Written by his son Phillip
Chase Carter February 11, 1998
Page 1 of 2
Dad
He was my mentor, my guide, my hero, my conscience, and much, much
more. After he died, (I was only six years old, he was fifty years,
four months, and zero days when he was called home) I was steeped in
the family tradition that Dad had been given two years extra on his
life because of me (We will talk later about how to add years to your
life. Fishing trips are a major part of how to do that).
Early on I learned about inheritances and obligations. Not only had
I inherited three long "cane"poles but an obligation to become a successful
trout fisherman. You see, Dad and his good friends and brother-in-law
"Uncle
Bus" had for years furnished trout for the annual
Johnson family reunion.
This family reunion held in August convened for two days at the girl
scout Camp (a rather large log structure) in Spring Hollow just above
the third dam in Logan Canyon. It now is held at the Girls Camp in Right
hand Canyon. The family of grandpa
and grandma
Johnson consisted of numerous aunts, uncles and cousins. Second, third
and eventually fourth generation descendants of those two Danish immigrants.
This family (Danish genes I'm sure) had a great liking for fresh fish
at breakfast. They really liked trout!
One August in the late forties (before I became a teenager) I brought
a few freshly caught fish to the reunion, I was trying to do what Dad
had done and keeping up family traditions seemed rather important. I
even got up at daylight, walked down to the impoundment, then waded
up the river past DeWitt's campground trying to get one more big trout
for Uncle
"Rich" who by then had become the Patriarch (even though an In-Law)
of the family. I almost caught a big brown but it would only follow
my flatfish, twice it came out of the deep water before seeing me. It
would have been really fun to have caught that big fellow but we had
to settle for the fine mess of Montana fish I had bought home with me
for breakfast at The Reunion.
As the reunion approached in succeeding years I came to the realization
that I had indeed inherited more than fishing poles from Dad. Fortunately
I had progressed from fresh cut willow and line to "cane" pole to fly
rod and finally to spinning rod and reel. From bait hook and worm to
spinner to flatfish to fly but back to any of them if a "big one" needed
special treatment.
For a number of years I furnished trout for this gathering and had
the pleasure of taking a number of cousins with me on fishing trips.
We even went to Montana, but the local streams were good fishing too
and we regularly waded the Logan, Blacksmith Fork and the Little Bear
River. Don Stevenson, Farrell Pilkington, Welling Roskelly, Jim Johnson
and others all shared in these good times. Welling always managed to
tell me something new about my Dad.
Back to my main tale . . . remembering Dad and my inheritance. Expired
fishing licences from Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming all in the same years.
Dad's three long cane poles with lines already attached hanging on the
stand alone garage behind the house testify to Dads love for a fishing
trip.
These three 16', well balanced, well tapered, strong but light and
flexible cane poles produced a number of good times for me as I tried
to use them the way Dad used them. Lines with leaders, sinkers and bait
hooks all fixed just as Dad had left them, all three, just there ready
to go. Even now more than half a century later I can see and feel those
wonderful poles . . . real fishing poles. When my brother Mark
moved to Montana after World
War II he was able to buy good cane poles from a hardware store
in Bozeman but it is almost impossible to get them now.
Dad was ever ready and willing for a trip to Cub
River or down to the west fields and out to Benson Ward bridge,
ever ready for a trip to the Grand Canyon of the Snake River or Greys
River. He really did a lot of fishing, at least that's what I remember.
The trip to Benson Ward seemed to be especially made for me. I always
found a dime or two along the bank under the bridge. Looking back, I'm
sure Dad must have planted them for me to find. When we caught fish
we then could visit Grandpa Johnson because he liked any fish we would
bring him and it was always fun to visit the farm at Grandpas place.
