Dedication To My Grandfathers

Lawerance Boyd Fishing Story Continued:

Your Grandpa Boyd dutifully led us back to Trout Creek or some other remote stream miles from South River. (Remember, I warned anyone that reads this that the facts and details escape me).

Mostly, I remember the misery—ours, not the fishes. Your uncle Larry was along, so he can confirm or deny my account. Since he was nine years older than me at the time (and still is), he must remember this misadventure better than I do. I don’t remember if your father, my brother, Bill was there and surely don’t wish to offend him by not including him in the story. If he didn’t go along, lucky for him because things went from bad to worse, and worse than worse.

It was true then and probably remains so today that the idea of fishing is not the same thing as actually going fishing. What I mean is that when you think about going fishing, all these fantasies start popping up in your head—like the huge fish you are going to catch and the wonderful sunshine and scenery that will stir your soul. It makes you want to thank God for putting you on this wonderful earth, even if for a relatively short time. Before you head out to go fishing, as was the case with our entourage, the sense of anticipation blocks out any alternative possibility, like not catching a damn thing or being wet and cold in the rain the stupid weatherman forgot to forecast.

(click photo for larger view +)

Anyway, let me shorten this story. We (Grandpa Boyd, Larry, and I) left the car and tramped our way back into the woods to find just the right fishing hole, the one filled with speckled trout ready to leap onto stream’s bank they are so hungry. I was lost after a mile or so, but not worried because my father, your Grandpa Boyd, was an expert backwoodsman. I had already ingested all the mythical stories about when he was a kid, his horse Copper (I think that was the name), and how he traipsed around the woods in unbelievably cold northern Ontario winter. Grandpa Boyd was tough and so was Larry, to put it as simply as a man can.

Thank God it was mid-summer at the time of my story. Whatever happened we weren’t going to freeze our “you know what’s” off. The flies and mosquitoes were happy it was not winter too. But, you put up with that kind of annoyance on a grand quest to fill your bag with scrumptious trout. We may have walked twenty-five miles to get to the fishing hole (probably two at most).

Anyway, let me shorten this story. I wish I could embellish this fishing story with an account of a bear attack, but nothing as dramatic as that happened. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Your Grandpa was in his glory. Nothing would please him more than being out in nature with his sons. The sky was blue and the sun bright. We were warm in our companionship and camaraderie.

That was, until the black clouds starting moving in and the temperature started dropping. I don’t remember if we had planned to stay in the woods overnight, but that we did. I can’t recall if we had the proper equipment. We must not have had a tent, but a raincoat or two, and some sandwiches, beer (of course), and soda. Larry probably was commissioned to be a porter, a job he would willingly assume, in the spirit of fatherhood and “son-hood.” When the rain started, it came lightly at first. Ingenious backwoods survivor that he was, your Grandpa Boyd gathered some wooden limbs and constructed a makeshift lean-to. On the limbs, he spread the raincoat(s) to shelter us from the rain. I may have prayed the rain went away, but if I did, my prayer wasn’t answered. In fact, God must have misunderstood, although he is supposed to be perfect and incapable of miscommunication. By the middle of the night, the rain drenched our little camping area. I also recall the place we laid down to sleep on was on the side of a hill. Not only were we getting wet, but ready to slide down the slope to who knows what fate below.

By morning, I had learned something profound from your Grandfather: “Every man for himself!” Both Larry and I did not sleep a wink. The rain, the cold, your Grandfather’s snoring conspired to torment us all night long. However, the real rub was not those things. Grandpa Boyd kept pulling the covers over himself, whenever he felt cold or the wet seeping past the leaning contraption he had made to shelter us (him). By morning, I was dead tired, frozen, and angry. Larry probably was the same, but I don’t remember him saying anything. Oh, that was another lesson I learned: “Suffer in silence.”

We were amazed when morning arrived and the sun came out. Your Grandpa awoke early in his usual cheerful mood and was cooking Trout for breakfast. He had slept like a baby, I concluded. We still had time to do some more fishing before heading back to civilization.

Jack Boyd January 31, 2005.