On the walls in the living room of my Uncle Bill’s two story farmhouse were a few stuffed fish, each bigger than any I had ever seen.  Curious and wanting to touch, I would sneak a gentle finger to a scaled side or fin just to feel what ‘dead and stuffed’ felt like.  Hard and stiff it was.  This led me to asking many questions about his stuffed fish and fishing and was the beginning of my introduction to fly fishing and fly tying. 

Uncle Bill was a Forester who lived in a house located in a 4,000 acre state forest in Tully, New York, along with my Aunt Pat and their three daughters. The house sat on a hill with a perfect view of sunsets over rolling western facing countryside. The enclosed porch of the house was full of outdoor gear, equipment, apparel, antlers from deer hunts, rabbit cages and incubators for hatching the chicks of their flock of award winning chickens. Down the hall from the kitchen and set in the living room, was a small desk with his fly tying equipment. Here was where many of those first conversations were held. I was very young then, maybe 6 or 7. The memories are faint, but I can recall him telling me about the flies and pointing to things on the bench or picking up a certain tool to show me and tell me about its purpose. More memorable was seeing him out on the water putting all his equipment and knowledge to use.

During my summers at our family camp on Snow Pond, Uncle Bill stood out amongst all the fishermen. He was the only one who fly fished while the rest of us used spinning gear.  It was a beautiful site to see him cast and bring a fish in. Everyone liked to ask him questions about how it all worked, what it was like and about the flies he used and why.  

When I was eleven I was invited to spend a week with him and his family at their farm house in New York. On the first night he led me to the backyard where there was a grassy area between the house and the chicken coop to give me some casting lessons with his rod.  He explained how the relationship of the line and rod worked together to get a fly that weighed less than an ounce to a distance needed to reach the fish. During my lesson he offered me a deal, “Okay Will, this week while I am at work, if you get out here and practice casting every day for half an hour, I will take you fly fishing next Saturday.”  I couldn't wait for each day and I practiced every afternoon.  After my last day of practice my aunt surprised me by taking me to the store in town where she bought me a Fenwick rod, a Pfleuger reel, fly line and a small fly box.  It was a token of great love and to encourage me forward.  I could not have received a better and grander gift.  I floated out of the store and Uncle Bill and I spent part of Saturday on a small pond, each casting our own rods. The fish did not bite that day but I was hooked.