Written by his son Phillip
Chase Carter February 11, 1998
Page 2 of 2
Dad had beautiful hands. Mother
said so . . . many times, " your father had beautiful hands, he was
a good teacher and could have been a great surgeon." I'm sure those
beautiful hands had tied the lines, leads, and hooks to those cane poles
just right . . . perhaps perfectly. He also was very good at fly fishing.
Both Mark
and Grover
have said that Dad was much better at fly casting than they were. He
could cast farther and more accurately.
I remember he was really good at catching fish with those
poles . . . trout, whitefish, bass, even carp and catfish. He also had
more than one beautiful split bamboo fly rod, case, real, bamboo basket
(creel), lines, leaders, hooks and flies, a few flatfish and spinners.
These however all went to my older brothers. I got the deer rifle (when
old enough to hunt but that is another story) and those precious cane
poles hanging on the garage wall as my inheritance.
Dad's favorite trout stream was Cub
River in nearby Idaho. One special trip remains part of my treasured
inheritance. He took me, only me, not friends or family, just me, to
his favorite stream. He especially loved catching "natives" and apparently
had decided it was time to teach me the art and skill of catching "natives"
using a cane pole. I'm sure he also meant to impress upon my young mind
the joy of companionship shared in the out of doors, seeing . . . hearing
. . . feeling . . . smelling, Cub River Canyon. I can't recall that
we caught a single fish, however the recollection of two wolves and
Dad telling me to remember that day because they were most likely the
last of their kind has stayed fresh and clear through all these years.
Ugly reddish and black monsters to me, ready to eat me up, but Dad saw
them as wonderfully sad, wild creatures symbolizing the last of America's
frontier.
Over the years at family gatherings and reunions, stories
of the good times with Dad on overnighters on the Cub River established
forever in my mind what a great family we had and how blessed I have
been to know my Dad.
Dad and some friends at the college regularly ordered
hand tied flies from Europe. He had served an LDS
mission there and had great feeling for the people and places associated
with this time in his life. Silver Doctors, Bloody Butchers and other
flies imported from Europe. Dad was very serious about catching fish,
especially "natives". I wanted to be like him so I have always, for
more than fifty years now, owned a number of "Silver Doctors" and "Bloody
Butchers". I haven't caught many fish on them but just in case they
are needed I have some on hand for each trip. I remember Grover taking
me along on a trip to Cub River. He said the best fly to use was a #12
Silver Doctor but he only had one with him that day. He used it until
it was worn out.
Dad died in "43". I was six, he was fifty. I was told
more than once that God had granted him a wish of two more years of
life so that I might be able to remember him. This was when he was operated
on for toxic
goiter. This story has had a remarkable effect upon me over the
years. I guess I've felt pretty special because Dad cared that much
for me. He must have had a special relationship with God and I have
always felt I better do things right because I'd be accountable to both
of them.
"Remember him, what an obligation. Yes I remember him,
however the world of four, five, and six year old kids is rather strange
to adults and from a distance of many decades is perhaps laced with
dreams, some fantasy about what should have been but it is also a collection
of real events, real places and real people.
Sometimes I wonder if my memories are of actual events
or of stories about family occasions. Probably both . . . But some recollections
are so vivid I know I really was there with my Dad.
Places like Hebgen Lake, Jenny's Lake, Jackson Lake, Henry's
Lake, Fishlake, Bear Lake are all great trout fisheries but do not stimulate
a single memory for me except through family stories and photographs.
I mostly remember Dad fishing streams. It all comes alive for me when
I think about the Snake River, Greys River, Tin Cup, Salt River, Logan
River, Cub
River, Bear River even the Black Smith Fork. One exception to this
collage of place names of rivers is Hyrum Dam Reservoir Mostly it was
river fishing so this time in Grover's boat with Dad is distinct and
vivid for me. We had a couple of really great trips trolling for trout,
I caught two fine rainbows on one of these trips. The family boat was
more a hybrid canoe, kayak and sailing board than anything I've ever
seen since. My oldest brother had made it from wooden bicycle wheel
rims and lots of small pieces of seasoned wood covered with canvas.
It was fantastic! I loved it when I was invited to go! But back to the
real story . . . MEMORIES OF DAD. He was especially good at stream fishing
and loved to wade in the water. I can still see him in hip boots, pole
in hand and his well worn reed fishing basket hung over his shoulder.
The Logan River still has the remains of an irrigation
ditch diversion dam about one mile below the 1st dam. There was a great
fishing hole just below that diversion dam and an even better one just
upstream with great clusters of willow and red twig dogwood hanging
out over and into the crystal clear water. Dad had missed a 3lb.-4lb.
rainbow earlier that summer and had determined he would let me catch
it.
I was instructed were to place the baited hook so it would
sink deep enough, slow enough and under the overhanging brush. I can
smell it, feel it, see it and hear it as if it was just yesterday. Everything
just as Dad said, the fish was there, it did its part, I reacted but
didn't set the hook properly. I slowly brought line, leader, sinker,
hook and fish to the top of the water and then watched it splash and
swim away. Dad was very disappointed with me. I've made this same mistake
over the years (Not hooking the fish properly), (expressing disappointment
in my children's actions).
Over the years, perhaps two hundred times maybe more,
I've gone back to the diversion dam on Logan River and tried to catch
that fish. I never have, only little ones, but I always catch the wonderment
of Dad letting me try to catch the big fish that got away. The sounds
and smell of that place are wonderful. I usually see a water ouzel (dipper),
skimming along, landing on the concrete abuttment or on the rocks just
downstream. I usually get wet from wading in the river trying to get
my lure deeper under the brush and always have a great time! Maybe I'm
just trying to be with Dad again and this is pretty close to doing it.
I really have good feelings when I'm there.
Thanks Dad for great memories!
