The Fly Caster Who Tried To Make Peace With the World

by Randy Kadish

  Chapter 13

  The next evening I limped into my house.

  My father glared at me. “I knew nothing good would come from fishing and casting.”

  “A lot of good has come from it.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have bought you that rod.”

  “So what are you going to do, break it?”

  “I told you I was sorry. I, ah, guess your baseball season is over.”

  I stared at my father. “It was over before I broke my ankle.” I told him about my essay and my teammates’ reaction to it.

  “If you wrote what you believe you shouldn’t care about their reaction.”

  “What I care about is what I love: fishing, literature and the Catskills.”

  “So you’re going to be a country lawyer?”

  I thought of Billy. “Maybe a country teacher.”

  “A teacher! What kind?”

  “English, and, and maybe I’ll also be a writer.”

  “Your mother wanted to be an artist. Look what happened to her.”

  “What?”

  “Her heart broke and never healed.”

  “It was healing. She loved playing in the theater and helping immigrants. Remember how proud of her you were, after she passed away?”

  “Ian, you’re young. You can’t know what you want.”

  “When you were young, you knew.”

  “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I’ll get hurt being what I don’t want to be.”

  “Law is important. Without it, without lawyers, there’d be anarchy. Laws keep society together. Laws are making things better for workers. Maybe if countries followed universal laws we wouldn’t have this crazy war that’s making some people turn their back on God, and making others retreat from reality. Did you ever—running away isn’t a real solution.”

  “Wanting something different is not running.” I looked at the stairs. They looked higher and steeper than they had before. Knowing I had to climb them, I put both crutches on the first step, then pulled myself up.

  “Ian, let me help you.”

  “I can do it. I have to do it.”

  Six weeks later, a doctor in New York cut off my cast, gave me a cane and told me I’d probably limp for five or six months. And I became grateful. When winter thawed into spring, my limp was my excuse for not playing baseball.

   

  February 1917: British code experts deciphered a telegram from the German Foreign Secretary, Zimmerman, and learned that, if America entered the war, Germany would encourage Mexico to declare war on America.

  A month later, Germany torpedoed two American ships. On April 7th, America declared war on Germany. Newspapers published editorials saying America was embarking on a great crusade. If so, I didn’t want to be a part of it; so with conscription and my twenty-first birthday around the corner, I hoped my ankle kept me out of the army.

  Scared it wouldn’t, I obsessed about the war. Fishing, I hoped, would at least tame my obsession; so on the very first day of trout season, I rode the O. & W. railroad up to Roscoe and back into winter. The mountains were covered with bare trees that—though I didn’t want them to—looked like soldiers standing at attention and in close formation.

  I stepped off the train, buttoned up my coat, turned south and walked to the last house on Cottage Street. I knocked on the door. A woman about my father’s age opened it. 

  “Is Billy home?”

  “You must be the college fella who busted his ankle?”

  “I am, Ma’am.”

  “I’m Billy’s mother. He’s in the garage. Just knock on the side door.”

  “Thanks.”

  Billy opened the garage door and smiled. In his face I again saw a half-moon, but this half-moon was closer in color to the real thing. Like me, Billy was light-skinned. He wasn’t an Indian. His faded overalls were stained and torn at the knees. I said, “I told you I’d come.”

  “Come into my office.”

  His so-called office was a workshop I couldn’t have imagined. In the middle was a big, thick table. On the sides of the table were two vises and small, funny-looking machines. On top of the table were long, narrow pieces of wood, divided in half by V-shaped grooves. Next to the wood were small carpenter’s planes that looked like tools belonging to the Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels; but in reality these tools belonged to a full-size human being. They fit Billy’s fingertips. Also on the table was a half-finished bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. Under the table were cans of varnish.

  Hanging horizontally above the table were sections of unfinished fly rods, wrapped with white string. Leaning in a corner of the garage was a clump of raw bamboo. In another corner was an old, small stove that looked as if it came out of an apartment on the Lower East Side.

  I turned around and faced two tall, unpainted, plywood cabinets. Lining the top of the door of one of the cabinets were three small holes. Hanging from the holes was rope. The bottom of each strand was wrapped around big, flat knobs near the bottom of the door. Painted on the knobs were black crosses.

  Why kind of contraption was I looking at?

  The other cabinet didn’t have holes or rope, just a big padlock.

  What secret treasure was inside?

  Hanging from the ceiling was the longest rubber belt I ever saw. The belt connected one of the machines on the table to a black, upside-down motor on the ceiling. I looked at Billy and his porcupine-like hair.

  Was I in the laboratory of a scientist a lot madder than George M. L. La Branche? But didn’t Mr. La Branche turn out to be sane after all?

  I asked, “Did you build all this?”

  “Even the machines.”

  “Wow.”

  “Looks like you got a bit of a limp.”

  “My ankle is still stiff, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  “Ian, have you ever seen how a fly rod is made?”

  “No.”

  “Let me show you. First I take a stalk of bamboo and split it into narrow, three-sided strips. Next, I file down the nodes on the strip, then heat them with a small torch. Before they cool, I put the strips into a vise and flatten the nodes and straighten the strips. Then, using this bevelin’ machine, I cut the strips so that their sides form three, perfect, sixty-degree angles. Next, I take the strips and fit them in these long, wooden forms. The grooves in the forms are also cut at sixty degrees. If you look closely, you’ll see that the grooves get shallower and shallower. I shave the tops of the strips until they’re flush with the top of the forms. That’s how I make sure the width of the rods narrow at the precise taper. For each section of the rod, and for each kind of rod, I use a different form.”

  “How did you get the forms?”

  “Some I made after measurin’ the taper of rods built by the great builders like Leonard. Other forms I made by experimentin’ on my own.”

  Billy told me how he then wrapped the strips together and, to make them stronger, baked them; then he told me how he unwrapped and cleaned them. Using a small brush, he glued the strips, then wrapped them together again. When the glue dried, he opened the cabinet door that had the holes and hanging rope, and he clipped the rod sections to the ends of the rope and dunked the sections into upright pipes filled with varnish. To keep dust off the wet varnish, he closed the cabinet. Slowly, he turned the doorknobs wrapped with rope, lifting the sections about three inches out of the varnish. Every two hours he turned the knobs, until the sections were lifted out of the varnish. When the varnish dried a week later, he glued on the metal joints that connected the sections of the rods—the ferrules. (Billy bought the ferrules from a guy named Varney.) Finally, Billy wrapped on the guides with red and black thread. Last, he glued on the handle.

  “Now Ian, I have many secrets. Here’s my biggest.”

  He took one of the strips hanging above the table. The inside of the strip was cut or filed into short, narrow waves. “What I’m tryin’ to do, Ian, is truly revolutionary. It’s called flutin’, which m
eans cuttin’ away some of the inside of the strip and makin’ a lighter rod that will recoil faster. I think dry-fly fishin’ is the way of the future. Anglers are gonna want faster, more accurate rods.”

  “So you believe in La Branche’s and Gordon’s theories?”

  “They’re the prophets of American fly-fishin’. Now I want to show you somethin’ else.” Billy unlocked the big padlock, opened the cabinet and took out a long, three-piece rod. “This is an 11-and-a-half-foot tournament, casting rod. I started out using Leonard tapers, but then I made the tip a little softer. Since I fluted the inside strips, I was able to widen and stiffen the midsection and still keep the rod at regulation weight. Ian, what I hope to do is transfer this design to a nine-and-a-half-foot, trout rod.”

  “I’ve never cast a tournament rod before.”

  “Want to try?”

  “Damn right, I would.”

  “Let me get my measurin’ line. Leave your stuff here.”

  We walked down Cottage Street to a long, narrow lawn alongside the Willowemoc. Billy screwed on a reel and fed the fly line through the guides. He tied on a fly, then cut off the hook.

  “How much line should I pull off?” Billy asked.

  “How much line is on the reel?”

  “One hundred twenty feet.”

  “Pull off all of it.”

  “Serious?”

  “We’ll see.”

  I gripped the smooth, cork rod handle. Walking down the lawn, Billy pulled off all the line.

  I retrieved about 70 feet of it, got into my casting stance and cast the rod up and back. The rod felt heavy and almost as stiff as a broomstick. The line formed a wide loop. I cast forward. The loop was wide again.

  What’s wrong? I stopped casting and closed my eyes. Because the rod is stiffer than mine, I have to accelerate the rod faster.

  Again I false cast, faster and faster. The loop tightened into a wedge. I shot about 10 feet of line. The wedge held its shape. I cast back, lowered the rod tip, then turned my hips, shifted my weight, and cast. Abruptly I stopped the rod, let go of the line, and raised the butt. The fly streaked across the lawn, turned over and floated down.

  Billy’s smile almost became a full moon. “Wow! I don’t believe what I just saw. I got to take a measurement.”

  Billy handed me the end of his measuring line. Unrolling the line, he walked alongside the fly line.

  “One hundred thirteen feet!” he yelled. He ran back to me. “Last year’s long-distance champion cast only one hundred twelve feet. Ian, you beat him. You’re one heck of a lean, castin’ machine.”

  I was proud.

  “This summer, at the Sportsman’s Show in Madison Square Garden, there’s gonna be a castin’ tournament. You can use this rod.”

  “Indoors, I won’t get any help from a slight tail wind.”

  “But this was the first time you ever tried the rod.”

  “Billy, those competitors are some of the best in the world. They’ve all competed in front of large crowds. I never have. Is this really about making a name for you?”

  “For both of us. Look, is askin’ for help such a bad thing? I always ask for help about how to build fly rods. Don’t you want the world to see how great a caster you are?”

  “The world won’t be watching. Besides, if I choke up, what will that do for your reputation?”

  “No one will know whose rod you used, unless you win. Ian, maybe breakin’ your leg and me findin’ you was no accident.”

  “So you think God had a hand in it?”

  “You never know.”

  “Even if there is a God, I’m sure he’s not going to take sides in a fly-casting tournament.”

  “Why wouldn’t he? You’re a good person.”

  “Winning casting tournaments is not about being a good person.” I looked into Billy’s eyes and saw myself making a tournament-winning cast, but then my vision stared back at me and scared me like a ghost. I looked at Billy’s beautiful rod and wished it was mine.

  “Ian, you don’t got to decide right away. Borrow the rod and practice with it.”

  “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “So you’ll think about it?”

  “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  “Let’s fish. Have you ever been to Cooks Falls?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll take my neighbor’s car.”

  “Take?”

  “The deal is I fix it for free and he lets me use it.”

  We walked back to his garage and put on our waders and fishing boots.

  I said, “It’s cold. Aren’t you going to wear a hat?”

  “When I’m outside I love the feel of sunlight on my face.”

  We got into an old Ford.

  “It has a lot of miles on it,” Billy said. “But I rebuilt the engine.”

  “I never knew anyone who could rebuild engines.”

  Billy laughed. “You college boys got to expand your horizons.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Good answer.”

  We drove along the Beaverkill and past Painter’s Bend. Billy drove off the road and parked. We walked to the bank of the river. Cook’s Falls pool was long, straight and rocky. About fifty yards downstream was a covered bridge. But the bridge wasn’t long enough to reach both banks of the river. The far end of the bridge, the north end, was connected to a short, metal bridge that reached the bank. At first the covered bridge looked like a freight car, but the metal bridge was too small to be a locomotive; so then the bridges looked like an ant pulling a big piece of food.

  “I’ll race you across,” Billy said.

  “That water is fast.”

  “Just make sure you’re anchored on the bottom and that before you step forward you move your wadin’ stick; then you’ll be able to stand up to the water. I’ll give you a head start.”

  “Billy, my ankle.”

  “You said it wasn’t sore. I’m tryin’ to show you one of my secret holes.”

  If I break my ankle again, I thought, the army surely won’t take me. “I’ve never done this before. I want a head start.”

  “I’m gonna count to sixty before I start. One, two ... ”

  I waded into the river. The cold water kept kicking my ankles and shins. At least the water seemed to wear boxing gloves on its feet.

  I can’t do this, I thought. What if I fall and hit my head?

  “Feel all your steps!” Billy yelled. “One step at a time and you’ll soon be there!”

  Maybe I can do it.

  Following Billy’s advice, I carefully waded to the middle of the pool. I looked over my shoulder. Billy was about twenty feet behind me.

  “Don’t worry about me, Ian. The trick is to compete against yourself.”

  “You mean to stay within myself.”

  “Whatever. Time-out for a minute. Look downstream, Ian.”

  The covered bridge and the river seemed to form a picture frame. But the river obviously wanted to be more than a border. It flowed through the picture, beckoning my eyes to follow it. My eyes weren’t the only followers. Downstream, on the sloping banks, small homes looked like the faces of people sitting in a stadium. The windows were the people’s wide-open eyes. The bare branches surrounding the homes were the people’s thinning hair, so when the leaves bloomed, these people, unlike Clay, would have full heads of hair and wouldn’t need comb-overs.

  “Ain’t that a beautiful sight?” Billy said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “When I finally start makin’ money from my rods I’m gonna buy a real good camera and come here early in the mornin’ when the sun casts a warm, pink glow, and take pictures. One day, Ian, maybe I’ll take a lot of pictures of the Beaverkill and put together one of those beautiful picture books. I know people will say that I’m a crazy dreamer, but I don’t care.”

  I never knew, I thought, that a mechanic who never went to college could have such a love and an appreciation for beauty.

&nb
sp; I said, “And maybe I’ll write essays to go with the pictures.”

  “I didn’t know you write.”

  “I don’t like to talk about it, but yes, I do.”

  “Then we’ll do the book together. Okay, time in.”

  We resumed our race. As I neared the bank, Billy caught up to me. Sure he’d win, I stepped into slower water and onto smaller rocks. Wading was easier. Billy and I reached the bank at the same time.

  If he’s trying to teach me a lesson, I don’t like it, even though I feel really good that I waded across.

  I asked, “So what’s so important about this spot?”

  He smiled. “You’ll see.” He opened his fly box and took out a dry fly. “Notice how this wing is higher than the other, and how the hackle on this side isn’t as thick.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “So when the fly floats it tips over a bit. The theory is that if a trout has a few flies to choose from, he’ll pick the one that looks imperfect or injured.”

  “Did you tie that fly yourself?”

  “The Hermit tied it for me.”

  “I thought the Hermit stays to himself.”

  “He does, but a few years ago I fixed one of his rods. Since I felt sorry for him, I didn’t charge him. Now he pays me back by givin’ me flies.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He don’t talk much, but I think he’s real smart even though he never went to college. He reads a lot. He even offered to loan me books, but I ain’t up to readin’ history or science. The Hermit told me science, like fly-rods, is on the verge of a revolution.”

  “What kind of revolution?”

  “One started by a guy named Einstein. Did they teach you about him in college?”

  “I didn’t take any physics courses.”

  “Well, according to Einstein, time ain’t really time. Two people, seein’ the same event, like a flash of light, can think the flash happened at different times. Don’t ask me to explain any more because that’s all I know, and even that I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t think time can be changed. That sounds like something out of Don Quixote. I wonder if Einstein read it.”

  “The Hermit thinks Einstein is right.”

  “And what does the Hermit think about the war?”

  “That America should help England and France, and I do too!”

   I didn’t want to start an argument. “Can I try one of the Hermit’s flies?”

  “Sure. Let’s wade downstream. Even though there ain’t any signs of it, runnin’ up and down the bottom over there is a drop-off where trout love to stay.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “Last summer I waded across and the next thing I knew I was swimmin’. A few winters ago, an ice jam must’ve carved out the drop-off.”

  “I didn’t know ice could carve out fishing holes.”

  “That’s why this river changes year to year.”

  “Like time.”

  Billy laughed.

  We waded downstream and fished. Billy landed and released a big rainbow. “Let’s see you beat that.”

  In the middle of the river, about sixty feet away, was a boulder.

  I said, “You asked for it.” I pulled line off my reel, made a long cast and landed the fly right in front of the boulder. A rainbow jumped up, gulped the fly, and bolted downstream. My reel spun like a top. Finally, it slowed. I quickly waded downstream, reeling in line. The rainbow broke toward the far bank. Turning him again and again, I slowly brought him closer. I yelled, “Mine’s bigger.”

  “It ain’t fair that you can cast that far.”

  “You’re the one who made the challenge.”

  The rainbow broke toward me. I reeled as fast as I could. The rainbow passed me. Suddenly the rod went dead. The line dangled. I reeled it in and saw the rainbow had snapped my tippet. I cursed.

  Billy laughed, momentarily.

  I asked, “What happened?”

  “Two things. First, when you kept turning the fish, the hook made a bigger and bigger hole in his mouth, so he probably would have shaken free anyway. But the reason he broke off was because when he was moving away from you his head was down and you continued to reel. What I try to do during a fight is to let the fish run, then when I feel him let up a bit, I try to lift his head out of the water, then I reel him in.”

  “I never read that in a book.”

  “I learned it from losing a lot of fights with fish.”

  We waded downstream, almost up to the covered bridge, and cast to several eddies. Billy hooked a big brown.

  The sun hung low in the sky. The wind suddenly blew harder and harder, ripping down the river like a speeding train, making me feel I was stark naked. I wanted to go back to the lodge but didn’t want Billy to think I was giving in to the cold.

  “Ian, aren’t you glad you waded across?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Tomorrow, at about three, where will you be?”

  I remembered Ray coming to the Forks over an hour late. I smiled. “You mean three o’clock according to my watch’s time or to Einstein’s?”

  “Don’t get smart on me.”

  “I’ll be at Ferdon’s.”

  “I’ll take you to another great spot.”

   

  The next day at exactly three o’clock, Billy drove the old Ford down to the bank of Ferdon’s Eddy. Glad that, unlike Izzy and Ray, Billy kept his word, I got into the Ford. Billy drove up the road that led to the Covered Bridge Pool, but when we reached the turnoff to the pool, Billy drove straight ahead.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  A few minutes later, Billy turned onto the dirt road Mr. La Branche’s fishing club was on.

  Was Billy planning to poach the water of the club? If so, what would I do? I didn’t want to offend Mr. La Branche or anyone else.

  Billy drove past Mr. La Branche’s club. I was relieved.

  A few minutes later, he parked in a small clearing. Signs prohibiting fishing and trespassing were posted on the trees. Billy got out of the Ford, walked to the river and looked upstream. He jogged back. “Let’s go.”

  “Billy, are you poaching?”

  “It’s early in the season. The club members probably ain’t even here.”

  “Poaching is against the law.”

  “Whose law? The club don’t own the water.”

  “It owns the land under the water.”

  “So what are you gonna do, just sit here?”

  Angry at being manipulated, I insisted, “You should’ve told me.”

  Billy looked into my eyes. “You’re right. I should have. Give me about an hour and I’ll be back.”

  Billy marched down the road.

  What the heck! I thought. Billy is probably right about the members not being here.

  I got out of the Ford and ran up to Billy. He smiled and pulled the front of my cap over my eyes. I pulled it back up and thought, Yes, I want him as a friend.

  We walked to the bank. Billy said, “Right there, Ian, the tail. See the way those two long seams form a big V.”

  “How’d you find this hole?”

  “A guy wearin’ fancy clothes came to my shop, asked me to fix his rod, and then told me all about how he broke it when he wrestled a four-pound brown. I asked where he hooked the monster and he told me. I think we should start upstream of the V and work our way down.”

  “Okay.”

  The bottom of the river was gravel and small rocks. Way upstream, the pool narrowed into a neck. I couldn’t see if the neck had a head, because my view was blocked by the pool’s wide shoulders: a man-made, plank waterfall. Below the waterfall, the pool’s smooth, reflecting surface looked as if it were painted silver. Near the pool’s tail, the water sped up and formed small riffles.

  Billy cast and landed his fly on one of the seams of the big V. His fly drifted downstream about two feet. A big brown inhaled it.

  “I told you, Ian!”
>
  “I’ll go downstream and land it.”

  “No. That would be cheatin’.”

  After a long fight, Billy landed and released the brown. Ten minutes later, I landed a smaller brown.

  “You fellas better get going!” someone yelled. Standing on the bank was a big man with dark curly hair and bushy eyebrows. He wore hip boots.

  I looked at Billy. “Who’s that?”

  “The river keeper.”

  “You’re trespassing!” the river keeper yelled.

  “Says who?” Billy stated.

  “The signs.”

  “Any of your club members up here?”

  “That don’t matter.”

  “We don’t mean no harm. No one will know we’re here. Please?”

  “I’ll know. Don’t make me come in and teach you a lesson.”

  “Why don’t you!?” Billy yelled.

  The river keeper staggered back, as if he had been punched. His eyes wandered downstream. He looked lost. “There’s, there’s two of you.”

  “Don’t worry about my friend. He ain’t gonna do anything. I promise. Just worry about me.”

  I said, “Billy, let’s go.”

  “He threatened us!”

  “I don’t want trouble,” the river keeper said.

  “So why did you start some?”

  The river keeper turned abruptly and walked away.

  “You can’t teach me anythin’!” Billy yelled. He looked at me. “See Ian, I told you he wasn’t gonna do anythin’.”

  “He could come back with a gun.”

  “He could, but he won’t.”

  “Let’s leave.”

  “Then wait for me in the car.” Billy retrieved his line and cast.

  Not knowing what to do, I stood still. Even though I believed in the law, I didn’t want Billy to think I was a coward, so I fished for twenty minutes, then told Billy I’d wait for him in the Ford.

  “Ian, I’ll come with you.”

  We got into the car.

  Billy said, “We didn’t do anythin’ wrong.”

  “Says who?”

  Billy drove toward Roscoe. Looking out the side window, I didn’t say anything. My heart beat hard and fast, as if the confrontation was still going on. Glad it wasn’t, I felt sorry for the river keeper, even though he had threatened us. I looked at Billy. He glanced at me and smiled. I wished I had just half of his courage.

  “So, you’re not gonna say anythin’?” Billy asked.

  We broke the law, I thought. But we didn’t harm anyone. We stood up to the world of private fishing clubs and got away with it.

  Suddenly I felt I hit a grand-slam home run. I laughed. 

  “Ian, I’m sorry.”

  Pretending to be angry, I said, “Yeah, you should be.”

  “Admit it: you loved it.”

  I tried to glare at Billy, but uncontrollably I laughed.

  Maybe Billy’s dares his way of showing me I have the courage to compete in the fly-casting tournament. If so, he talked in code again. I don’t like it. Can I really trust him?

  I asked, “Do you know what my father does for a living?”

  “What?”

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “If we get locked up we’ll know who to call.”

  We laughed.

  I asked, “What does your father do?”

  “My father is out west workin’ for the railroads. He—Ian, I might as well tell you the truth. My parents ain’t married anymore.”

  I didn’t know anyone whose parents were divorced. Billy’s mother seemed so nice. Was his father evil?

  “Are you going to be a lawyer too?” Billy asked.

  “I want to be a writer.”

  “And be famous?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Don’t be ashamed of wanting to be famous. One day, I’m gonna build the finest fly rods ever made. A hundred years from now, people will still want them. Maybe we’ll both be famous forever.”

  “And ever.”