A while back, one of the regular members of the board lamented the insurgence of new members who appeared only interested in buying/selling gear on the Classified forum of the campfire.
As that was all I had done up to the present, I decided to contribute some content.
Hope this suffices,
KP
In Tribute�I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion. Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don't want to waste the trip. Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters. Because in the woods I can find solitude without loneliness. ... And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.� Robert Traver
While I can find no immediate reference that would indicate that John Voelker (Traver's birth name) was ever a hunter, I find it easy to switch the words "mule deer" or "grouse" for "trout" in his excellent quote about trout fishing. I feel he would, were he still among us, likely agree with me.
Voelker was born two years before my grandfather. I never met him, and frankly have yet to read any of his books (although I will.) He was, by all accounts, a great man and a passionate outdoorsman who walked away from the pinnacle experience of his career (a Michigan state Supreme Court justice) to write about fishing.
I admire that.
What I wish to write about today though, in the context of the beauty that is Montana, another man of the law for whom I have a deep admiration. He has passed from this world, but I have the privilege of carrying his legacy. Like Voelker, Norman was part of America's "Greatest Generation," the term Tom Brokaw coined to describe those great Americans who lived through the Great Depression, rose to the challenges of World War II, and who arguably made the greatest contribution to the growth of our country during the post-war years.
I met Norman perhaps sixteen years ago when I still owned a fly fishing outfitting business. Initially, his trip to northwest Montana was arranged by his youngest son Greg. It was to be the beginning a series of annual trips over the final ten years of Norm's life.
The premise was simple enough. Norman, Greg, and Norman's oldest son Steve wanted to get together and recreate the special times that only fathers and sons know "in the field." Greg and Steve were in their forties, Norman in his sixties, and life, career, and time all conspired against their cherished time together. And so it came to be that, for a few days each October, the three of them would coordinate their respective calendars, board separate jets in different cities to join together for some deeply meaningful time together on the river. By getting "away from it all," they came together in a way that too few really know.
I misstated a fact here. Norman and "the boys" came out annually during the final ten years of Norman's life with two exceptions. While I would not know the reason at first, as time passed and our client/guide relationships grew into friendships, I was made aware of the fact that Norman was slowly dying. His cancer, while initially manageable, required aggressive chemotherapy that left him too weak to make the trip during two of those ten years. Indeed, during his last trip he sat while he fished, too weakened by the battle within to stand in the prow of the boat.
Through it all, we had a great deal of fun. With three anglers, two boats were required. At various points throughout the day, we would pull to the bank and engage in a peculiar "Chinese firedrill." This generally involved a great deal of good natured debate about "who fished with whom" last and what combination of anglers, boats, and guides had yet to be employed. Invariably, the number and size of fish were thrown about to see who was leading in the imaginary contest for "first, most, and largest." Laughter was the most common form of communication, and my face ached from smiling at the end of most days.
My favorite experience with Norman occurred near the end of long and unusually fishless day. We'd thrown every fly in the box, and the river was particularly meager, yielding only the occasional "dink." The mood was uncharacteristically grim, and I didn't know what to do to improve either the catching or the dark cloud that hung over our collective mood.
Greg was in the front of the boat, and Norman was in the back. With less than a quarter mile of river remaining, Greg's fly vanished in a toilet bowl swirl. The fly bit into Leviathan's jaw, and twenty four inches of ruby-sided malice burst from the water's surface.
"That's a MONSTER!" Greg exclaimed as the line ripped a rooster tail across the surface.
Then all hell broke loose.
It began subtly enough. I felt the balance of the boat shifting as I watched Greg fighting his fish. Norman said "Turn this way a bit buddy so I can see your face." He was standing behind me, camera at the ready.
What occurred next seemed to be in super slow motion. Greg turned his head slightly, smiling for the camera. Instantly, he expression switched to horror. In the next milliseconds, he shouted "[bleep]!", dropped his rod tip directly toward the surging rainbow and yanking back hard, deliberately breaking off the fish. He then reached out directly over the top of my head, arm outstretched in complete futility. I was confused, not understanding what was going on.
...until I heard the splash behind me, and I knew that Norman had fallen out of the boat.
Newton's third law of physics states, "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." Thus, when Norman tumbled out of the boat in one direction, the boat was pushed in the opposite direction. I turned to see the fountain of bubbles erupting from the center of where Norman was submerged. Almost instantly, his head popped up in the center of them and he uttered three words I really didn't want to hear.
"I can't swim!"
I spun the boat HARD, bending the shafts of the wooden oars under the strain of an adrenaline-laced haul. Two strokes later and I launched out of my seat for the back of the boat where I was able to grab first the back of Norman's waders, and then his hand. Greg apparently had jumped into the boatman's seat and was rowing like a madman for the shore while I spoke reassuringly to a shaken Norman. "I've got you Norman. We're going to get you to the bank and into the boat."
Norman quickly realized that he was going to be fine and turned his attention to his digital camera, still slung around his neck and now dangling a foot below the clear water's surface.
"Damn," he said. "That's the SECOND camera I've ruined this year!"
We laughed in relief as Greg continued to row with all his might.
"Kelly! We're stuck! What's wrong? I can't get us to the bank!"
I turned my attention from Norman to Greg, and then to the anchor release on the floor between his feet. Somewhere in the pandemonium one of us had stepped on it, releasing the full length of anchor rope.
Greg was trying to row an anchored boat.
Norman threw his head back and howled with laughter. "Greg, what the hell is wrong with you? Don't you know you can't row a boat with the anchor out?"
We laughed until the tears ran down our faces. It really wasn't all that funny in and of itself, but the relief from the tension we'd been feeling and the adrenaline that followed made the moment unbearably hilarious.
Greg pulled up the anchor and we got Norman to shore. I have no idea how many gallons of water were in his waders, but he was shivering, soaked and cold. I keep a towel and an extra fleece jacket under the front bench of the boat, so we rubbed Norman as dry as we could, got him in the boat, and in less than five minute we were at the boat ramp where their rental car, and all of the luggage, was waiting.
After Norman was in his own dry clothes and in the heated car, his oldest son Steve came to me with two wet Benjamins in his hand. As he gave me my tip (obviously from Norman's wallet) he winked and said. "Be careful. I think that money's been laundered."
Several years and several fine fishing trips passed after this event. For the most part, Norman looked good and fished and laughed in the company of his sons. However, it was clear, although subtle, that he was fading. He stood less and sat more, spent more time gathering in the beauty of the valley, sometimes even missing hooksets as his fly drifted, unattended. While we would tease him about the missed opportunity, the humor was tinged by the realization that Norman was looking upon the mountains with the realization that he would not be seeing them again.
Two years ago, Greg called me a few days before Christmas. He got right to the point.
"Kelly, I hope you don't mind, but it would really mean a lot to Dad if you were to call him on Christmas day. Are you OK with that? I don't want to impose on your holiday or family time..."
I told him I'd be honored to call. Greg informed me that Norman was generally "at his best" in mid morning, so at 10:00 Christmas morning, I called. We visited about the times we spent together, the fun we'd had and the wonder of the natural world. Norman told me what a privilege it had been to know me, and to share his time with his sons with me.
I choked out that privilege had been all mine.
Norman passed early the following February.
Perhaps 18 months after Norman died, I got a call from Greg.
"Hey Kelly. We've just gotten around to going through Norman's things. Dad had an old WInchester model 12 that's in remarkable condition. I was talking it over with Mom and Steve, and we think it would make Norman happy if that gun was with you in Montana."
Again, the privilege was all mine.
A few weeks later, Norman's shotgun arrived. And, while I took it out a time or two to shoot clay pigeons, I was reluctant to take it afield. Certainly I would never take it duck hunting. I can't imagine running steel down the bore or having the stock split due to too much moisture.
However, with time, I came to the conclusion that I needed to hunt the gun in order to pay proper tribute to a man, and a family, whom I greatly admire.
And so I did.
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God bless the memory of Norman Sherr.
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