Fathers and Sons

As a young boy growing up in the wide open spaces of southern Oregon, our family went camping virtually every weekend throughout the summer break. It was simply what we did as a family. Our faithful family dog, Sam, a black Labrador retriever, always tagged along.

I have a very special memory though... of one particular weekend when Dad asked me to go with him…just the two of us.

And it was to our treasured family river; ”Keepemquiet Creek” as it shall discreetly be referred to throughout the remainder of this story. My Dad believed it was akin to heresy to insult your favorite camping and fishing spots by telling every Tom, Dick and Harry how to find them.

Keepemquiet Creek is a small, sparkling river which cascades off the southern slope of a moderately timbered mountain, into the vast Oregon high desert. The country we camped in was thick with lodgepole and ponderosa pine and plenty of fragrant juniper trees in the lower elevations. Pungent sagebrush were everywhere. Along the meandering river, willows lined the banks in some places, and lush green meadows were scattered along its reaches.

In the springtime, as I sat bored stiff in my classes at Ponderosa Junior High School, I constantly day dreamed of Keepemquiet Creek, and the spunky 12 inch rainbow trout which eagerly gobbled up our carefully placed lures and flies. My neighbor, Bob “Granny” Granstrom, a professional fly tier from Klamath Falls, taught me to tie flies. And the first pattern I learned to tie was his “bucktail caddis.” Bob definitely knew which fly to teach me to tie first. The trout couldn’t get enough of it. And they were relatively easy to assemble for a newbie fly tyer. And I had a very good instructor.

Mid to late June was the ideal time to fish Keepemquiet Creek. The fish were much more aggressive and more easily fooled before the dog days of summer settled in with the onset of the sweltering temperatures of July and August. The stream flows were at their prime level and the meadows are still lush and green in June. And it was on a beautiful, clear, late June weekend that Dad and I took our special camping trip to Keepemquiet Creek.

It was to be a rite of passage for an extremely awkward 7th grader…and perhaps for his Dad as well.

In school I was painfully shy. Socially awkward. I suffered from pretty bad acne, which only made my introversion worse. And I didn’t do well in school. The only place I didn’t feel like a ‘loser’ was when I was walking the banks of my beloved river, fly rod in hand, armed with the flies I had tied myself. I was a pretty good fisherman for a dumb kid. But I had a great mentor in my Dad. He was a patient tutor, and he taught and led by example.

My Dad could think like a fish. That’s what he told me you needed to do to be a good fisherman. When he approached a river, he would carefully study every riffle, pocket, boulder, and undercut bank. Dad was not a fly fisherman in those days, so he didn’t pay much attention to what bugs were hatching. But give him a gold "Phoebe" wobbler, or a "Thomas Buoyant" spoon, and he could pick out a nice trout or two in every spot that looked “fishy” in the creek. I could fish a run and not get a single bite. And Dad could come in behind me a few minutes later and sweep the run and pick up fish I missed entirely. He was one of the best fishermen I ever knew.

We always got an early start when leaving town for our camping trips. And this trip was no exception. Whenever I was being the slowpoke and Dad was in a hurry to get going, he would rush me along and say, “Come on boy, you’re burning daylight!” And after giving his meticulous camp list a final check, and double checking the load in the old VW truck, we were on the road at first light.

I’m not sure who was more anxious to get out of town…Dad, or me?

I was a lonely teenager who was painfully struggling for self identity, and just wanted to fit in and be accepted. And he had the unenviable task of helping raise five kids; four unruly boys and one little daughter. He also had a fledgling architectural business to run, in a small town that in those days was not experiencing much growth. And times were pretty tough for us financially. Mom always had to stick very tight to her food budget. We had some interesting meals the last week of each month with whatever money and food we had left over. Mom called it “pantry perfection.” Some of my favorite dishes were some of Mom’s pantry perfection creations.

We packed the big green Coleman cooler with large Folgers’s coffee cans full of Mom’s frozen chili beans, spaghetti, and beef stew. Sometimes the stew was Dinty Moore canned stew. But I liked her homemade food much better. Mom was a great cook. When it was dinner time, Dad fired up the Coleman white gas stove, and put on a large kettle of water. We put the coffee cans of frozen dinner half submerged in the boiling water, and it quickly thawed out and we had piping hot food. We always had white Wonder bread and margarine to go with dinner. Occasionally we would splurge and have hamburger steaks and fried potatoes with onions cooked in a cast iron skillet with bacon grease. But there were no rib eye steaks on our tight budget. I always carried some Rolaids in my pack for those nights we had Dinty Moore stew.

When we finally arrived at our family “spot” on the river at the end of the road, I always wanted to get out my fishing gear and get into the river as quickly as possible. But Dad was disciplined and his rule was you always set up camp first. Since we usually fished till dark, Dad was wise, knowing it’s a lot easier to set up camp in the daylight than when it’s pitch black. However on this particular trip he said we would just make a "spike camp" and we slept in the back of the truck bed together; under the stars. It made it all that much more of an adventure for me.

I was a total nut when it came to fishing. It was what I lived for in those days. To escape the painful existence of feeling like such a loser in school, and not having many friends. But out here, I was in another world—a utopia for me—whenever we left the cold reality of life in town, and got away to the Creek. The truth is, I never wanted to go back.

I can still hear the sound of the wind blowing gently in the tall ponderosa pine trees on those warm afternoons in camp. The sweet smell of pine sap. The pungent smoke of our camp fire. I would lay back in one of the lawn chairs and look up at the big white clouds in the bright blue summer sky and dream of another time and place. A world where there was no school, or fist fights, or being rejected by a girl that I thought was cute, or the embarrassment of bad report cards and skin marked by acne.

After a great day of fishing, and a delicious dinner of Mom’s chili beans and bread, Dad and I sat around a crackling campfire, watching the occasional sparks float up beyond the trees and disappear into the starry night sky.

I think I can finally understand now that it wasn’t just me…We were both at a loss of exactly what to say to each other, struggling to understand one another as people. This was a first for both of us. I had never been a teenage son to a father before. And Dad had never been a father to a teenage son. We were both learning and trying to figure it out as we went along. Trial and error I guess.

Trying to act like a “man” I would loudly clear my throat and hock the occasional ‘lugi’ into the campfire. Dad said, “You’re a pretty fair spitter!” It made me feel tough and good about myself for a change…like my Dad was actually proud of me for something.

In those days it seemed like I received a lot more scolding than I did compliments. I was constantly in hot water for my bad grades. I started more than my share of trouble with my younger brothers and sister. We boys would generally cause all kinds of mayhem in the neighborhood. Throwing rocks at cars. Fun stuff like that. I was almost always in trouble for something. My Dad often seemed displeased with me. I rarely felt like I ever had his approval.

But as a kid I always knew that my Dad loved me. Even though he was a very strict father, (and today I’m very thankful he was), I never once doubted my Dad’s love for me. I think that’s maybe the one thing that helped me keep some semblance of ‘sanity’ during that period of my life. My parents very much loved and respected each other and us, and we had a stable, happy family. That’s my memory of those days anyway. Even though they numbed the pain of their own problems with alcohol, our home felt happy to me in general.

That weekend on Keepemquiet Creek, my Dad and I began to get to know each other a little bit better as people. And we began to communicate with one another...at least we tried. We laughed together and fished our butts off, and the cares of our tense lives back in town faded away. It felt ‘perfect’ for those glorious couple of days. It remains one of my most precious memories from my early life.

Though for me, in that period, I never felt that I was good enough as a person. I had zero self esteem. I desperately wanted my father’s approval. The honor code among men is respect. He was a straight “A” student. Brilliant. He aced calculus, trigonometry, and all his advanced math classes. He was a gifted architect and artist. He was one hell of a good writer too. I admired and respected my Dad a great deal. Once when I was a young boy, my grandfather (his Father) said with admiration, “Your Dad is a pretty bright guy!” I was so proud of him.

My Dad was far from perfect. 

And like I am trying to do now, he was just trying to figure life out, and do his best to be a good husband and father. And in my eyes, in my memory, he was a success. He taught me right from wrong. He taught me respect—for the land, and for those who share it with us. He led by example of what it means to “die to self.” He worked his ass off to provide for a family of seven. And he gave us a good life. We were well provided for.

And he loved my Mom. He taught me through his example that the best way to teach your kids to love, is to love their mother. And my Dad was head over heels in love with my Mom all of their life together…until cancer rocked his mind and body to the point that he could no longer communicate in the eloquent way he once did. But their love is forever. And that love is the legacy my Dad left for me.

As I fondly recall those warm summer days along the grassy banks of Keepemquiet Creek, I can still hear my Dad’s voice whooping it up as he hooked into a feisty rainbow trout. And I can see the warmth in his smile in the old photograph I took of him on our last day together that weekend.

Today I can feel my Dad’s love for me; as an awkward thirteen year old kid; and now, as a man, still just trying to figure life out…

*Authors note: if you know the name and location of this Creek please do not divulge it or publicize it. On my last visit  in 2018 it was still pristine and mostly unspoiled after 45 years since my last time there in 1973. What a gift to our grandchildren if we keep it that way.

-Thank you.


—At the End of My Line.