Little Boy Lost

Long before I learned how to cast a fishing line, tie a hook, or tell the difference between a rainbow trout and a cutthroat, I learned something much more important.

If Dad was going fishing, I wanted to be with him.

I was five years old the first time Dad took me to East Fork Dairy Creek near Mountaindale, Oregon. Looking back, I doubt he expected to spend much time teaching a little boy how to fish. He probably imagined a few peaceful hours along one of his favorite trout streams while I played nearby with my cousins.

East Fork Dairy Creek was a wonderful place for a boy to discover the outdoors. Flowing out of the forested foothills of the Coast Range, it wound through farms and stands of alder, maple, and towering Douglas fir. The water ran cool and clear over gravel bars and around moss-covered logs. In spring and early summer, sword ferns lined the banks, salmonberry bushes crowded the trails, and thick patches of stinging nettles waited for unsuspecting legs. Birds darted overhead, frogs vanished with tiny splashes, and every bend in the creek seemed to promise another pool where trout might be waiting.

In those days, East Fork Dairy Creek was stocked regularly with rainbow trout. Fishermen  came from all over Washington County to spend opening day of trout fishing along its banks.

One day Dad brought me to the creek along with several of my cousins.

Thinking I would be happy playing with them, he pointed toward a grassy area and said something like, “You boys stay here.”

Then he disappeared across the creek to a favorite fishing hole.

That may have seemed like a good plan.

The only problem was…

I had no interest in staying behind.

I wasn’t there to play.

I was there to fish with my dad.

So, without telling anyone, I started after him.

I was just a little fellow, edging along the creek bank, climbing over logs, squeezing through brush, and trying my best to follow the path I thought Dad had taken.

Meanwhile, after settling into his favorite spot, Dad looked back across the creek.

No Jerry.

He figured I was still with my cousins.

When he eventually returned…

I wasn’t there either.

The fishing trip instantly became a search party.

Dad hurried along the creek banks, calling my name. Every passing minute must have felt like an hour. Any parent knows the fear that rises when a child disappears near moving water.

Thankfully, the story has a happy ending.

Some neighbors farther down the creek found a little boy wandering alone along the bank. They recognized something wasn’t right and eventually reunited me with a very relieved father.

For Dad, it must have been one of those moments a parent never forgets. For me, it became one of the first signs of something that would shape much of my childhood: if Dad was headed toward water, woods, or fish, I wanted to be close behind.

I’m sure I received a lecture.

To be honest, I don’t remember much about that.

What I do remember is wanting to be wherever Dad was.

That desire never really changed.

As I grew older, Dad and I spent countless days together on East Fork Dairy Creek.

Keeping up with him wasn’t always easy.

Dad moved through the woods like someone who belonged there.

I stumbled along behind.

My fishing pole constantly snagged in low-hanging branches.

Blackberry vines grabbed at my clothes.

Stinging nettles left my legs burning.

More than once I found myself tangled in brush while Dad kept walking, forcing me to hurry just to catch up.

But none of that mattered.

The important thing was staying close enough to fish beside him.

Somewhere along those banks, I caught my very first trout.

I still remember the excitement.

The line suddenly tightened, and the little rod bent toward the water. The trout darted back and forth across the pool, and I was convinced I had hooked the biggest fish in Oregon.

Dad coached me calmly as I worked it toward shore.

Finally, I slid the trout onto the gravel.

I had done it.

I had caught my first fish.

For just a moment, I stood there overflowing with pride.

Then something unexpected happened.

As I watched the trout lying on the bank, its gills slowly moving less and less, tears filled my eyes.

I watched the life ebb away from that beautiful little fish.

Until then, fishing had been pure excitement. In that quiet moment, I understood for the first time that catching a fish also meant taking a life.

Dad gently explained that we respected what God had created, that we never wasted what we caught, and that gratitude should always accompany success. It was a lesson far greater than simply learning how to fish.

The years rolled by.

Eventually the state stopped stocking East Fork Dairy Creek.

The little fishing holes where fishermen gathered each spring became quiet again.

Access to our favorite stretch of creek eventually closed to the public.

Time changed the place we loved.

Time also changed us.

Dad eventually grew too old to climb creek banks or cast into those familiar pools.

The man I once struggled to keep up with now walks much more slowly.

I suppose that’s the way life is meant to be.

But whenever I think about East Fork Dairy Creek, I don’t think first about the trout.

I think about a five-year-old boy who simply wanted to be wherever his father was.

I think about snagged fishing poles, stinging nettles, muddy boots, and countless walks through the woods trying to keep up.

Most of all, I think about a father who gave his son something far more valuable than fish.

He gave him memories.

The creek may no longer be stocked, our favorite hole may no longer be open, and Dad may no longer fish those waters. But every time I hear a creek tumbling over rocks beneath a canopy of trees, I’m five years old again, hurrying down the bank with a fishing pole in my hand, determined not to let my dad get too far ahead.

Some places disappear.

Some seasons come to an end.

But the memories we make with the people we love have a way of flowing on, just like the waters of East Fork Dairy Creek.