Recently, I received a similar legacy that had much more sentimental value. Just before Christmas, my father suffered a series of strokes that made it necessary for him to enter a convalescent hospital for the rest of his life. Dad suffered severe brain damage and dementia and can never go home again. Some days, I don’t think he even recognizes me.
Mom gave me Dad’s old fishing gear, since he won’t be using it again. This time, as I went through an old angler’s gear, it wasn’t just an interesting exercise — it was a personal and gut-wrenching experience.
As I went through Dad’s stuff, it spoke volumes to me. His fishing vest was serviceable, but not fancy, made by Columbia Sportswear, not Eddie Bauer or Abercrombie & Fitch. Attached to the outside by a sturdy shoelace was his fish counter, which he flicked every time he caught and released another trout. At the end of the day he might have two or three fish in his creel, but there were 40 or 50 that he had released. Also hanging from the outside of the vest was his folding scissors, with which he would snip lines and leaders during a day’s fishing.
One of the larger vest pockets held a plastic rotary fly box with several dozen flies that Dad had tied. It evoked memories of sitting around the house on a rainy winter night tying flies in front of the fireplace. We would gather up all the little bits of fur and thread and feathers that we generated in an evening and toss them in the fireplace before going to bed.
In another pocket, battered aluminum fly boxes contained more dozens of flies, most of which were his favorite pattern, the wooly worm. Oh sure, Dad had most of the other patterns like the Adams, or mosquito or the royal coachman, but his tried-and-true favorite was the old wooly worm.
Naturally, Dad had several reels, but his favorite was a double-action reel that you could use as an automatic and just push a lever to take in line, or you could use the handle and crank in line manually. The dual-action reel was only made by one company, Ocean City, and when they went out of business, he bought a half-dozen reels so he’d never be without his favorite reel. Ordinarily, a good reel will last a lifetime, but Dad just wanted to be sure.
Another vest pocket held his folding aluminum cup that evoked images of stops to rest at nameless side streams along the long, hot climb out of so many Sierra canyons. It seems the fishing is always better when you walk past the crowds into the backcountry. Instead of eight or 10 fish a day, our average was in the dozens, because Dad would insist we walk until we were alone. Dad always thought that trout fishing should be a solitary pursuit, just between you and the fish.
Other vest pockets included indispensable items like toilet paper, soap, bug repellant, reel grease, and line grease to make your line float. Naturally, there were extra leaders, a sharpening stone for knives and hooks, and a match safe to keep your matches dry.
Tucked in the big pocket in the back of his vest was a folding net, housed in a leather holster that you’d wear on your belt. Alongside the folding net was a plastic rain poncho that was sometimes worth its weight in gold.
As I looked at the inventory of the gear I had inherited, almost every item evoked memories of streams and fish and adventures that stretched over the 50 years or so that I could remember. The match safe reminded me of a rainy day in the mid-1950s when Dad found a big overhanging rock along the Tuolumne River and made a roaring fire so my brother and I could stay warm and dry while Dad fished in the rain.
The fish counter reminded me of the day on Cherry Creek when I caught and released 106 trout while my darned partner caught 156 fish!
Dad’s hook sharpener reminded me of the time we were fishing the Mokelumne near Monty Wolf’s cabin, and I missed hooking almost 20 fish in a row. When we realized that my hook had broken just past the bend, we had a good laugh at my mistake.
Even his little hotel-sized bar of soap reminded me of the time I was 5 years old and had gotten lost along the Tuolumne for several hours. When Dad finally found me, he sat me down beside the stream and washed away my tears with that bar of soap. Somehow, everything seemed better after that.
It’s really amazing how many memories could be wrapped up in a bunch of old fishing gear. I recall that when Dad was setting up his trust, I told him I really didn’t want his money, that he should spend it on himself and Mom. I said that I would, however, like to have his fishing gear. It won’t buy me a condo in Baja, but that old, battered fishing gear is just about the best legacy I could hope for.
During the recent past, I have taken my son fishing on many of the streams I fished with my Dad. Hopefully, I can leave my son with an enduring love of God’s creation. If I can, he will receive the kind of legacy that money can’t buy.
Maybe someday, he’ll feel as I do now. Thanks for the legacy, Dad.
Until next week, tight lines.
• Don Moyer is president and CEO of a consulting firm and has more than 20 years’ experience working with the outdoor recreation community, including anglers, hunters, backpackers, environmental groups and the public. He can be reached at don.moyer@gmail.com.
Good memories and some that you touched off in me as well.
Whispering Don is what we affectionately called your father. The reason was his loud booming voice and laugh could be heard even above the noise of a large crowd.
And the depth of his heart was immeasurable.
Yes, I was very fortunate to know this man and many members of his wonderful family. And many of the lessons I learned about compassion were at the feet of this truly amazing man.
When I had a very young family, and was struggling to make ends meet like most young families, my son was involved in a camping accident that left him with third degree burns on his left arm and the left side of his torso.
And, because my wife and I were literally starting out our family life, it should not come to anyone's surprise the expensive medical supplies and medicine were not something we could afford.
Being new to the community and not really knowing anyone in town, I wandered from the doctors office into Don's pharmacy to see if I could obtain some of the medicines that were required for my son's treatment.
I figured I would get the medicine, which was extremely expensive, and make do with what we had at home for the other supplies.
When I went to Don to fill the prescription he commended, "It looks like your son is burned pretty bad to require this medication."
I replied, "Yes sir, it is, but we do need it anyway."
Without hesitation he grabbed a cardboard box, started walking into his store and said, "Well then you're gonna need a whole bunch more stuff, " and proceeded to fill the box with medical supplies from off his store's shelves.
After a moment I said, "Mr. Moyer, I don't think I can pay for all of that stuff."
Without hesitation, this very big and boisterous man turned and smiled at me with more compassion than I have seen on the faces of many people and said, "Did I say that you were going to have to buy it?"
Humbled and in tears I gratefully accepted his gift and did so for several months until my son was healed. Without his assistance we would not have made it financially.
Furthermore, years after wards when I could afford it, he refused to let me repay him for his wonderful gift. He would always get a glint in his eye and smile while saying, "You have already repaid me."
Not only did Don teach his children and oddly enough my self the art and love of fly fishing, he taught me lessons in human compassion that I have only ever really learned from one other person that is not an immediate family member. That person is Jesus Christ.
I have no doubt Don had some faults, all of us do. But what ever faults he had, other than occasionally talking too loud, I never saw them or ever heard about them.
Don and I never discussed religion, even though at several times he attended my church to give support to his grandchildren who went to church there.
But despite all of that Don taught me lessons that I have taught to my own family members and lessons that I shall cherish until the day I enter the grave.
I have personally been blessed by your father Don and I am proud to tell this particular story to let others know what a truly great man your father was.
I love him and I miss him. But he will always hold a special place in my heart because I know exactly what type of man he was and what he felt was important. All you had to do was to watch him as he dealt with others and that would tell you all you needed to know about his loving character.
Thank you for sharing your father with the rest of us.
Resectfully
Dave Hardesty
PS: I have the same feelings about your mother Marie as well, but those all relate to other stories specific to her as she is an amazing woman as well.