Friends Seldom Parted

Friends seldom parted  

By Grant Fraser

The alarm clock rang loudly and I groaned as I hit the stop button.

A look told me what I knew already; 4 o’clock in the morning, time to go fishing. For years I have been getting up this early to fish, sometimes to travel to destinations hours away, other times to get on the water locally before anyone else was there. In any case it is always hard for me to do. However, this was not just another day, but a very important one because of whom I was going to spend it with.

After packing coffee, sandwiches, snacks and soft drinks I started the truck and made for Ed’s house in Citrus Heights, 40 minutes away. Ed was ready, as he had been countless times before and stumbled, as if he were already weary, into the truck. A half smile and a glance, and we were off, the truck revving willingly in response to goosing the throttle…

An hour later we were at the first drift on the Feather River, a Sacramento Valley Steelhead river. This river is unique in that for a section of around 5 miles in length it is a low flow section. The river here is kept at around 600 cfs year round from the dam until it meets up with the main body of the river which flows out of an after bay, creating a large river that runs, heavy and deep, to the Delta 100 miles distant.

A cold wind blew from the North, bringing clear but chilly skies. A hint of winter was in the air now, casting its gray mantle on the surrounding landscape as we climbed into our waders. Ed did so slowly, the pain from the sutures of recent chest surgery showing in his face. Soon, though, we made our way down the hill and across the cobble-strewn riverbed to the water’s edge....

I remember meeting Ed some 20 years before, on, surprisingly enough, the American River at Nimbus Basin. I had just begun fishing for salmon and steelhead that fall and, so far, I still had not caught anything. I was fishing in “the line-up”, a long string of shoulder-to-shoulder fishermen throwing everything but the kitchen sink at the Salmon and Steelhead stacked behind the Dam above us. Every now and then the cry of “Fish on” was heard as an angler staggered downstream, towed by his prize to an uncertain end. Salmon, some in states of decay that I would have turned my nose at today, were tethered at shore side, waiting for the master to come and make an unnatural end to its lifecycle. 

It was in this unlikely scene that, as I untangled my line with that of another angler above me, I noticed a lone angler down about 500 yards from the melee I found myself in at the moment. As I watched he set the hook, hard and deep, and a silver bolt of lightning that cart wheeled down the drift, jumping and thrashing the surface for fifty yards. After extricating myself from the mess that I was in, I sat on the bank and watched as the lone angler beached a bright hen Steelhead of about 8 pounds! I had seen these dark Salmon for weeks, but this was different and it brought back memories of my own encounter with a Steelie as a boy of 12 on Battle Creek. That memory, of a half-pounder that fought harder than any trout I had ever caught, was responsible for rekindling my desire to learn how to catch Steelhead. 

As he immediately killed the fish I walked over to admire the beauty of this fish, its iridescent flanks still colored slightly and getting darker as the life ebbed out of her.

“Nice fish”, I remarked. 

“Yep”, was the reply.

He took off his hat and his silver locks fell out in a jumble down on his collar. His skin, tanned deeply from a thousand sun days, was leathery on his hands. Cracked skin and frayed nails showed long exposure to the elements. A plaid long sleeved shirt covered his rather ample frame; a small pot belly protruding and getting wet as he dressed his fish out quickly and expertly.  His face told a thousand tales. From the Far East to the South, this face had seen its share of joy and pain. From the wrinkled crow’s feet attacking the edges of his eyes to the bulbous red nose, this face was a kindly face, a knowing face.

As the conversation deepened to sentences over two words in length I found out that his name was Ed Brewington. Ed was always quick with a quip; generally punctuating most sentences with a belly laugh that I came to find later was the fastest way to find him in a crowd or on a drift if other people were present. Ed was not a loner by nature, even though he had been fishing by himself when I first saw him. When I asked what caused him to be fishing well away from the crowds he remarked, “Them? Oh, hell, they couldn’t tell the difference between a Yellow Sucker and a Steelhead, much less where or how to catch them. The Steelhead hold down here behind the Salmon until after dark, then they will go up above.”

“Hey, know how to cook one of those Salmon if you catch one?” Ed asked.

I confessed I did not, to which he said, “You plank them.”

My quizzical look must have said it all, so Ed went on, “What you do is you fillet the Salmon out, then take the fillets and nail them to a Cedar plank. Then marinate the whole thing in wine for a week. After the week, take the fillets off and then eat the plank” and then snorted and laughed for a full minute. 

“Weird duck”, I thought to myself.

After a few more minutes of conversation Ed resumed casting and I followed, not fishing, but talking to him. Finally, Ed invited me to join him and I agreed readily, wanting lightning to strike me for the first time.

A few hours later, as the gloaming deepened into nightfall, I reeled in and prepared to leave, still fishless. I told Ed it was nice to meet him, and he shook my hand, looked me in the eye and said, “You really are gonna be glad you met me” and erupted into another belly laugh. “See you in church” he said. Naturally I assumed that he was only making a neighborly comment and left it at that.

A few weeks later, as the Salmon run petered out and the Steelhead run started in earnest, I saw Ed again, this time on a drift near Sailor Bar. Ed recognized me immediately but couldn’t remember my name, so I reintroduced myself. Ed retorted “That’s the great thing about this Alkaheimer’s Disease; I get to meet so many nice new people all the time”. He then proceeded to recall details about our earlier conversation as vividly as if we had talked five minutes before. 

I still didn’t catch any fish that winter, my first as a real Steelhead fisherman, but I got really close, losing several fish, each time in Ed’s company. We became acquaintances, if not friends in that time, although our contact was generally limited to casual contacts on the American River. Ed would periodically ask how things were going, if I had got the skunk off yet. I appreciated the thought, but hated the fact that I couldn’t seem to do anything about it. A couple of times Ed offered to let me play and land a fish that he had hooked, and though the temptation was strong I declined. I wanted to do it myself. 

Later that year I saw Ed when fishing the early Salmon run in August. It’s tough fishing, but I had managed to take a couple of really bright fish and had become hooked. Ed came down to check out things and we started to talk again. I showed him my latest fish, a 10-pound mint bright Salmon, and he approved. Later I ended up giving him a fillet for his wife, Aida.

Ed was evidently impressed by this generosity, and we exchanged phone numbers. 

A couple of weeks later Ed called me at home and asked if I’d like to float the Yuba River in a raft. I agreed immediately. It was a rough trip. We put in at Englebright Dam, portaged down from the dam to the river, and then portaged around a waterfall down river. Exhausted but happy, we each had taken more than enough fish to make us happy and we realized that we had started to form a bond. 

Ed and I seldom went more than a couple of weeks without talking after that…

 

As a boy I had been raised catching small trout in the high Sierras. Plunking a Salmon egg or a worm into a small stream and letting it dangle was the best I could do. I remember on my 11th birthday my father bought me my first fly rod and we went to a small trout farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains to try it out. Dad was patient and knew how to get me started right; allowing me some success in a lace where, even though I was flailing the water to froth, I could actually catch and clean a fish or two for dinner.

"Clean and eat what you keep", was his mantra. It has stuck with me until today. Many of us today consider ourselves 'Catch & Release' only fishermen today. That's fine and admirable. But I was raised to keep some fish, but to conserve where it was necessary and prudent, leaving the fish for next time…

Ed was from the Midwest and had been raised in the depression. His values were different from mine. His wife, Aida, was from the Philippines and was of the same mindset. So Ed killed his limit consistently and I would occasionally keep a fish or give it to him if he had a bad day. I always had enough fish to eat and to spare.

Ed also was a confirmed bait fisherman. He would plunk hardware, but had no use for a fly rod. So, the most unlikely of interests came together in our friendship; catch and release fly fishing and kill 'em and keep 'em bait fishing.  Occasionally I would put down the fly rod and pick up a casting rod as well, where conditions were not conducive to flies. But for the most part it was a sort of Frick and Frack relationship that we continued working on. But we made it work due to our mutual love for the sport…..

As we slipped into our waders and walked the 150 yards to the drift in the early morning gloaming Ed leaned on me for support, breathing heavily. He slumped down on a stump at the river's edge and rested when we reached the water. Ed motioned for me to start fishing and I unhooked my fly and waded out to start making some long, lazy casts with my Spey Rod.

Ed shouted, "You'll never catch anything flailing the water like that." He laughed and immediately was caught in a coughing spasm. After a minute he seemed okay, so I turned back to the task at hand.

A few minutes later a hard tug signaled a take of my Silver Hilton and a silver bullet shot into the sky. After a few minutes of give and take a 4 pound Steelie lay at my feet. Ed came over to see her. She was 24 inches of bright chrome with a faded red pinstripe down her side. We admired her for a moment, then I slid a hand under her belly and gently moved her back and forth in the current until she kicked out, spraying me with small, cold droplets of water. It felt good.

During this time Ed had moved out into the water a few feet and was casting Roe into the drift. After only a few casts he had a subtle take, the line hesitating, and he set the hook hard. A strong tug and heavy weight signaled a heavy fish. Ed struck hard and the fish rocketed downstream 50 yards, ending this run in a grey hounding jump, showing off his size. "Get control over him", I joked, knowing that Ed had his hands full. Ed was gaining line back and the runs were getting shorter now. His skills as a fisherman were tipping the battle in his direction now, and soon, an eight pound buck slid onto the beach at his feet. Ed sat back down on the stump. He was breathing as heavily as the steelie at this point, and I took care of the fish for him. As I was ready to dispatch the fish as Ed was wont to do, he stopped me.

"Let's leave him for another day", he panted, his face glistening with sweat.

I hesitated momentarily, knowing that Aida would be angry if we didn't bring home a fish, and as Ed reassured me that I should release the buck, I revived the big fish and watched him slowly swim away into the current.

Ed was clearly drained now, and I decided that we needed to leave.

On the walk back to the car, as Ed leaned on me for support he said, "You know, I felt really god watching that fish swim off". I said nothing.

Ed slept all the way home. Three days later, Ed died of the cancer he had been fighting for six months.

I felt guilty, though, because I thought our trip may have overtaxed him and caused him to go more quickly.

Aida told me that he had been truly happy after coming back from our trip, and had told her that he would have been happy dying right then. She thanked me and continued to tell me how much Ed talked about that trip over his last days.

My mind wandered to our last words as I left the house after he died. An hour earlier Ed had whispered, "See ya in church".

I swallowed hard, pushing back the tears, and said, 'Yep'.