Streamside with a Legend: Remembering John Gierach

The news of John Gierach's passing hit the fly fishing community like an unexpected thunderstorm on a bluebird day. As I sat at my writing desk, surrounded by dog-eared copies of his books, I was transported back to those precious days we spent together at a fish camp in Michigan. The moment's weight settled in - I had shared a camp with a legend, and now he was gone.

John Gierach wasn't just a writer but the voice of an entire generation of fly anglers. His prose flowed like the rivers he loved, carrying readers along currents of wisdom, humor, and unvarnished truth about the sport and life itself. To many, including myself, his words were a siren call to wild places and the promise of trout rising to a well-presented fly.

The Michigan Fish Camp

The camp, hosted by Kirk Deeter and his wife Sarah, brought together a group of anglers, with John and I among them. I arrived on a warm early summer evening, the air thick with the scent of pine and the promise of adventure. There I found John, looking every bit the part of the trout bum philosopher - weathered hat, comfortable flannel shirt, and an easy demeanor that put everyone at ease.

As we gathered around the dinner table that first night, the clinking of utensils mingled with easy laughter. I found myself struck by how utterly ordinary it all felt. Here was John Gierach, whose words had shaped my angling philosophy and whose books had a permanent place on my nightstand, casually discussing the day's fishing as if we were old buddies. It was surreal, yet his presence was comforting, like a warm fire on a cold night.

The cabins scattered about the property provided our sleeping quarters, but it was on the beautiful, secluded deck nestled among the Michigan woods where the magic happened. Each evening, as we returned from our separate fishing adventures, we'd gather to share meals and swap stories under the canopy of trees. The soft glow of lanterns illuminated our faces as night fell, creating an intimate atmosphere for our discussions.

John didn't dominate these conversations or hold court like some visiting dignitary. Instead, he engaged with a quiet intensity, his eyes twinkling with interest as he absorbed each tale. Occasionally, he'd punctuate the discussion with a wry observation or gentle joke, his words carrying the weight of decades on the water.

One evening, as we sat on the deck, the conversation turned to casting techniques. John, who had been quietly observing the exchange of ideas, spoke up in his characteristically understated manner. He shared his philosophy on casting, boiling it down to a simple truth: there are only two types of casts - those that catch fish, and those that don't. It was vintage Gierach - cutting through the complexities and technicalities to get to the heart of the matter. A few nods and knowing smiles passed around the group.

He went on to explain that while it's easy to get caught up in the mechanics and fancy techniques, what truly matters is whether your cast puts the fly where the fish are, and in a way that looks natural to them. This seemed to encapsulate John's approach to fly fishing and, in many ways, to life itself.

Lessons on the Water and Beyond

Throughout our time at the camp, John's knowledge seemed boundless, but it wasn't delivered in lectures or sermons. It came in offhand comments, wry observations, and the occasional story that started with a reminiscence of past fishing adventures. Before you knew it, you'd learned something profound about reading water, presenting flies, or understanding trout behavior, all wrapped in a tale that had you chuckling and nodding in recognition.

This casual style of thinking and speaking, I realized, was the essence of what made John's writing so powerful. He had a gift for distilling complex ideas into simple, relatable stories. Whether on the page or sitting around the camp, John Gierach could make you feel like you were in on some grand secret about fly fishing and life while making you laugh and think in equal measure.

Each day, we'd head out to different beats on the river. The water was calm and flowing, a peaceful backdrop to our angling pursuits. John carried with him a bamboo fly rod that had probably seen more rivers than most anglers will fish in a lifetime. This rod, like John himself, seemed to hold countless stories of waters explored and fish encountered.

I was fortunate to spend a little time on the water with John, an experience I'll always treasure. While our time fishing together was brief, it was significant. Our evenings were filled with recaps of the day's adventures, the deck alive with animated gestures and laughter as stories were shared.

John had a knack for drawing out the details of others' experiences, asking perceptive questions that often led to deeper insights or loud laughter. When he shared from his vast repertoire, it was with a storyteller's timing, and each anecdote was ideally suited to the moment.

One night, as we sat on the deck surrounded by thick woods, the light faded in an ambient way, softening the edges of our conversation. John and I had a chance for a more personal exchange. We talked about writing and the challenges of conveying the essence of fly fishing to those who might never pick up a rod. John's passion for the craft was evident, but so was his humility.

As we talked, I couldn't help but notice how John's approach to writing mirrored his approach to fishing. He seemed to cast his words with the same patience and precision he used when presenting a fly to a rising trout. There was thoughtfulness in his process, a willingness to wait for the right moment, and the perfect phrase. And just like in fishing, he seemed to understand that not every cast would land perfectly, but the joy was in the attempt, the continuous refinement of the craft.

A Lasting Impact

As my time at the camp drew to a close, I found myself wishing I could stay longer. Unfortunately, I had to cut my visit short and leave before the others. Saying goodbye, I felt a mix of gratitude for the experience and regret for the conversations and fishing yet to come that I would miss.

John's parting words were warm and genuine, expressing appreciation for the shared time and understanding. Little did I know then that this would be our only meeting and that the future fishing trips I had hoped for would never come to pass.

In the following days and weeks, I returned to the memories of those evenings at the fish camp. The more I reflected, the more I realized how fortunate I had been. Not just to share a camp with a legend, but to spend time with a man who had devoted his life to understanding and conveying the essence of our sport. While I wished I could have stayed longer, I am forever grateful for the time I had.

It was a brief masterclass, a chance to brush against his spirit. I hope that some of it, even if only a small amount, rubbed off - like the patina on your hand when holding the well-worn cork handle of a vintage fly rod. This fleeting connection to Gierach's wisdom and approach to both fishing and life left an indelible mark, as subtle yet significant as that transferred patina. The patina that can coat your hand in a thin film of grey, the sweat and grime of years being handled on a river, a tangible connection to countless casts and catches. Though the mark on your palm may wash away, the impression it leaves in your mind can last forever, much like the lasting impact of those days spent with John.

John Gierach's accomplishments speak for themselves. His twenty-some books, countless articles, and devoted readership that spans generations offer a glimpse into his remarkable mind. He was inducted into the Fly Fishing Hall of Fame, and his works have become required reading for anyone serious about the sport. Yet perhaps his most outstanding achievement was in how he changed the way we write and think about fly fishing.

Before Gierach, much of fly fishing literature was either dry instructional material or overly romanticized tales of trophy fish and exotic locations. John found a middle ground, writing about the everyday experiences of the average angler with humor, insight, and a keen eye for the human condition. He made fly fishing literature accessible and relatable, inspiring countless anglers to pick up a rod - and a pen.

Now, as I sit here reflecting on John's passing, I'm struck by the depth of his impact. He was more than just a great writer or a skilled angler. He was a philosopher of the streams, a chronicler of the fly fishing life in all its frustrating, beautiful, often absurd glory. His legacy lives on not just in his books and articles, but in the way he inspired us to think about our time on the water.

I feel immensely grateful for those days spent at fish camp with John Gierach. They were more than just a chance to share a meal with a legend. They were a masterclass in how to approach both fly fishing and life - with humility, humor, and an ever-present sense of wonder.

As I close my eyes, I can still see John sitting on that secluded deck, surrounded by the lush Michigan woods, his voice soft but engaging as he shared some bit of hard-earned wisdom wrapped in a wry observation about the peculiarities of trout and the anglers who pursue them. And I'm reminded of something he once wrote, which seems particularly poignant now:

"The solution to any problem -- work, love, money, whatever -- is to go fishing, and the worse the problem, the longer the trip should be."

Thank you, John, for taking us on such a long and wonderful trip. The rivers won't be the same without you, but they're infinitely richer for having known you. May you find endless risers and perfect drifts wherever you are now. The rest of us will do our best to keep the flame alive, one cast at a time.