Trout Quintet

by Steve Raymond

  I had two weeks following graduation before I had to report, so Dad and I scheduled one more fishing trip. We decided on one of our favorite spots, a remote part of the upper “Brax” accessible only by bushwhacking through rough country, which meant it wasn’t fished heavily and held some big trout. We had tent-camped there several times in the past, and it seemed a natural place for what probably would be our last trip together for a long while.

  The fishing was good, as we had expected, and we enjoyed it and one another’s company, as we always did. I’d taken good care of the hat over the years, and though it was getting increasingly worn and tattered, I still wore it faithfully. Dad would watch me put it on every morning and get that same little smile on his face, but he never said anything.

  As usual, I caught more trout than he did. Thanks to the hat, it was inevitable. But we each caught enough to make us happy.

  On the last day we fished well into the evening during an incredible caddisfly hatch, one of the most amazing we’d ever seen; so many flies were rising from the water it seemed like a blizzard in reverse. It appeared our imitations would have no chance with all the naturals on the water, but the opposite was true; we each caught one trout after another, finally ending with a double-header that had us both laughing. By then it was completely dark and we headed back to camp for a very late supper.

  I built a fire and started working on a salad while Dad started the grill, put on a couple of potatoes to bake, then added steaks. There’s hardly anything better than camp food, and when it was all ready we ate heartily and washed everything down with a bottle of fine Zinfandel. When the dishes were done and put away, I stoked up the fire, we sat down next to it, and Dad broke out a bottle of well-aged bourbon and a couple of tin cups.

  We knew this was the eve of our parting, the last fishing we’d have together for what might be a long time, perhaps forever. I knew that thought was with him even as it was with me. It made me feel as if my heart was caught on a snag. I suppose he felt the same way.

  We sat and stared into the fire, hearing only the hushed passage of the nearby river and the occasional pop of a burning ember, each of us alone with his thoughts. I’d mentally rehearsed a speech of gratitude for all the things Dad had done for me, but now that it was finally time to say the words, my tongue seemed frozen.

  Then I had a sudden idea and knew instinctively it was the right thing to do. Making sure Dad was watching, I removed the old, tattered hat and reached across the campfire to give it to him. “This is yours now,” I said, “bought and paid for many times over.”

  He reached out to take it, and when I thought he had it in his grasp I let go. He didn’t, and the hat fell into the fire.

  We both swore, and I looked frantically for a stick to try to fish the hat out of the flames. “Too late,” Dad said, and I saw he was right. The hatband had been made of some highly flammable Chinese fabric that flared up immediately in a halo of flame around the hat. We watched in shocked silence as it was totally consumed.

  “Geez, Dad, I’m so sorry,” I finally managed to say. “I wanted you to have it.”

  “I know. But it’s okay. That hat served its purposes. I caught lots of trout while I was wearing it, and I enjoyed watching you catch lots of trout while you had it. But I still think I got the better end of the deal.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Well, I always dreamed of having a son who would grow up and be my fishing partner,” he said. “Thanks to that old hat, my dream came true. Now I have you.”

  “That just makes us even, Dad. I always wanted a father, and thanks to that old hat, I have you.”

  He stood and came around the fire and I got up to meet him. We embraced as father and son, then sat with shoulders touching and sipped the last of the bourbon, saying nothing because nothing more needed to be said. We simply sat in companionable silence and watched the last sparks from the dying fire rise up and wink out one by one, like old fishing memories.