My friend Duane Bolin died a few months ago. His death, at age 66, was stunningly unexpected and left a deep void in the lives of those close to him.
For several years, Duane wrote a syndicated weekly newspaper column, eventually gathering a collection of these popular columns into a book, Home and Away: A Professor’s Journal. He afforded me the honor of writing the book’s foreword, in which I referred to the author, accurately, as “a Renaissance Man.” A modest man, Duane found this description slightly discomforting. He asked that I change it. I refused, our agreement having been that the two-page foreword would be mine to say as I pleased and was to be accepted or rejected in whole. Duane, of course, stuck by our agreement. He was a man of his word.
Duane Bolin was many things: husband, father, Christian, historian, professor, author, runner, writer, reader, scholar, columnist, mentor, traveler, friend, Kentuckian.
He was not, however, much of a fisherman, although he once expressed a wish to be, writing in a Home and Away column of a secret dream to “wade out into the waters of Casey Creek in Trigg County, an exotic bamboo fly rod in hand, casting out in perfect rhythm a fly tied with my own expert hands.”
To my knowledge, he never tied or attempted to tie a Caddis, Adams, Wooly Bugger, Royal Wulff, Hare’s Ear, Prince Nymph or any other fly.
We did, however, fish together once, not at the aforementioned Casey Creek but on Arkansas’ Spring River.
Duane wore borrowed waders and wielded an 8-foot bamboo fly rod compliments of rod builder, mutual friend and fellow Kentuckian John Durbin. We began the day about a mile downstream from Mammoth Spring, which fuels the Spring River and, on average, pumps out about 9 million gallons of 58-degree water every hour, giving it claim to the seventh-largest freshwater spring on the planet. Duane asked if we could stop and see it before getting on the river—a request to which I readily agreed. The spring is part of a state park, but the spring site is surprisingly placid and likely a disappointment to some visitors. The actual spring is about 80 feet deep and appears as a shimmering, sometimes opaque 10-acre pond. Duane enjoyed it.
We followed the river downstream to a popular wade-in fishing access that opens to a wide, shallow section of the river marked by countless basketball- to bathtub-size boulders and rife with trout-holding seam water. It is a long stretch that eventually pools above Dam 3. There is a small century-old power-generation dam (now inoperative) near the spring. Dam 2, lost to a flood decades ago, stood about 200 yards below the fishing access.
We pulled on waders and strung up the bamboo rod.
“Are you not going to fish?” Duane asked, a slight rise of panic in his voice.
“I’ll fish later,” I said. “I thought I’d try guiding for a little while first.”
We walked upstream to a spot I knew would require no more than ankle-deep wading.
We reached the water’s edge. Duane stopped and surveyed the river. At this spot the Spring is about 60 yards wide, the water shallow but broken, moving in dark troughs, and dancing riffles for more than a quarter mile. It’s productive water but must be waded with caution. There is also plenty of water that can be fished from shore.
We waded out carefully. I directed us to the lip of a gravel patch—firm footing with a nice piece of seam water within easy reach. Duane opened a fly box.
“Which one?” he asked.
“This one,” I said, a No. 12 black bead head wooly bugger.
He plucked from the box and tied it on. He stripped off a few feet of line and whipped the rod. The fly landed hard near the edge of the seam water—not perfect rhythm but perfect enough. A fish struck hard on the second cast and darted downstream. The battle was violent but brief. The line fell limp.
Duane was crestfallen and apologetic, neither of which was necessary.
“I lose fish all the time,” I said. “But next time, maybe it’d be best not to set the hook quite so hard.”
The next time came a few casts later. A 12-inch colorful rainbow that splashed enthusiastically but didn’t jump. Reaching clumsily, I lost it at the net. It was my turn to be crestfallen and apologetic. Duane patted me on the shoulder, saying nothing.
We fished slowly, working our way downstream along the grassy bank. An hour passed with no action. Then fish struck on back-to-back casts. Duane missed the hookset on both.
“It just takes a little practice,” I said.
Fly fishing is not difficult, but efficiency generally comes with practice. Duane’s experience rested in the literary realm with master anglers Maclean, Lyons, Hemingway and McGuane.
We waded out to one of the deepest pools in this stretch of the river. I suggested that Duane feed the line out slowly and allow the fly to sink and drift in the current. Not exactly the technique of A River Runs Through It but practical and effective. A heavy fish struck near the end of the third drift. The trout came to hand—about 14 inches and thick-bodied but with pale coloring. A recent stocker, I thought. The fish was strong but offered little fight. This time, I did not miss with the net.
Lunch at a local spot favored by visiting fishermen was followed by an afternoon of fishing and sightseeing. I did most of the fishing; Duane, a book nearby, did most of the sightseeing. A pleasant day.
• • •
It has long been my habit on summer evenings to fish until dark. We stopped for coffee to fuel the late-night 200-mile trip home, the humidity of the summer evening as clingy as the waders we had sweated through most of the day.
We rode in the comfortable silence friends enjoy. Miles began to fall away.
“How’d you like it?” I asked
Duane sipped his coffee.
“I enjoyed it,” he said, gracious as always. “Thank you for letting me come.”
We drove through the rural countryside, homeward bound, the trees bleeding into the summer night.
“I don’t know,” he added, his silhouette made visible only by the pale glow of the dashboard lights. “Maybe I like the idea of fishing.”
The idea of fishing. I’d not before thought of it that way. Maybe that’s what we all like.
I miss him.
Readers may contact Gary Garth at editor@kentuckymonthly.com