The smell of hide, tanning chemicals and aging flesh hung around the door of a little taxidermy studio north of Tampa. The blazing heat of a late spring in southwest Florida only made the aroma all the more pungent. It certainly wasn’t the scene most would associate with the start of a life-long obsession with fly fishing for trout.
I pulled the door open for my buddy, Mike, who was picking up a deer mount. The taxidermist, Darrell, was leaning against a tall stool, patiently fleshing a white-tail, a long, menthol cigarette dangling from his lip. A chihuahua at his feet and a boxer off in the shadow of one of the many coolers lining the walls both made sure not a single piece of that deer went unappreciated.
Mike asked about his deer.
“I got two, no three, more deer heads to go, and I’m goin’ trout fishin’,” Darrell responded. He never stopped his blade’s precision angle, cleaning the meat from the hide. “Yea, your mount is done, Mike.”
The years of working tobacco farms, commercial fishing gigs and a slew of other unbearable labor had weathered Darrel’s face and hands. They told the story of a man years beyond his actual age of 53. The lines and scars he wore spoke of a man who’d seen a lot of backbreaking, a pile of bad decisions, plenty of tough luck and a mess of heartache.
I had just rediscovered trout during summer-break ramblings in the north Georgia mountains. I had first fallen in love with them as a little boy on still water in the Midwest. There was no denying, my passion for catching trout was reignited, and I was dying to get back to them.
I barely knew Darrell, yet I lit into him like kids do, with question after question.
Then and every time since, Darrel was kind enough to oblige my childish wonder about trout fishing with a fly rod.
Somewhere in the middle of an explanation about mending, Darrel pulled the cigarette from his lips and looked up from his work. He asked, “You ever heard of the three phases of a trout fisherman’s life?”
I was blank. I had no response, and my ignorance was painfully obvious.
“Well, which one are you in?” Darrell said. “I bet you’re still in the first phase. The ‘How Many Trout Can I Kill?’ phase.”
The truth was, Darrell was right. I’d kept darned near every trout I’d hooked during those first few ventures to trout fish in southern Appalachia. What I couldn’t eat of a daily limit still went home with me. It’s safe to say, no matter how one gets started, the rudimentary beginnings of nearly every trout angler involved some sort of catch-and-keep venture.
Over the next several years, Darrell and I fished mile upon mile of trout streams throughout the Southeast. My tendency was always to rush things, and he was always there to tell me to slow it down.
“Don’t be in such a big hurry all the time. Let the rod do the work. You’re trying to hard. You can’t force this. Just take your time and let it come naturally.”
Years later, after I’d moved to the mountains, I learned to appreciate what Darrell described as the second phase of trout fishing. Moreover, this came to me after I witnessed Darrell catch-and-release countless nice trout.
“The second phase of a trout fisherman’s life is ‘What’s The Biggest Trout I Can Catch?” Darrell told me. “Now most of us get stuck here for a good while. But at least you ain’t killin’ every one you manage to land no more.”
The next summer, Darrell got to watch me fool, hook and land a healthy 18-inch rainbow from the Toccoa River. I remember looking over at him, his beard having lost nearly all it’s red and asking him to man the net. Moments later I knelt in the frigid water giggling like a little boy over the fish. I didn’t think twice, I unbuttoned the fly from the fish’s jaw, turned the net on its side and watched the speckled green tail kick back into the river. Not a second later, Darrell asked “You get it now, don’t you?” All I could do was smile and nod.
Well over a decade later, after we’d shared countless memorable fish, Darrel had taught me more about life, trout and being the best person I could muster the courage to be than any other person in my life. I’d earned a few gray hairs in my own beard.
Perhaps some of the hardest lessons in life, those that need a serious listening to, are easier to hear while along a trout stream.
I’d come to learn, either way, that Darrell’s advice was typically dead-on.
Whether he was telling a young husband how not to mess up his marriage or giving advice to a cocky, young fishing guide who needed humbling on a regular basis, the aging taxidermist was right.
It was during one of Darrell’s visits to fish with me in the summer of 2013 that he finally came off with the third, and final, phase of trout fisherman’s life.
We had done some substantial driving down rutted, dirt Forest Service roads to a small, wild brown trout stream that morning. By lunch, I’d managed to fool just one tiny brown.
Looking up from his ham and cheese, Darrell wiped a bit of mustard out of beard, now solid white and said, “The last phase of a trout fisherman’s life is when he really doesn’t care if he catches a thing at all. He’s just happy to be on the water.”
“Is that why you like these little, wild brown trout so much?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he said with a smile. “You’re still in the second phase whether you want to admit it or not, but it’s where you ought to be. Someday, you’ll get there. Don’t worry; it’s taken me a lifetime.”
Joe is an outdoor writer, photographer and trout guide in north Georgia. Contact him through Lake & Stream Guide Service at (706) 669-4973 or lakeandstreamguideservice@gmail.com.