Rest the Water: Remembering John Gierach

At least once a year I visit an ancient cedar grove on the banks of the Lochsa River where I fish for cutthroat trout.

This summer, a sudden microburst took out a 500-year-old tree, which now lies horizontally on the forest floor. In death there is life. The hole in the canopy provides more light for sword ferns, dogwood, and the health of its kin. It will feed the soil, birds, and other wildlife longer than I will be around. The death of a friend or family member is always a shock, and this tree that was standing on my last visit gave me the same feeling of loss I experienced when I heard the news of John Gierach’s passing. John’s death also will feed my soul through his memory and all the books he left behind.

Fly-Fishing Dreams

I was thirty-three years old when I read Trout Bum, and like many who read John’s book, I fantasized about becoming a trout bum myself. Although I didn’t quit my job or leave my family, I did make more time to fish with friends and my dad—my best fishing buddy, whom I fondly referred to as someone who could catch a trout in a parking-lot puddle. My dad was also my angling hero, the man who taught me how to fly fish and, more importantly, about the natural world and our home waters.

I remember my dad’s patience when I repeatedly brought my spinning rod to him, a prolific bird’s nest clogging the reel. My dad would ask, “How did you do that?” I would give him a blank, embarrassed look and reply, “I don’t know, Dad.”

In 2005, my best friend Paul Guernsey, the editor of Fly Rod and Reel magazine, asked me if I wanted to come to Maine to fish for landlocked salmon on the West Branch of the Penobscot River; I did not hesitate to say “Yes.” Paul added, “John Gierach and Jim Babb, editor of Gray’s Sporting Journal, are also going; is that okay?”

I took a few seconds to process what Paul had told me, thinking of my many trips to the woods and waterways of Maine. My dad introduced my mom, brother, and me to camping and fishing in the Moosehead Lake area, where I caught my first landlocked salmon below the dam at Brassua Lake. I remembered the thick forests of pine, spruce, fir, maple, and birch, cautious of walking too far into the woods for fear of getting lost. Returning to Maine’s pristine waters and forests would be a welcome break from the daily grind.

Of course, my answer was, “Wow, yes.” It was an opportunity to return to Maine, fish with my best friend and meet one of my fly-fishing heroes.

Into the North

I drove five hours from Connecticut to Paul’s house, and then Paul and I drove another three hours to the cabin on Frost Pond where we would all stay, close to the West Branch. We caught views of Mount Katahdin, the highest peak in Maine, the end of the Appalachian Trail, where Paul and I had hiked on high-school breaks. I was glad to be in Maine again.

Paul and I arrived first; Jim had to pick up John at Bangor airport, and they arrived a few hours later.

I recognized both men from their book-jacket photographs, and I tried not to act like a groupie when I shook John’s hand. (On the day John passed away, Paul reminded me of one of John’s comments on the trip: “Yeah, I’ve got groupies. Too bad they’re all 45 years old, and they’re all guys.”) My collection of his books still sat on the backseat of my truck. I especially wanted John to sign my hardback copy of The View From Rat Lake because Montana and the lake were on my bucket list. It took me three days to finally get the courage to take the books out of my truck and ask him to sign them.

I was John’s fishing partner for several days of our week-long outing. The fishing was not as great as my fishing expectations. The first few days, we caught a few landlocks of about eight or nine inches, which Mainers call “tiddlers.” A good landlock would be 20 inches, and a great one, anything over three pounds, would be worthy of bragging. The fish are sleek and range in color from silver to golden, with x-shaped markings and a forked tail. Hooking a landlock on a dry fly is exciting because of their acrobatic leaps, and their strong dives to the streambed are powerful, letting you know you have a worthy opponent on the line.

One day, John and I watched Jim and Paul, on the river’s opposite bank, catch a few fish while we were getting skunked. I stood ten yards upstream from John, when he motioned me to come over to where he was fishing. He took out a fly box and told me he would try something different just for the hell of it. Looking at his carefully arranged, beautifully tied artificial patterns of fur and feathers, I realized I had much more to learn about fly tying. John was somewhat disappointed that nothing was happening with the landlocks on our side of the river, so he tied on a sculpin pattern.

After a few casts, he had a fish on, and I saw the same excitement on John’s face as I’d seen on my daughter Ali’s the day she caught her first twenty-inch brown trout. John’s rod bent in a U shape, and after a few minutes, he brought a speckled, yellow-bellied brook trout to his net; a four-finger spread barely covered the tail, revealing the size of the brookie. It took me a few moments to register the excitement of the catch, and then I thought, “I just witnessed John Gierach catch a trout, rather than just reading about it in one of his stories.” It’s a visual I hold dearly decades later.

More than Fishing

The next day, the fishing improved—or we did—and John caught a 16-inch landlock while I landed a 10-incher.

When I hooked a second, slightly larger fish, John came over to watch, which made me nervous. I immediately snapped the fish off. Embarrassed, I continued to pound the same water, trying to make something happen to impress John.

After a few more casts, John said, “David, take a break, and let’s rest the water.” I have thought about that comment a lot over the years. I learned from John that resting the water is a way to fish and live one’s life, to take a break to observe, listen, and enjoy moments that pass quickly.

We sat by a tree and talked about fishing and the writing life, with an occasional glance at the river. John’s lesson came at the right time in my life, when my workaholic tendencies negatively affected my family and friends.

A few months after the trip, John sent me his typewritten manuscript of the story of our fishing trip, which later appeared in his book Still Life with Brook Trout. I was thrilled that I was mentioned by name, as were Paul and Jim, in chapter two. I finally made the big time in fishing literature and didn’t have to write anything. When I compared the manuscript to the story in the book, I was amazed at how little editing there was between the manuscript and the published story. I imagine John was an editor’s dream come true. It also taught me more about the hard work of writing.

Although it was not a great trip for fish caught, John summed it up best when he wrote, “I think most of us fish not so much to become one with nature—which sounds too much like an advertising slogan—but to be skillful at life as it actually is, however it turns out. I knew I was with the right bunch of guys because how it turned out that week finally struck us all as just funny as hell.”

Some parts of our trip were funny as hell, but I will leave it to the curious reader to discover that by reading John’s story.

I never got to fish with John again, but we did correspond for a time, and having met him, the memories of our one trip and reading his books gave me solace about his loss. As I think back on that trip, I am reminded why fishing has become a smaller part of why I fish now. The trip not only became a life lesson, but it also came at the right time in my life. The catch-and-keep of that fishing trip is not about loss or a release of grief, but a story that will exist in my memory—a story to share.

David Gallipoli (pronounced gal-i-PO-lee) is a photographer, writer, and activist who lives in McCall, Idaho. You can find his work at gonefishinstories.