Fishing on Home Waters: Editor's Note

The bobber floated still. My grandfather beamed as I watched tiny ripples fall away like grains of sand, yearning for a return to my friends, books and video games. 

More than 30 lakes and ponds dot Lake, Geauga and Ashtabula counties, each within a 20-ish minute drive from the suburban city I loathed. At least once a summer, my grandfather would drag me to one of them. We’d load up tackle and a couple of cheap rods (he refused to upgrade because we weren’t “fancy a--es”) and climb aboard a motorized aluminum boat for two and kick off. We rarely caught a thing, maybe the occasional sunfish. We always ate the same sandwich: turkey, pepperoni, Dijon mustard and thick shards from a block of cheddar cheese on a fresh hoagie roll. Driving back, as the woods gave way to farmland and then to my housing development on the edge of city life and rural living, I dreamt of New York City or Paris or just about anywhere but here.

Today, those lakes remain. My grandfather is gone. Gas stations and corporate chains grow like invasive weeds in my formerly slightly rural township, where my friends and I would swim in Big Creek, a tributary of the Grand River. After a decade Downtown and in Lakewood, my growing family, built with the girl I met in high school, lives in my native East Side suburb, just down the street from my parents. When asked what I’d eat for the rest of my life, that sandwich would be it. Life expands, and then it constricts.

My return to fishing was most unexpected. A few years ago, my buddy dragged me out to that same creek where I once swam. Our hike began before dawn on a frigid March day. By the time we stepped through the riffles and waded into a pool, the sky was aflame in purple and orange. How fleeting and few these moments of awe become as we grow older. 

For September to May, with highs in October and March, Northeast Ohio is part of a world-class fishery called Steelhead Alley, stretching from Buffalo to Vermilion. These 20-inch, gunmetal trout are best caught with fly rods, as opposed to the more popular spinning rods. Fly fishing is the practice of mimicking the insects and minnows that fish eat, typically by casting upstream and letting the dummy slowly drift downstream.

I wore the hat my grandfather gave me. Spreading out along the creek, I swear I smelled his rough, garlic hands after Sunday dinner. A warmth sunk to my toes under the late-winter water. Unable to even tie the knots on the line, I at least played enough baseball and darts to quickly take to the cast. After about 20 minutes, the indicator dipped under water. I yanked the rod to the sky. Line spilled from my reel. “Hold the line tight!” my friend shouted as he ran over with a net. The beast danced and jumped. After what felt like 20 minutes but was probably less than five, the tension fell away, and my buddy scooped the fish into the net. We screamed and high-fived. I kissed it, took a couple pictures and guided it back into the current. 

For all I know, that body of water is an emulsion of souls that we all have and will once again float through. If that’s the case, I believe the universal current sheltering my patriarch led that fish to my hook.

Appreciation for a single person, place or moment trains the eye to find gratitude elsewhere in life. My new-father status has reconnected me to my family unit. Since moving back, I’ve walked miles along the Chagrin, now less than 10 minutes from my house, and also the Grand and plenty of creeks and brooks. My river adventures have shown Northeast Ohio in a new light. Reflecting on my grandfather has brought solace to the grief I’d suppressed. This summer, I’ll head back to the lakes and ponds we once fished. I’ll check the shorelines and tree lines for some trace of him. If he’s not there, the memories will still be. This place, once something I ran from, is and will always be home.

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