TUESDAY: Trout Fishing with Gary

BY JAMES BRYAN SIMPSON

Copyright is held by the author.

WHEN I was growing up, near my home, there was a creek that I loved to explore. I enjoyed searching for the creatures that lived there: big black beetles, fat tadpoles, spotted green frogs, and swift silvery fish. To me, the most fascinating inhabitants were the speckled trout, with speckles resembling little targets — pastel blue and cream-coloured dots, some with a red bullseye — all on dark green, silky skin.

Recently, a hometown friend shared a picture of the creek on her social media account. It was a photo she had taken during the summer. Many of her friends liked the image and commented about a similar creek, where the water gurgled over small rocks and lingered in silent pools, all shaded by a lush green canopy high above. Several mentioned wading in its cool waters or picnicking on its grassy banks.

I enjoyed the photo and remembered the creek. Days later, I thought of Gary. I hadn’t thought of him in a long time.

We were together in Grade 4. He lived a few blocks away from me, in a house on a lot that backed onto the creek. He fished in the creek often and knew it well. He invited me to go fishing with him, and one summer morning, we went fishing together.

We met at his house, wandered through his backyard, and entered the creek. He took the lead while I followed. Sneaking upstream, we stayed in the shadows, whispering as we crouched and wove among the rocks, as quietly as two 10-year-old boys could. We dropped a worm on a hook into small eddies where a trout might be hiding, hoping for a bite.

We hadn’t gone far when Gary caught a trout. Happy and soaked, we turned around and slogged back to his house. He proudly showed off his seven-inch prize to his mother and older sister, who oohed and aahed, clearly impressed.

Years later, Gary and I attended the same high school. By then, we had both developed different interests. I played football, while Gary didn’t. I planned to go to university, but Gary didn’t. During the few times we had lunch together, I recall he would leave to join the other smokers across the street from the school. I didn’t smoke, so I never accompanied him and his friends after lunch. After graduation, I moved away. We never saw each other again, not even after I moved back a few years later.

Why did the picture remind me of him? I don’t know; the brain works in mysterious ways. My last memory of him was a newspaper article I read over 30 years ago — he died in a house fire after falling asleep while smoking. I remembered that, and it made me feel sad.

Like many people I’ve known, Gary is gone. Yet somewhere in my memory, he lives on, along with the creek, the day we went fishing, and his beautiful speckled trout.

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After a career as a pharmacist, a medical writer, and in the pharmaceutical industry, James Bryan Simpson retired and discovered that writing fiction and creative nonfiction was more interesting than scientific writing. He has taken a number of writing courses over the past decade and has had several of his short stories published. He enjoys the challenges of his own writing and of reviewing other writers’ works. When he isn’t managing the rural acreage in southern Ontario where he and his wife live, he is working on his first novel.