Royal Coachman
by Kitty Boots
I knew I'd find the Herter's catalog in my parent's bathroom. It was on top of the stack of Field and Stream magazines by the toilet. George Leonard Herter's catalog was full of pictures of big game he'd bagged on safari, survival tips, recipes for cooking anything you caught or killed, taxidermy supplies and all the hunting and fishing equipment you'd ever need.
Daddy ordered his fishing gear from Herter's when he started getting serious about fishing. He had several rods and reels, a minnow bucket, a cricket cage. A pair of waders and a creel hung in the garage. His tackle box contained spoons and spinners, and my favorite, a Hula Popper.
We'd always fished together. He took me to farm ponds, the smelly South River and the dark, cold Upper Sherando Lake. Our next fishing trip would be different, he said. He'd ordered a fly rod and a fly-tying kit. We were going after rainbow trout.
The rod and reel arrived in the mail with the fly-tying kit. It was exciting--all the different colored feathers, thread, pieces of fur and hooks. Daddy set up a vise on our kitchen table. I watched as he wound gut, thread, fur and feathers into a fly. The first one he made he gave to me. He said it was the most popular fly, a "Royal Coachman".
We spent evenings after dinner practicing our casts in the backyard, he with his fly rod, me with my Zebco rig. I loved to watch him whip the line through the air, a faint "whoosh", his wrist flicking.
Swift moving oxygen-rich waters are perfect for trout. The St. Mary's River was our destination. White water tumbled and gushed over rocks. We walked along the river looking for deep, quiet pools under a canopy of trees. Looking down into a sun-dappled pool, I could see trout, hovering. Daddy put his finger to his lips, a signal for me to quit talking. He waded into the river. I fished from the bank with my Royal Coachman.
The trout hit my fly as it touched the surface of the pool. "Daddy, Daddy, I caught one!", I screamed. "Set the hook," he shouted. I jerked the rod and slowly reeled the trout in. Daddy netted it for me. With a smile he nodded at me and said, "You know what to do." I wet my trembling hands in the river and took hold of the trout, trying to be gentle as I removed the hook. Lowering the trout in the water, I held it for a few seconds. Mouth open, fins moving, gills working. In a flash of silver and pink it was gone.
Daddy ordered his fishing gear from Herter's when he started getting serious about fishing. He had several rods and reels, a minnow bucket, a cricket cage. A pair of waders and a creel hung in the garage. His tackle box contained spoons and spinners, and my favorite, a Hula Popper.
We'd always fished together. He took me to farm ponds, the smelly South River and the dark, cold Upper Sherando Lake. Our next fishing trip would be different, he said. He'd ordered a fly rod and a fly-tying kit. We were going after rainbow trout.
The rod and reel arrived in the mail with the fly-tying kit. It was exciting--all the different colored feathers, thread, pieces of fur and hooks. Daddy set up a vise on our kitchen table. I watched as he wound gut, thread, fur and feathers into a fly. The first one he made he gave to me. He said it was the most popular fly, a "Royal Coachman".
We spent evenings after dinner practicing our casts in the backyard, he with his fly rod, me with my Zebco rig. I loved to watch him whip the line through the air, a faint "whoosh", his wrist flicking.
Swift moving oxygen-rich waters are perfect for trout. The St. Mary's River was our destination. White water tumbled and gushed over rocks. We walked along the river looking for deep, quiet pools under a canopy of trees. Looking down into a sun-dappled pool, I could see trout, hovering. Daddy put his finger to his lips, a signal for me to quit talking. He waded into the river. I fished from the bank with my Royal Coachman.
The trout hit my fly as it touched the surface of the pool. "Daddy, Daddy, I caught one!", I screamed. "Set the hook," he shouted. I jerked the rod and slowly reeled the trout in. Daddy netted it for me. With a smile he nodded at me and said, "You know what to do." I wet my trembling hands in the river and took hold of the trout, trying to be gentle as I removed the hook. Lowering the trout in the water, I held it for a few seconds. Mouth open, fins moving, gills working. In a flash of silver and pink it was gone.
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Author's Note
Augusta County, Virginia, 1966.
Long before Bass Pro Shop and the classic,
A River Runs Through It, there was the Herter's catalog and my dad, classics in their own right!
Other stories by Kitty Boots
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Love this. The last four sentences brought tears.
...actually the tears include the screaming and shouting, which, I must believe, sent the rest of the trout on a desperate run for their lives. Letting the one you caught go, tho...tuff thing for a child. Altho the first bullhead I caught came home with me and died a day or two later in the fish bowl I'd fixed up for him.
Great story.
Vivid recollection.
Thanks, Matt. We kept very few of what we caught. If we wanted to keep them, the rule was we had to clean what we caught. My dad had such a reverence for rainbow trout that he rarely kept them. It was the fight and thrill of the catch for him.
Thank you, David.
Thank you, Gary.
Good stuff, Kitty.
I love this. Yes, many memories all around.*
I expect your dad would have walked out of the movie "Anatomy of a Murder" after the opening scene. The Jimmy Stewart character returns from a weekend trout-fishing trip, wraps his catch in newspapers and sticks them in the fridge, which is already stuffed with trout. Love to catch them, but not t
...not eat them. (sorry, laptop's acting screwy this morning.
Beautiful story, Kitty. And so well-written. ***
* Nice one, Kitty. I like the ending best, perhaps because I know we never, or almost never, let them go. My first "real" rig, btw, was a Zebco. But the first fish I caught was with the proverbial Tom Sawyer-ish willow pole, cut on the banks of Lake Chelan by my dad, to which he tied about ten feet of line (and I wanna say the hook he made from a safety pin he borrowed from Mom, but it was prob'ly a real hook, damn it). Bait was undoubtedly a worm. I remember he didn't believe me when I yelled, "Got one!"
I wish I remembered whether or not I let it go.
Perfect.*
Augusta County is beautiful country. Yes.
"In a flash of silver and pink it was gone."
Enjoyed this piece. The closing image rattled to mind - "The Song of Wandering Aengus" by Yeats.
The trout hit my fly as it touched the surface of the pool. "Daddy, Daddy, I caught one!" I screamed. "Set the hook," he shouted. I jerked the rod and slowly reeled the trout in. Daddy netted it for me. With a smile he nodded at me and said, "You know what to do." I wet my trembling hands in the river and took hold of the trout, trying to be gentle as I removed the hook. Lowering the trout in the water, I held it for a few seconds. Mouth open, fins moving, gills working. In a flash of silver and pink it was gone.
Wonderful, Kitty!
*
Thank you, Jill, Tim, Rachna, Ray, Jenny, Sam and Bill for reading and commenting on my little fishing story!
*, Kitty. Excellent writing. Excellent story. This one is particularly affecting to me. My son and I have annually spent many President's day weekends bass fishing on Lake Okeechobee.
Simply, beautifully written memory, Kitty. ***
Thank you, David
Thank you, Nonnie
Nice story, Kitty, though the last paragraph is a little too close to "Big Two-Hearted River" for comfort.
Thanks for reading, Daniel. I'll try to get my ands on a copy of the story. Royal Coachman is an true account of fishing with my dad when I was younger. I hope it doesn't appear that I've lifted from the Hemingway story.