Late last week, author John Gierach passed away and a couple of hours later artist Frederick Stivers posted this sketch with a fitting quote on his Instagram story...
"I think I fish, in part, because it's an anti-social, bohemian business that, when gone about properly, puts you forever outside the mainstream culture without actually landing you in an institution."
It's been interesting to read the social media posts from his friends and those who knew him along with those who felt connected to him through his many books. It's hard not to have wistful feelings that the original "Trout Bum" has passed on, though if the stories are somewhat true, he seemingly made a good run at life.
"I think I fish, in part, because it's an anti-social, bohemian business that, when gone about properly, puts you forever outside the mainstream culture without actually landing you in an institution."
It's been interesting to read the social media posts from his friends and those who knew him along with those who felt connected to him through his many books. It's hard not to have wistful feelings that the original "Trout Bum" has passed on, though if the stories are somewhat true, he seemingly made a good run at life.
In the late 1990's, my wife and I started married life with living in northern Colorado and I worked a job that gave me several days a week to go fly fishing. One afternoon I drove over to Lyons and up the South Saint Vrain Canyon to check out the creek that I had read about in Gierach's books. I didn't really know how far I was going to drive up the canyon but figured that I'd pull off when I found a stretch of water that looked good.
As I was rounding a large uphill curve, a small red pickup truck was parked on the right side of the road and leaned against the tailgate was slender man, hunched over working his hip boot waders off. He didn't look up but he didn't need to. I immediately knew it John Gierach. He was dressed in the full "uniform" of a weathered button up shirt, jeans, and his brimmed sweat stained hat was on his head. He still had his vest on and it looked like he was just wrapping up a late afternoon session on the water by himself.
I continued to drive up the canyon and had a brief moment where I thought about turning around to say something to him. I just as quickly decided against it. That creek was John's special place and there was no reason to wreck his solitude with a goofy twenty-something year old telling him how much I enjoyed the books of his that I had read. I figured he heard it before and didn't need to hear it again.
I stand by that decision some twenty-five years later but seeing him and his little red pickup truck is a core memory that I'll never forget. I guess it's even a little sweeter now.
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