Tournament Gear

The Deepest Amends

For the first time in three years I dialed her number. My mother answered the phone. I tried to speak, but my words, like a snagged fly, got stuck inside me. “Hello,” my mother repeated.

I freed my words. “It’s, it’s me.”

“Randy! It’s, it’s so good to, to …” My mother cried. Her tears swelled my guilt and drowned my voice. A long silence. My mother asked if I still drove a limousine. I remembered how she always yearned for me to become a doctor. Knowing my answer would pain her, I admitted I still drove.

Another silence. I hoped she would ask if I still wrote. She didn’t. So I told her I had published several fishing articles.

“Fishing? I didn’t know you were that into it.”

“During the last few years I’ve been.”

“I’m glad you found something you like,” she said sincerely, so sincerely I again hoped that she would make amends, finally.

She didn’t. She asked to meet. I told her I wasn’t ready to, but promised to call again. “I’ve, I’ve missed you so,” she said. I hung up, wondering if something was wrong with me because I couldn’t forgive her and agree to meet her. Like an opened dam, my questions let loose a rushing river of guilt inside me. Again, I tried to understand my mother’s violent rages, and, for some reason, I again tried to understand mankind’s violent wars.

I couldn’t, not once during the long, cold winter and the early spring. 

I packed for my fishing trip to the Beaverkill. Eleanor, my mother’s employee, called. Her words iced my feelings. I hung up, called the owner of the Roscoe Motel, apologized and said I had to cancel my reservation. He said he understood and would refund my deposit.

An hour later, I trance-walked down a white, hospital hallway. Strangely, the long hallway reminded me of a stream, but even though they shared a similar long, narrow shape, the hallway seemed like the opposite of a stream. It was colorless and lifeless, and made me feel boxed in. I looked straight ahead. Instead of seeing a beautiful run or long pool, I saw an open doorway. On the other side, my mother sat on a bed. She wore a floppy beach hat. I walked into her room. She looked at me and smiled. “Do you like my hat?” she asked. “It’s not exactly Saks Fifth Avenue.”

“Yes, I like it.” I thought of how, even without hair, she was still beautiful.

 ”Now I know why some men wear even bad toupees.” My mother laughed, momentarily. “I never thought I could get cancer, me, a woman who built her own business from the ground up. Are, are you sure you don’t want the business?”

I thought of saying yes and making her happy, but then thought, It’s taken me so long to get published. Do I really want to give up writing? I said, “I’m sorry, but your business is not for me.”

The doctor walked in. He was tall, probably in his late fifties. He wore a dark, pinstripe suit and looked more like a banker than a doctor. He motioned me to follow him out of the room. I did. He told me cancer was unpredictable, but in his opinion, my mother had about three months to live.

Not believing him, I asked, “How could this be happening?”

“I wish I had an answer. Your mother is very proud of you. I once wished I had the courage to become a writer.”

I thought it was ironic that my mother was always impressed by doctors, and now, her doctor, was impressed by writers.

“What do you write about?” he asked.

“Fishing.”

I expected him to laugh. He didn’t.

“When I was a boy,” he said, “I loved fishing with my father. But when I got older I resented that fishing seemed more important to him than I did, so I turned my back on fishing, until he got cancer. We fished together several times before he died. I’m so grateful we did.”

“I wish I could fish with my mother, but she was never the outdoor type.”

“Neither am I, but lately I’ve been thinking of getting into fly fishing and spending more time with myself. Fly fishing looks so beautiful and peaceful.”

Suddenly, he looked like a fly fisher, but then, to me, so did almost everyone. I said, “In the beginning fly fishing can be very frustrating, like golf.”

“I’ve heard fly fishing is a real art.”

“Well, then I guess I paint by numbers. To me, the beauty of fly fishing is that you can do it at different levels. Some anglers always try to match the hatch and are always changing flies and leaders, but a few anglers, well they’re less scientific. They fish for the beauty of it all. I remember I once met this old guy on the Beaverkill who fished only what we call an attractor fly, an Adams. He said that if he caught a few less fish, what did it matter in the end.”

“What kind of fly fisher are you?”

I thought a moment. “I’m relatively new to fly fishing, so I’m still not really sure. I guess, right now, I’m a little of everything.”

He smiled. “I like what you said about fishing on different levels. Sometimes I wish I could be a doctor on different levels, but if I did, well – you know I just can’t. How much would I have to spend for a good fly rod?”

“The technology has advanced so much that you can get something good for around three hundred dollars, maybe even less.”

We shook hands. I walked back into the room and looked out the window. The setting sun colored the East River orange and the sky pink. The orange reminded me of blood, the pink of flesh, and in my mind, the river became a big vein. I looked downstream, saw a fishing boat and realized that big, straight rivers could be as beautiful as winding trout streams. Suddenly, smoke streamed out of the huge chimneys of the Con Edison plant and dirtied the sky. Still I said, “What a view you have.”

“It’s not so great,” my mother disagreed.

Not arguing back, I stared at the river and wondered if, in the fall, I should buy a saltwater fly rod and fish the river for stripers. After all, big rivers were a lot closer in shape and form to trout streams than to hospital hallways. Are streams, I wondered, estranged children of big rivers? If so are they also searching for a way of making peace? But with my mother so sick, this isn’t a time to think about fishing or to reflect on rivers. Am I a bad son after all?

I walked to my mother. For the first time since I was fourteen, I touched her. She grabbed my hand.

I fought back tears and said, “I’m so, so sorry for detaching from you. Maybe if I hadn’t you wouldn’t be here.”

“Who knows why people get cancer. I want you to promise me that you won’t blame yourself.”

“I wish I could.”

“You have to. Besides, being sick is worth having you in my life again.”

I lied and said, “You’re going to be all right.”

“We’ll see. Your sister would love to hear from you.”

I thought of how my sister often lied and how my family always rewarded her by giving her more money—money she spent on drugs. I thought of how my family often told me that my sister was wonderful, and that I should be a better brother to her. I said, “I’m just not ready to call her.”

“Well maybe soon. In the meantime, I want to read your articles.”

“I don’t think you’ll like them. Most are about fly casting. One is about fly fishing the Bronx and Saw Mill Rivers.”

“I still want to see you what you wrote,” she insisted.

The next day I showed her the articles. She looked at one of the photos. “Is that you?”

“Yes. I’m fishing a pool in the Saw Mill River.”

“What a beautiful picture.”

“I used a tripod and took it myself.”

“I love your fly fishing hat. Can you get me one?”

“Sure.” I left the hospital, went to Orvis and bought my mother a hat. When she tried it on I held up a mirror. She looked at her reflection and smiled.

“I love it,” she said. “Too bad we can’t fish together.”

“Maybe soon we can.”

“I’m a klutz. Besides, don’t wait for me. If the weather’s nice I want you to take a break from visiting and go fishing.”

I didn’t feel like it, in spite of her words, but hoping to get my mind off her illness and the thought that my detachment may have caused it, I rode the train up to Hawthorne, climbed down a steep bank, and waded into the Saw Mill River, a stream I once described as having stretches as beautiful as any Montana stream. But as I fished my streamer straight downstream, toward the big, fallen tree, I didn’t see the Saw Mill’s beauty, didn’t see, for example, its high, mosaic-like roof formed by long branches and sun-brightened leaves. I saw only my mother lying in a hospital bed. Was it because as an overly eager writer I had unintentionally exaggerated the stream’s beauty? Or was it because a part of me, a big part, felt I didn’t deserve to see beauty or to feel close to it? Abruptly, I waded out of the stream, climbed up the steep bank, nearly fell, and walked to the train station.

A week or so later, I accidentally saw a medical ad for a new cancer treatment. And so soon afterwards, my mother underwent radiosurgery. Her tumors shrunk. My lies about her getting better became the truth. Grateful, I often visited my mother – my way of making amends – and became what she always wanted: a loving son, but still I couldn’t bring myself to call my sister, after I ran into her in the hospital and assumed she was stoned again.

My mother’s tumors erupted, and day after day I held her hand and told her a new truth: “I love you, and I’m grateful for all the good things you tried to do for me, grateful you’re my mother.” She squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.

My mother grew thinner and soon turned into a flesh-covered skeleton. But she never blamed me for her cancer. One day she said, “You should write a book.”

“I’ve already tried, many times but no one wanted them.”

“You can’t let the past write the future.”

Surprised at my mother’s insightful comment, I said, “Well for now I’m happy enough writing fishing articles and getting published.”

“I want you to be happy. Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“After I’m gone can you promise me you’ll call your sister once a week?”

“You’re not dying.”

“We all are. Will you promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

My mother smiled and squeezed my hand.

A week later she died. I expected to fall into a quicksand of grief, but the strange thing was I didn’t, so I told myself  maybe it was because I had a lot of time to come to terms with my mother’s passing, then I wondered if I was just too terrified to face the horrible truth: my detachment was the cause of my mother’s death.

So I guess I was looking for an escape. I found it by writing a story about an innocent angler who grows up fly fishing and cherishing the beauty of the Beaverkill River. World War Two  erupts like a cancer, and the angler feels he wants to fight evil, so he enlists. After the war he returns a different person.

I put the story away, but during the next few months the story grew in my mind and turned into an historical, fly-fishing novel about the angler’s father, a man who can’t make peace with the world, and who retreats into fishing and into teaching literature. Afraid of conflict, he wonders if he’s a coward. And so does his son. To prove he’s not a coward, the son enlists. The father blames himself and a war-filled world he can’t understand. Years later the father learns to accept a world he can’t understand, and to see beauty in nature and in man’s discoveries, often by accident, of life-improving technologies, like radiosurgery.

I finished a first draft of the book. Proud, feeling like I was doing what my mother wanted, I decided to reward myself and take a short trip to the Beaverkill.

The next day I drove to my favorite pool: Barnhart’s. I looked upstream at the fast, riffled mouth, then downstream at the slow, smooth tail. In the pool I saw a reflection of my mother: a once- raging woman who, because of cancer, finally calmed in the tail years of her life. Suddenly I was grateful that rivers couldn’t get tumors and wither and die, grateful that, thanks to nature’s way, rivers were stronger than men and women.

I wondered, is it the strength, the eternity of this river now bringing me back to fishing? Am I hoping to, in some way, borrow traits from the river?

I walked along the bank to the tail, thinking how the pool played a small, but important part, in my book, then I wondered if rivers, like people, could really play parts other than the ones nature assigned them. Wading into the river, I thought of how beautiful Barnhart’s looked in spite of the highway on top of its high bank, and of how the river’s other pools, Ferdon’s, Covered Bridge, Junction, were probably equally beautiful. I thought of how the Westchester streams I fished were, in their way, as beautiful as the Beaverkill.

Yes, it doesn’t seem as if rivers can be beautiful on very different levels, but if they can, does it mean those on the lower levels don’t have any beauty and a reason to be?

No, I answered.

I didn’t see a hatch. I opened one of my fly boxes and stared at about thirty different nymphs. Suddenly I remembered what I had told the doctor about how fishing can be done on different levels. I opened another fly box, picked out an Adams and tied it on. I pulled line off my reel and cast to the far bank. My line and fly splashed simultaneously on the water. I had forgotten to aim my cast slightly downward. Though my cast was less than perfect, I thought I could still get a good drift. I mended, watched my Adams float downstream and wondered if boys and men could be sons and brothers on different levels and, no matter what level they chose, be equally okay. Something, maybe my mother’s recent passing, told me no.

My line bowed downstream. It was too late to mend. I retrieved line and again cast.

My Adams turned over. My line landed on the water, then my fly, gently. George M. L. La Branche, a real character with a part in my book, would have been proud.

Again I watched my Adams. Yes, I have made mistakes I wish I could erase or fix like a bad cast, but at least I was with my mother all through her long illness. At least, I have come to see that she, like the protagonist in my novel, did the best she could, and so did I. And thankfully, I have also come to see that making amends is like fishing. We can choose, unlike rivers, to do it on different levels.

About the Author

I’m a native New Yorker. My writing has appeared in many publications, including The Flyfisher, Flyfishing & Tying Journal and Fishing And Hunting News. I’m also the author of the historical novel, The Fly Caster Who Tried To Make Peace With the World.

     Much of my writing is about the techniques of spin and fly casting and about the spirituality/recovery of fly fishing. I often fish the streams of Westchester, the piers of New York City and the lakes of Central Park.

Orvis Hooked On Fly Fishing, OET Elk Trout Lodge, Colorado [VHS] $19.95 Fishing the headwaters of the Colorado River… Marty Cecil, fly fishing coordinator and head guide for Elk Trout Lodge takes Gwenn Perkins to some private water on the Colorado for dry fly and streamer fishing for large native rainbows, browns and cut-bow hybrids. Excellent Instruction… On the knots, fishing techniques and local hatches. Marty demonstrates tying a blood knot and David Perki…

The L.L. Bean Ultimate Book of Fly Fishing $12.34 The Lyons Press is proud to present The L.L. Bean Ultimate Book of Fly Fishing, an exciting full-color book for beginning and expert fly anglers alike. Brought to you in conjunction with L.L. Bean, America’s most trusted name in outdoor apparel, and written by unquestioned experts in the field, this book is divided into four essential parts–General Fly Fishing, Fly Fishing for Bass, Fly Casting, …

The Orvis Fly-Fishing Guide, Completely Revised and Updated with Over 400 New Color Photos and Illustrations $12.34 A fully updated, completely revised edition of a classic that’s helped more than 200,000 anglers learn or improve upon the basics of fly fishing. More than 400+ new full color images will make it even easier for thousands more anglers to enjoy learning this great pastime. Heralded as the absolute best source on all aspects of fly fishing. Fly fishing guide by Tom Rosenbauer. Art by Bob White. Soft…

The Orvis Guide to Prospecting for Trout: How to Catch Fish When There’s No Hatch to Match, Revised Edition $11.35 Great for beginning and expert anglers Learn how trout live and feed Get trout to strike Updated with state-of-the-art techniques All-new color photography Detailed illustrations “The Orvis Guide to Prospecting for Trout” is a valuable resourc…

Trout Skin Plastic Fly Box With Reference Foam / Only Trout Skin Plastic Fly Box Lightweight and great looking foam fly boxes with trout skin designs impregnated into the box. Six rows of 17 reference-foam slots houses 102 flies. Metal hinge pin and independent latch for durability. Plastic fly boxes in rainbow, brook, and brown trout. 5⅜”L x 3 1/2 “W x 1 1/4 “D….

Trout Print Fly Boxes Organize up to 228 flies in each of these fly boxes. Aluminum cases. Slotted foam holds flies in place easily with the pre-set holes for quick placement. 12 rows. Aluminum fly boxes in brookie, brown, rainbow. Dimensions: 6″L x 3 1/2 “W x 1 1/16″D….

Fly Box + 100 Assorted Fly Fishing Fly Package $69.99 The essential selection of fly box and fly fishing flies if you’re fishing for trout, steelhead, or salmon. There are enough assorted flies in this package to allow you to fly fish just about any freshwater river or stream all year round. The fly patterns and sizes chosen in this set are the most effective patterns and are a must have in every fly fisherman’s fly box. Please see pictures on fly pa…

2 Fly Boxes + 100 Assorted Fly Fishing Flies $84.99 The essential selection of fly fishing flies if you’re fishing for trout, steelhead, or salmon. There are enough assorted flies in this package to allow you to fly fish just about any freshwater river or stream all year round. The fly patterns and sizes chosen in this set are the most effective patterns and are a must have in every fly fisherman’s fly box. Please see pictures on fly patterns…

100 Assorted Barbless Dry and Nymph Fly Fishing Flies $56.99 The essential selection of fly fishing flies if you’re fishing for trout, steelhead, or salmon. There are enough assorted flies in this package to allow you to fly fish just about any freshwater river or stream all year round. The fly patterns and sizes chosen in this set are the most effective patterns and are a must have in every fly fisherman’s fly box. Please see pictures on fly patterns and s…

Ultra Fly Tying Wire Size Brassie Ultra Wire in size Brassie is non-tarnishing copper wire. Great for ribbing, or building a fly like the Copper John, or an all wire fly like the Iron Midge. Since Ultra Wire is a non-tarnishing wire, the colors will remain rich, vibrant, and bold long after your flies have been tied. You can expect their color to remain true for their entire life in your fly box….

The Orvis Ultimate Book of Fly Fishing $56.48 THE ORVIS ULTIMATE BOOK OF FLY FISHING is a grand tour of the world of fly-fishing strategies and techniques, from Orvis`s world-famous team of experts and advisors. In large format with rich and helpful color photos and drawings, the book covers everything from basic fishing knots and casts to expert techniques you won`t see in standard books. Besides trout technique and secrets for rivers and lakes, the book also covers the worlds of fly fishing for bonefish, striped bass, permit, bluefish, largemouth bass, smallmouth bass, and steelhead. Learn how to nymph for steelhead from Matt Supinski. Find out how to catch the elusive permit from Jack Samson. Take a lesson from John Shewey on swinging a classic wet fly for West Coast steelhead. Learn how to find stripers along Northeast beaches from Lou Tabory. Find out which knots work best for saltwater fly fishing. Tom Rosenbauer will tell you how to read a trout stream and approach the fish, then discover his secrets for catching trout on dry flies and nymphs. Jim Lepage shares his knowledge on catching trout in ponds and lakes, then Bill Tapply will tell you how to catch freshwater bass on flies. Polish your fly casting with world expert Tom Deck. All this and much more in the most comprehensive and attractive book in the Orvis line.

The Orvis Guide to Prospecting for Trout by Rosenbauer, Tom Edition ILL,REV, 2 $21.99 Here is a comprehensive guide divulging the secret to catching trout when they are not rising–by the author of the bestselling book, The Orvis Fly-Fishing Guide. In this handy and readable reference, Tom Rosenbauer shares his vast knowledge of fly fishing when there is no hatch. Written for the novice and the seasoned angler, it is loaded with useful photographs and illustrations. Illustrations.

The Orvis Pocket Guide to Fly Fishing for Stillwater Trout $12.71 This book is in New – Excellent condition

The Orvis Guide to Small Stream Fly Fishing By Rosenbauer, Tom $37.25 A guide to fishing small trout streams offers tips on finding small streams, reading the water, fly selection and special tackle, and small stream casting. Author: Rosenbauer, Tom Publication Date: 2011/04/12 Number of Pages: 207 Binding Type: Hardcover Language: English Depth: 1.00 Width: 9.50 Height: 12.00

The Orvis Guide to Small Stream Fly Fishing by Rosenbauer, Tom Edition ILL, 0 $26.49 The definitive and comprehensive guide to fishing small trout streams throughout North America. Tired of the famous and crowded rivers, today’s anglers have a greater desire to get close to nature while staying closer to home. The Orvis Guide to Small Stream Fly Fishing provides all the information for finding and fishing unspoiled gems found everywhere from wilderness areas to suburban backyards. These often overlooked streams are abundant throughout the United States, and range from the Appalachians—from Maine to Georgia—to northern Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, the Black Hills of South Dakota, the entire Rocky Mountain region from Montana to northern Arizona, and the Cascade and Sierra Nevada ranges. As more fishing is done close to home, small trout streams, or third-order streams as described by hydrologists, are thirty times as abundant as the bigger, more famous trout streams and most of them are on public land, making them more accessible. This beautifully illustrated and definitive resource explains the small stream environment, how to find these streams, how small-stream trout behave, how to read the water, special casts, fly selection, and how to present the fly in all types of small streams. With this book, anglers can find and catch wild trout far off the beaten path.

The Orvis Vest Pocket Guide to Caddisflies by Pobst, Dick Edition ILL, 1 $20.99 Based on the original Orvis Caddisfly Handbook, this wholly revised title is small and light enough to carry along for use on the water. Caddisflies are as crucial a trout food as mayflies or baitfish, and any serious trout angler needs to know these insects well. Detailed descriptions and photographs of the major caddisfly species will direct the angler toward correct insect identification and fly-pattern choice.

Orvis Fly Pattern Index: Complete and Unabridged $4 Used – This comprehensive text includes 455 detailed, full-color photographs of trout, salmon, and saltwater flies as tied by Orvis. Included are pattern descriptions, helpful tying hints, and complete specifications for hooks and materials.

Prospecting for Trout $4.17 Used – Easy to understand and accessible, this comprehensive instructional book is certain to improve any fly-fisherman’s technique, as the author of The Orvis Fly-Fishing Guide and Reading Trout Streams sheds new light on fly fishing for trout through observation of their feeding behavior. Photographs and line drawings.