint, he retires with countless memories of the river and a legacy passed on to his youthful companion.

William Hall retired in 1985. He has remained active as a volunteer for the Executive Service Corporation, providing consulting services for the not-for-profit community. Mr. Hall has written a book on his fly-fishing experiences, investing experiences and essays for his family.