Wednesday, October 11, 2023
From time to time Barclay and I have talked about our memories of things we used to do and could do no longer. We were in complete agreement that the only sorrow involved was for those who had never had, or took, the opportunity to do what we so fondly remembered.
At the top of our list was fly fishing and the environs in which it was practiced. Barc was a later-in-life practitioner, not by choice but because his many years of Army responsibilities prevented him from joining "the boys" on local weekend trips and the occasional longer forays to the mountain rivers of the west. With retirement, however, came an acceleration into the contemplative man's sport that left a virtual contrail of fishermen’s tall tales. Coming late to the game had the advantage of lessons shared by others, and the most important of those was, "This is where we are going."
Barc's fishing-venue bucket list changed to "been there" pretty fast. Fishing and bonding with a Sportsmen's group guaranteed a new experience every summer, and then each September returning to proven waters of the west meant boots-in-the-waters where few have had the fortitude or privilege to fish: Baker Creek, Gallatin, West Boulder, Little Firehole, Shields, Gibbon-Virginia Meadows, Mill Creek, Madison-West fork, Madison-Beaver Meadows, Big Hole, Soda Butte, Lamar, Slough Creek, Bacon Rind, and the great Yellowstone. Whew! Not bad for a lifetime, let alone retirement years. And Barclay was not among the tyro/tourist crowd. He was an accomplished fly fisherman who experienced many twenty-fish days.
One young lady who had the privilege of fishing out west with "Mr. Wellman" texted in early this week: "So now he is headed for the big trout stream in sky, and he won’t be stuck in the back seat with his feet propped up on the beer cases,"
Mark I Hampton
