Dad approached fishing with the solemnity of a primitive priest selecting a vestal virgin for sacrifice. He wore classic vestments: sweat-stained fedora, faded flannel shirt, canvas trousers suspended from wide yeUow "braces," and hip-high rubber waders. The sacraments had to be performed with an artificial fly - bait fishing was an abomination - and the hook had to be set gently so the fish was not injured.

I remember that bamboo rod well. Each winter, Dad scraped the varnish and silk thread off each section, re-cemented the fittings, then rewound the silk wrapping. I held a spool of thread while Dad turned the rod in his fingers, creating a narrow band of colorful silk. He then chose a different color, and continued wrapping until the entire rod was aUve with red, green, yellow and blue silk. Six coats of varnish sealed all this color, and the rod was ready for spring. When he wasn't working on his fly rod, Dad spent hours tying flies from bits of feather, fur and thread; or making leaders from spools of catgut; or gluing patches on his rubber waders.

"They call it catch and release," I said. "They don't want to eat them; they think fishing is sport. They think they are saving fish."

Fish
Sport fishing
Fishing equipment