Former proprietor of Hoey’s Fly Shop in Pittsburgh and native of Pennsylvania, Jim now calls Colorado home.
Many years ago, when the world was large enough to contain all of my dreams, I remember sitting before a small convergence of streams, not much more than small wet seams in the earth, really. Every so often, the wetness collected enough of the element to be called a small pool.
And I can still almost feel time’s lens clicking into place to bring the scene clearly before my eyes.
Coming on to late summer’s night, the two big constellations to my south took on more light and color in an instant as a green meteor known as a fireball or bolide passed through their boundaries. This was a place of refuge for me then, as it still is as I think about it.
Sometimes I would set up an old Army pup tent, but mostly I slept and camped in my Chevy II. Yep, had one of those, and it came optional with room for a sleeping bag in the back seat. The trees and stream provided the other important option…a breeze.
I had befriended the old couple one rainy night on the PA Turnpike, when they were trying to change a flat. They saw my fishing gear, and I received an invitation to fish the small stream on their farm. This arrangement lasted for awhile, about three years as I recall.
I would phone them a few days before I wanted to go there and was seldom refused. Usually, I was greeted with a plate of cookies, half a pie, of some other treat, plus a thermos of the best coffee I had ever had.
An ideal place, the fishing privileges were beautiful, jeweled Brook trout as the fish du jour. I ways also allowed to keep a couple of the little ones for breakfast, but I never did.
I can still remember their antics and acrobatics as they attacked my fly (usually a Royal Wulff or a combination that I used, an Adams/Hendrickson. After a few hours of this, I’d pack up the old fiberglass Fenwick and my limited gear, return the couples utensils, and say goodbye.
The old couple died in the early eighties, but I still say hello to them whenever I pass what used to be their place near the Turnpike. There’s always a large dose of thanks in my heart when I do.
Many years ago, when the world was large enough to contain all of my dreams, I remember sitting before a small convergence of streams, not much more than small wet seams in the earth, really.