Son On My Back

Two nights ago Michael Keaton was on Letterman’s show doing what many people who have dedicated their lives, at least their recreational lives, to fly fishing: he was animatedly talking about fly fishing. He had just returned from the Bahamas, with a cast of heavy hitters that included Yvon “the real deal” Chouinard, Tom McGuane, and Tom Brokaw. What Keaton said, is what many grasp while fly fishing in salt water: the fish are strong, and permit are addictive. He claimed the “black spike” is what he spent hours looking for after hooking his first Permit, which quickly swam right at him and spit the hook. After that experience, he let hundreds of bonefish go by as he scanned the flats for the spike.

This experience is unusual in the big picture of American and global culture, but it is common among salt water fly anglers. What is unique, and humble, is what Letterman said a few minutes later. He recalled a time when Michael said "there's no better day than having your boy on your back and going fishing".  Letterman brought this up because he too just fished with his "Boy on his back." They shook hands and everyone applauded. 

Fourteen years ago my son Kerby fell asleep in a backpack while I waded knee deep in a late summer run that had a gauging cable running over it on the big Blackfoot just minutes from Bonner. He was a year old, blonde, and happy, and shortly after landing a fourteen inch brown, I felt his soft blonde hair press against my neck; a sure sign he was out for the count. I continued to nymph that run and landed a few rainbows and whitefish, and one cutthroat. I never fished with him on my back again, but it was a moment that I have never forgotten. Fly fishing the Blackfoot in summer in shorts with my son on my back touched places at the time I was starting to seal off. My heart, my tear ducts. I never heard another man talk about this before, until two nights ago. Two men musing about the joy of fishing with their baby boys in backpacks-one of which I admire so much because, among other qualities, he looks and acts like my dad: goofy, handsome, and intelligent.

And around 11 PM the other night, I was right back there, with the green river wrapped around me, and Kerby’s little toes against my back. I knew what these men on TV had experienced, and I shared it with them for a brief moment.

There is something special for men when they share the outdoors with their children. In the woods, or balls-deep in a river, we feel like children again. The world has mystery and is veiled and lifted all at once, like how I imagine toddlers see it. And to share something so simple that means so much has become tradition, and that legacy lives on today, in pockets throughout the US. I don't know if it does in other countries, but as John Mclean expresses in his essays, that tie between a father and his child and a river is haunting, and joyful.

My dad read my first entry here, and said it brought a tear to his eye. He then sent me a video of a woman freaked out because she has raccoons in the belfry. That’s my dad, and I love him for it. Kerby turns 15 this summer. I turn 40. He and I rarely have fished together. I would like that to change sometime. I love him and what he is becoming.

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