FISHERMAN FRIENDS AND A FLY BOX

FISHERMAN FRIENDS AND A FLY BOX

by

Dick Alley

              Art Bradley was a fisherman friend who always had a great sense of humor. He liked both fresh and salt water fishing, tied his own trout flies, was a big hockey fan and kids coach and all-around good guy.

            For a few seasons, Art showed up at Nickerson Park Campground on the Natchaug River in northern Connecticut, usually accompanied by a couple of friends, "Frank "(last name escapes me) and Artie Schultz. Most times they were only a few sites distant from our own campsite, where Ed Stalling, Bob Byers, my son Todd and I always opened the season.

           We always had a great time, sharing coffee, beer, snacks, Jack Daniels and a roaring campfire as fishing hours, weather and social time dictated. In other words, we would fish until the cold April waters numbed our legs beyond feeling and then struggle to the riverbank and warm up by the fire. As each of us experienced different degrees of endurance, whoever happened to be out of the water at a given time would pile wood on the fire. It was a toss-up as to whether we more enjoyed the campfire conversations or the fishing, but usually the two were related. Sometimes the fishing would slow, but there was seldom a time that good conversation lagged. 
         On this one opening day, we first gathered shortly after a sizzling breakfast of bacon, eggs, home fries and onions, and within an hour found ourselves anxious to head back out into the river. Ed and I opted for the stretch of river directly in front of the site. Bob headed down to the big pool by the rec hall with his spinning rod and Art and friends walked upstream about a hundred yards to fish the faster water.

Ed Stalling and Bob Byers unloading their gear for a trout fishing weekend.

              It was a typical fishing opener. After that first fast flurry, angling settled in and the bite slowed. Ed and I were both using fly rods at the time, although we often alternated our choice of tackle throughout every day. Art, Frank and Artie were fly-fishing devotee's, not an easy chore in the cold spring waters. Ed and I each hooked a trout or two over the next half hour, but it wasn't long before the numbing cold once again penetrated the waders and the long johns. We were wading back to the river bank when Ed spotted something floating on the surface, reached out with his net and snagged a fly box. It was full of flies, all wet, but none the worse for wear and he shoved it into the pocket of his vest, "Maybe the owner will turn up," he remarked, adding, "that's a nice bunch of flies."

        With lunchtime approaching and fishing slowing down, it was time to remove the fishing gear and relax. Ed poured some coffee, while I popped the top on a beer. We piled a bunch of wood on the fire, pulled up a couple of chairs and absorbed the warmth of the fire. A few minutes later, Art, Frank and Artie wandered in.

Artie Schultz with a typical spring trout.

        "How'd you guys do," asked Ed? Frank displayed a beautiful rainbow about 13-inches long that had smacked a weighted Hare's Ear nymph, bounced along the bottom. Artie Schultz told of releasing a fish and one other hit. Art was unsmiling. " I lost my favorite fly box," he muttered. Ed looked at me, stifling a grin as he rose from his chair and walked to the camper where his vest and waders hung.

       "How did you do that", I asked? "Damn water was cold," answered Art. My fingers were cold and I was trying to hold the fly box in two fingers while tying the fly on, when splat---the box fell from my hand, hit the water and disappeared in the current." Art continued on, talking about the flies he had tied and the fish those flies had taken and never saw Ed approaching from the rear. Suddenly, Ed reached out over his shoulder and dropped the fly box into Art's lap. We all laughed and smiled as Art stopped talking picked up the box, opened it and turned to see Ed with a big grin on his face. He took Ed's hand, thanking him over and over.

            Ed passed away five years ago and Art died last week. I like to think they're both up there right now, telling great fishing stories, especially the one about the box of flies. It's only part of what makes this sport much more than the simple act of catching a fish now and then.

                                                          DWA