Fishing with John

John Gierach showing Spencer Durrant how to properly fish a stream. Photo by Bob White.

I picked John Gierach and Bob White up from the Salt Lake Airport on a March evening, and I’m certain I did an awful job of containing my excitement.

Through some friends at the Flaming Gorge Chamber of Commerce, I’d arranged to have John and Bob treated to three days of floating the Green River below Flaming Gorge Dam, so long as I wrote a story about the adventure. That night was my first time meeting either of them, but I’d interviewed Bob over the phone for a story a few months before. The only interaction I had with John was a few emails and a phone call the week before the trip that went something like this:

“Hey John, this is Spencer Durrant. So, uh, do you, uh, need anything for the trip?” I asked.

“No, I should be fine,” John said.

“I like a lot of emerger patterns this time of year, especially if the blue-wings hatch early like I think they will,” I said.

“Yeah, I’ve got a few emergers,” John said.

“Do you think you have enough?”

As soon as I said it I felt my stomach flip. Did I really just ask John freakin’ Gierach if he has enough blue-wing emerger patterns? How many of his stories about blue-wings have I read? And how often does he write about fishing the South Platte, for goodness’ sake? 

To his credit, John just laughed, said he was set with flies and that he was excited for the trip. I hung up, feeling every bit the fool and hoping I could keep it together when I actually shared a boat with him.

Like so many of us, I connected with John’s writing in a way I never had with any other outdoor author. His writing spoke to what I love about fly fishing, and the fact his books were at Barnes & Noble made my burgeoning desire to be a trout bum feel all the more legitimate. I was 18 or 19 when I discovered his writing, and his stories were all the confirmation I needed that a life revolving around fly fishing was one worth living.

I had grand dreams of following John’s footsteps, writing books and fishing my way around the globe. I even put off going to college so I could spend more time fishing and writing, much to my mom’s consternation.

In the ignorance of youth, I overlooked that I’d need to be a fantastic writer if I were to make a living like John, and that John’s own writing career didn’t start until well after he was 19. Even then, as John freely admitted throughout his books, there’s a great deal of luck in the writing world, and being a good writer is no guarantee of making a living at it.

“All I know is that with the capable help of an agent, some editors and publishers, and a sympathetic accountant, I manage to make a living, although it’s not exactly clear how,” John wrote in No Shortage of Good Days. 

After leaving Salt Lake, we shot north into Wyoming and made a stop in Evanston for gas and food. While we waited at Arby’s, I asked John something about making a living as a writer. I don’t remember the question exactly, but I remember his answer verbatim:

“You’re just too damn impatient.”

Not the words an aspiring trout bum wants to hear, but they were certainly what I needed. I brooded a bit for the rest of the drive out of Wyoming and back into the northeast corner of Utah, to the small town of Dutch John.

The next few days passed in a blur of early-season fishing. We spent one day on a small creek where the fish weren’t fully awake after a long winter, but both John and Bob fished circles around me. I tried to stay out of the way, but I had this burgeoning desire to soak in as much as possible while watching John in his element: a small trout stream in the middle of nowhere.

I’m sure he felt harassed and annoyed at my behavior, but he never showed it.

Photo by Bob White.

I remember the first time I read Trout Bum. I was living in my grandparents’ basement, working odd jobs and spending the majority of my time fly fishing. Reading that book was a look at my ideal reality. It was concrete proof that the dream of fishing and writing wasn’t just a pie-in-the-sky idea, but an achievable goal.

I’d always wanted to be a writer, and for years I thought I’d write about sports. Right after graduating high school, I got an internship with the Utah Jazz as a feature writer, and spent that season interviewing NBA players and making a general fool of myself during live press conferences (I even got into a bit of a tiff with then-L.A. Clippers coach Doc Rivers after a playoff game, which was broadcast nationwide on TNT).

Then I read Trout Bum and realized I’d much rather write about fly fishing instead. I left sports writing behind (although I moonlighted in the world for a few years until I permanently moved to Wyoming) and set off in search of everything John’s stories stirred inside my soul.

The day after we fished that small creek, John, Bob, and I met up with Ryan Kelly and Charlie Card, two guiding legends in Dutch John. Bob got in Ryan’s boat, leaving John and me with Charlie. We set off from the Little Hole boat ramp, headed for the take out below Indian Crossing, on a predictably chilly day. The bugs weren’t out and the fish weren’t looking up, so we threw streamers in the deep pools and pockets while we waited for a midday hatch that might not materialize.

John fished with a laid-back attitude and a carefree joy that made me realize I took this whole thing too seriously. Don’t get me wrong—John wanted to catch fish, and he fished every run long and hard. But it wouldn’t break his heart if the fishing was slower than I’d initially promised.

I was on pins-and-needles, hoping the Green would show off and give John a good day. I’m not sure how many fish we put in the boat, but he never grumbled, even when the wind came up and bit through our waders and jackets.

If I’d listened to John that first night (“You’re too damn impatient”) I would’ve sat back, enjoyed the float, and appreciated the fishing for what it was—unpredictable early-season angling, where every fish is more of a surprise than we’d like to admit.

I’m not sure how many years passed between discovering John’s writing and fishing with him, but during that time I busied myself with trying to write the next great American fly fishing book. I pitched long, grandiose essays to every magazine under the sun, and while most editors simply passed, a few took the brave step of telling me I was going about it all wrong.

Then, one guy took a chance on me. Chad Shmukler, publisher over at Hatch Magazine, accepted one story. Then another. It’s been the better part of a decade now that I’ve written fly fishing stories, and while most of it has been gear reviews, Chad always entertained my ideas for the Gierach-style stories I longed to tell.

Only a few of those pitches ever saw the light of day, which was discouraging. Each rejection felt like a death blow to my career, but in hindsight, I’m glad Chad is the only one who suffered through reading those stories. As I fished and wrote, I conveniently ignored John’s advice at that Arby’s in Evanston:

“You’re just too damn impatient.”

In the ignorance of youth I assumed I not only had stories worth telling, but that I’d refined my skills to the point that people would pay to read what I wrote. There’s a monumental gap between publishing a gear review and writing a book of fly fishing essays, and to be honest, I don’t think I’ve crossed it yet.

It rained the entire drive from Dutch John back to Salt Lake. We stopped for coffee in Manila, Utah, a tiny town on the shores of Flaming Gorge Reservoir, and I passed the time listening to John and Bob catch up. Our few days of fishing had followed that same formula of tough but consistent success. A sparse midge and mayfly hatch sputtered into existence during the last afternoon, and I think John did use one of his many emergers to catch a few trout.

Spencer Durrant, left, and John Gierach getting ready for a day of fishing. Photo by Bob White.

They say you should never meet your heroes, and I was still smarting at John’s remark (which at the time, I didn’t see as the advice it actually was) about my impatience. Despite that, after I dropped John and Bob off at the airport, I wasn’t disappointed I’d arranged the trip. I wished I’d acted a bit more calm and collected, but I was happy it happened.

In the ensuing years I thought a lot about that time with John. I wondered if he’d ever want to fish together again, but I never got around to asking him. I wondered if he’d want to read my writing. I wondered if I’d bothered him too much, and should just leave him alone. In 2020, when he released Dumb Luck and the Kindness of Strangers, I was ecstatic to see he wrote about our trip in the second essay, “Shoulder Season.”

I meant to email him a thank-you for including the story (and my name, to boot) but I never did. Now, I’ll never get the chance.

In my home office, I have the Fall 2017 edition of TROUT Magazine framed and hanging above my fly tying desk. It’s open to the table of contents, where my byline is listed three rows below John’s. Looking at it now still feels surreal, because I never thought I’d be fit to be published in the same magazine as John Gierach. I know I’ll never be half the writer he was.

I framed that magazine to commemorate my first “‘big” story, and I didn’t even know John’s column would be there until my copies showed up in the mail. It feels a bit vain to have that framed, but I like having it around as a constant reminder of John’s advice, and evidence that I followed it.

For those of us who were inspired to take up fishing writing because of John, I don’t think any words will ever capture how grateful we are for him, or how his stories felt so familiar and comfortable, and never lost their luster.

I wouldn’t have the career I do today if it weren’t for John. His writing gave me the courage—maybe even the permission—to go out on the tenuous limb of writing professionally. It bothers me that I was such a fanboy during my only in-person time with him, but I can’t change the past.

I’m just grateful John shared so much of himself with so many of us.