• LEFT • A Good Day to Die 2024 Mixed Media 18”x24” “You’re OK, don’t cry,” James said. “You leadered him, it counts. I’m proud of you. That’s your fish.” “I’m fine,” I told him. “I’m not crying about los-ing it; I’m crying because that was amazing and a lot—it’s the adrenaline.” “OK good,” he said. After a moment of silence, he chuckled. “You got to hear me use my guide voice. I haven’t done that in forever.” We laughed and checked the time. We were cut-ting it close. At the end of the drift, he dropped me off on shore. I jumped out of the Hot Hen and ran to my truck, throwing my rod in the back still rigged up in one piece. In the cab, I sobbed in disbelief at what had just happened. I felt accomplished and heart-broken all at the same time. Rolling into Livingston three hours later, my gas light came on. I showed up to the shop, busy with early season activity, a little dazed and with a shit-eating grin on my face. That was my fish. For years, James and I would share time together on the Hot Hen—a jon boat with an Astroturf-covered casting platform welded to the bow. It wasn’t pretty, but it was practical. The name was embla-zoned on the steering console in flame letters. We sank it once and had near misses with lightning and bad weather a handful of times, but most impor-tantly the two of us, usually accompanied by Shep, would float around the lake propelled by the trolling motor and laughter. While we sat at the bar where Charles Russell drew the original sketch for “The Last of Five Thousand (Waiting on a Chinook),” James told me stories of his own hunting and fishing adventures across the world. Not only did he have truly remark-able stories to share, but he was also good at telling them. I couldn’t get enough of the stories, hanging on his every word. He made me look forward to growing older and collecting my own stories. James was a Renaissance man and a romantic. Not in a Valentine’s Day type of way. In the way he made his life so beautiful and loved it. He fished, hunted, ate fine meals, surrounded himself with great art, read more books than anyone I have ever met and kept great company. Every aspect of his life was wonderfully and purposefully curated. He was equal parts cultured and rowdy, at home any-where—be it the helm of the Hot Hen, a Grateful Dead show, dinner with renowned artists or in a duck blind. He embodied so much of what I wanted to be “when I grew up.” The funny thing is, James himself never grew up. That was part of his charm. He stayed curious his whole life—picking up every antler, bone and notable rock he found along the way. He kept feath-ers from most of the birds he shot for fly tying or memory’s sake. He pursued lesser-known waterfowl species and had a collection of game bird and water-fowl taxidermy to rival any natural history museum. THE FLYFISH JOURNAL 091
The Flyfish Journal The Flyfish Journal 15.3: Page 91
