Stan's River

The river doesn’t look like much to the untrained eye. There are only a handful of spots deep enough swim.  Pick any place you want in a ten-mile stretch and you can pretty much cast from one bank to the opposite side.  The water runs cooler and cleaner now than it did 30 years ago. The trout are smaller and thinner, although they are more numerous.  After the first couple of weekends in May, fisherman are quite scarce.  Most opt for inland lakes, or larger rivers with easy access and open casting pockets.

 I like to call it Stan’s River.  That’s not the name you’ll find on the county maps or the state listing of fishable trout waters if you ‘Google’ it. The name fits though. For others, it could have a name like Brule, Rush, Kinni, Eau Galle, Tomorrow, Cedar, Plum, Cannon, Bear, Powder or Flambeau. The true name doesn’t really matter, nor does the location.

You see Stan grew up on this stream. His dad brought him here to pluck plump rainbows and native brook trout from undercut banks in the warming sunshine of May and June. This was before Stan could ride a bike absent of training wheels. That was six decades ago.

Through elementary school Stan and his cronies headed to the river often. To fish, swim, float on tubes, trap muskrats,and pass shoot wood ducks and teal at dawns and dusks of fall.  It wasn’t the best place for small town boy to spend his free time…it was the only place.

Most of the high school kids in the 60’s found other interests that kept them away from the river.  Not Stan. He took his younger brothers, sisters, and neighbor kids with him along the way. Teaching them the best places to wade, where the trout were hiding, and how to fashion an old screen door into  homemade minnow traps.  He taught them to catch crayfish, by scooping them from behind the tail, because they could only swim backwards.  He showed them the best feeder springs for drinking and the ones where the peppery watercress grew. He showed them the best banks for harboring wild black cap bushes, and near-by ridges to find bittersweet plants.

Stan also showed the young ones how to avoid some perils of the riverside shores. In those days, it was best not to tangle with any of the Tachshire family; known Moonshiners who didn’t want any one else near their land.  He also helped them identify poison ivy, stands of wood nettles,and patches of wild parsnip that would be the undoing of many unprepared riverside travelers.

Yet, for each negative curveball Stan’s river doled out, it repayed us with dozens of positive attributes.  The simple serene gurgling of water dancing across flat rocks; the blazing spots, stripes and fins of wild trout; the jet black nose and quivering lips of a month old fawn sneaking in for a sip; the laughter of splashing children; the rendezvous place for grandfathers, dads, sons, and moms to spend some time together wondering what might be around the next bend or what was lurking below the water’s surface. These and many more scenes have been replayed over and over, and they will carry on long after we have passed.

Stan still finds time to venture to the river.  His legs may be failing but his mind is sharp as ever.  He remembers countless details of the trips he’s taken, and the conversations had with a lifetime full of outdoor partners. It may be tough for Stan to retie dry flies onto 5x tippet now, especially if he leaves his glasses in the truck.  But his vison of  60 years worth of memories made on and around his river are as fresh and vibrant as morning dew on a streamside trillium.

Rivers and people are in continuous states of change. Evolving, improving, steadying, rising and falling. So it is with the river and with Stan. For he is as much a part of the river, as it is a part of him.  


-TGI