Authors: Mary Alice Monroe
“I wrote a paper on her myself,” she said, a little self-consciously. “I’ll get that for you, if you like. If I recall correctly, she didn’t start writing for the paper until sometime in the nineteen twenties. But she published one article as a girl. Well, it wasn’t an article so much as it was an essay. It was different from what the men wrote about, and by that I mean they like to tell you whether to use a number eighteen or a number fourteen for a quill hatch or what rod they used for what river. That sort of thing.”
“What brought about her writing ‘On the Fly’?”
“The timing was right. You see, fly-fishing was in its heyday in the mid–nineteen twenties. More and more wealthy sportsmen discovered there was mighty fine fly-fishing in our mountain streams, and with the railroad making a trip from the East Coast cities easier, they came in numbers, bringing their families along to enjoy the balmy climate.
“At that time, it was Kate’s father, Walter Watkins, who was best known for his fly-fishing. He was a gentleman’s angler, quiet-spoken and polite. I’ve read countless letters and diaries from local people and I never read a mean word spoken about him. Isn’t that an amazing thing? Not one word. You know, I’ve always thought that when my time comes, if a bad word was never said about me, well, I can’t think of a better eulogy.”
“Kate was a lucky girl to have him as her father.”
“That respect and affection the town felt for the Reverend transferred to his daughter, Kate. He taught her everything she knew about fishing. There are some who believe she grew to be better than him. We’ll never know for certain. Reverend Watkins never entered a tournament. It wasn’t his style.”
“And Kate did?”
“Oh my, yes! I’ll find you articles about the tournaments she won. Dozens of them. By the time she was twenty-five she was considered one of the best anglers in the country. Our own Annie Oakley, if you will. How could the town not love her? The more her reputation grew, so did the town’s. Today you’d call her a public-relations dream. Imagine a woman fly fisher—and one who could beat the men, too!”
“I love it,” Mia said.
“Yep. She was something. Truth is, though, reporters back then were not always, well, shall we say they didn’t always check their facts. They puffed things up a bit. Her name sold newspapers, though. Sort of like those young girls in movies sell newspapers today with the press blowing up all their naughty antics. I swear, I’d rather the press today play up a lady fly fisher than some floozy who can fill out a dress and get drunk. Well, never mind. What I’m getting at is the editor of the
Gazette
, not being born a fool, asked Kate if she would write a column. And she did. I’m sure it gave her a nice income, too. Sometimes she wrote about fishing, sometimes about the streams and rivers she fished. Sometimes, though, it was more a gossip column about the big-name celebrities and financiers who came to fish with her.”
“How did the celebrities and high rollers find out about her? Even with a female angler, this is a small town. No offense,” Mia added.
“None taken. We like it small and aim to keep it that way. But that’s a good point. At first it was word of mouth. I guess being in the elite of New York City is like being in a small town, too, eh? I don’t know how it happened but after a few years a New York paper picked up her column, then one in Boston and who knows where else.”
“Really? That’s amazing,” Mia said, trying to imagine the magnitude of such an accomplishment in the 1920s. “To be picked up by a New York paper in any time period is a feat. I thought she just had a small column here in the town paper. But I didn’t see any record of it when I did my Internet search.”
“That was a long time ago, honey. And like I said, not everything is digital. But you’re lucky, because every article she wrote the
Gazette
printed, too. So if you’ve got the time, we’ve got the articles. In fact, here’s one. It’s dated 1925. I’ll move over. You come take a look.”
The Gazette
April 1925
Kate Watkins, “On the Fly”
Spring has come to western North Carolina and with the migrating birds come the visiting anglers looking for a fine rainbow trout, or a big brown, or maybe even the elusive brookie. Some are expert at casting and others are as new as the spring green shoots sprouting up and down the mountains. Yet whether experienced or a beginner, when the water warms and the fish are biting, both are eager to get to the river and start fishing. Before you make that first cast into our streams, I’d like to share with you a lesson I learned from a master fly fisher—my father.
Slow down. Get comfortable in the water. When you come to the river, don’t jump right in and start tying flies and casting like a drummer with a tom-tom. Most anglers learn straightaway how to read the water. My father, however, taught me to listen to the river. Especially in the spring when the waters are swollen with high expectations and fractured light sparkles through the greening leaves. Take a moment to look in the early morning mist that curls from the water like smoke and you will see countless butterflies fluttering. Along the graveled banks, the rocks and wild grass harbor telltale insects, and just beyond, the bright reds and yellows of wildflowers color the landscape. Elusive gray shadows swim upstream, barely visible against the pattern of river rock.
Stand a moment longer and listen to the music of the water. Breathe deep and soon you will catch its rhythm and your blood will pump its heady beat. As your body hums, your mind releases the nagging worries you carried with you to the river—thoughts of business and family and work and future slowly drain from you to be picked up in the current and dragged away. You now feel lighter, freer. You see with fresh eyes. You hear the secrets of the river. You are the river.
Now you are ready to connect with the fish.
M
ia glanced at her watch and silently groaned. It was her nature to be like a terrier with a bone. Once she latched on to a subject it was hard to let go. She pushed back from the copy machine and stretched her arms over her head. She was making copies of each of the articles they found. “I can’t believe how late it’s getting. We worked right through lunch. And then some.”
Nada was sitting across from her at a long table, culling through dozens of rolls of microfilm. She lifted her head and checked her own watch, then brought her palms to her face to rub weary eyes. “I’m going to catch hell. I have two stories I need to follow up on to make deadline.”
“Nada, please don’t let my quest interfere with your work at the paper.”
“This
is
my work at the paper. Sort of.” She looked in her coffee cup, frowned at the contents, and set it back down. “Mia, I can’t help but get sucked into it.”
Mia’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “I know. But,” she said, turning off the screen, “I’ve got to go. Can I come back tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, the next day. Whenever.”
Mia gathered her notebook and supplies and helped Nada close up the research room. After setting a time to return the following day, she left the building to do her shopping in town. She kept an eye on the clock.
It was an outstanding summer day. The sun was high and bright in a clear blue sky and there was no humidity. The breeze felt fresh on her cheeks, especially welcome after a morning spent in a basement without windows. It was midweek and the town had few tourists strolling.
She went first to the art shop on Main Street.
“How is your painting coming along?” Maeve asked when Mia walked in. She was wearing a long, flowing skirt of vivid colors and rough, hand-hewn jewelry.
“I don’t know about the quality, but I love the process. I can’t seem to stop myself. I get up in the morning, drink my coffee, and grab my brushes. Every day.”
“Good. Are you still painting the river?”
“For the most part. I’m fascinated with how the water changes—in sunlight and in storms, in the early morning and at twilight. It’s mercurial. When I wake up I can’t wait to go out and see what the river will look like.” She smiled. “I guess you could say it’s my way of reading the water. I’ve been trying my hand with flowers and birds, too. My problem with birds is they’re not very good models. I can pick a wildflower and it will stay still for me to draw. A mockingbird isn’t so accommodating. I don’t know how Audubon did it.”
“He likely killed it, stuffed it, and then mounted it. Not a method I’d recommend you try.”
They chuckled. Then, with Maeve’s help, Mia selected more watercolor paints and paper.
“Please, bring some of your paintings down next time,” Maeve said. “I’ll critique them. Don’t be shy.”
“I’m not shy as much as plain embarrassed,” Mia replied modestly. “I’m such an amateur. I should throw them out.”
“Never say that. You must honor your creativity. Think of your art as a journey from a place of wholeness inside of you. You move through your center to renewed sensitivity to the world around you.”
Mia thought that was how she felt with her rod while on the water. In truth, she took her painting very seriously. But she didn’t want to share them. Mia wasn’t painting for an observer. These daily watercolors were her entries in a diary—not a fishing diary but a painting journal for herself.
Mia left with a large bag filled with paint, paper, and brushes, and returned to the sun shining on Main Street. Her stomach was growling and she cast a longing glance at the café as she passed. It was midafternoon and only a few diners sat near the window eating what looked to be luscious pieces of quiche. She looked at her watch and kept walking. If she left town now, she could be at the river by four.
Mia arrived at her favorite spot on the river as the sun was beginning its slow descent in the western sky. It was her favorite time in the mountains. A bewitching hour when the sky grew dusky and a mantle of blue and purple settled around the mountains in a silken mist.
When she arrived at the spot she was breathless. The sound of rushing water seemed louder in the twilight. Standing on the grassy bank she felt the large pebbles dig into the rubber soles of her tennis shoes. She looked upriver then downriver, but she didn’t see anyone else. Her disappointment surprised her. Mia had no reason to expect he’d be here. It was highly unlikely. Yet she still felt the fluttering of attraction in her gut when she thought of those astonishingly blue eyes. She hadn’t felt that emotion in a long time. She didn’t believe it had been one-sided.
She felt the old insecurity sweep over her, forcing her to ask herself why an attractive man like Stuart would be interested in her. The days when a man might be attracted to her were over. Feeling more than a little sorry for herself, Mia stuffed her feet into waders and felt-bottom boots, then walked to the water’s edge. In the water she saw dark shadows that made her heart skip. But by a large white rock over which water tumbled noisily, she saw a large fish come up for a sip before disappearing again. That was the fish she wanted.
She carefully made her way from the shallow water of the bank toward the deeper middle. The current was stronger here and her feet slipped along the bottom. She took her time settling her feet and getting her balance in the water. Only when she felt comfortable did she begin to cast. She started fishing the shady bank. Her casts were clumsy but at least the fly was hitting the water in the right area. Feeling better, she moved to cast as close to the big rock as she could, hoping to get the fly to fall smack dab in front of where she thought the big fish sat. On her third cast she was admiring the way her fly fell softly on the water when she felt the hoped-for tug on the line.
A strike! She jerked her pole high, setting the hook, and let loose a high squeal of excitement. The way her rod bowed and the weight on the line told her it was a good-size fish. The fish dove. She pulled back on the rod. Snap! The line went loose. She looked at the slack line in the water with a puzzled face.
“You didn’t give him line.”
Mia swung her head toward the bank to see Stuart watching her. His hat was off and she saw that his hair was dark and worn quite short. He wasn’t wearing his fishing vest, either, but a pouch hung around his neck from a lanyard. On this hot day he looked infinitely more comfortable than she was in her sweaty waders. He eased his face into a wry grin and his eyes crinkled in humor.
Mia returned a rueful smile, inordinately glad to see him. “I was lifting the rod to set the hook,” she called back.
“Well you did that just fine. But look where your finger is.”
Mia looked down and saw that her index finger was holding the line taut against the rod. “I was holding on to him.”
“You want to give a big fish like that plenty of line to run.”
She began walking toward him with as much grace as she could plowing through water on slippery rocks. She didn’t want to end this display of ineptness with a fall into the water. When she drew near he held out his hand to help her up the bank.
“Thanks,” she said, feeling self-conscious. When she was on dry ground she said, “I thought I was supposed to keep my finger on the rod so I wouldn’t let the line go loose.”
“When your fish takes off you want to keep your finger off the line. Let him go. When he slows down you reel him in and if he pulls again, give some line. You give a little, you take a little. It’s how you play him.”
Mia thought that was an apt description of what girls did at bars and parties throughout the country. It was called flirtation, and she wondered if she remembered the rules of that sport as well.
“So, when do you reel him in?”
“You don’t want to play him too hard and tire him out. You have to sense when it’s time to bring him to the net. But if you don’t let him run when he wants to, he’ll swim away with your fly in his mouth.”
“Like my fish just did.”
“Yep.”
Mia looked down the river knowing somewhere in that current her fish had swum off before she could take out the hook. It would come out in time, but she felt sorry for the fish.
“He took my only fly so I guess I’m done for the day.”
“You don’t want to quit so soon. I’ve got lots of flies.”
“You’ll share them?”
He turned his head. “Sure. It’s not a big deal.” He pulled a small plastic case from his pouch and opened it. Inside were dozens of flies, some so small they were no bigger than a gnat and others that looked like large ants and fuzzy furries. He looked out over the water again, then studied the flies in his case, finally settling on a small, brown, furry one.
“OK, is that a Woolly Bugger or a Mighty Mite?” she asked with a grin. She loved the funny names some of the flies had and wondered if she’d ever get them straight.
“No, this here is a number fourteen Hare’s Ear.”
She laughed again. “I love the names. Really, who thought up
Bitch Creek
flies?”
His lips twitched. “I’ve always liked
Humpies
.” When Mia burst out laughing, he chuckled and added, “Or
Booby Nymph
?”
Mia laughed harder, thinking she could hardly wait to tell Maddie that one.
While their laughter subsided Mia realized how much she’d missed just laughing so hard she got teary. She glanced at Stuart. His head was bent as he attached the fly but he was chuckling. It was nice to be with someone with a sense of humor, she thought. He looked up and caught her gaze. From the way he looked at her she wondered if he was thinking the same about her.
“Maybe I should start painting flies, too,” she said. “To help me remember their names. That’s what I do with wildflowers and insects.”
“Why paint them when you can tie your own flies?”
“Make them? Me? Isn’t that hard?”
“Not really. I made these.”
She laughed, then felt sorry for it. He seemed a little offended. “No, it’s just that, isn’t that a little like sewing? I don’t think I’ve ever met a guy who, well, made flies.”
He looked at her askance. “Then you don’t know many fly fishermen, do you?”
She shook her head with another light laugh. “No, you’re my first.”
His brows rose. “Really?” He paused, then said with a wry smile, “I guess it’s an honor to be your first.”
Mia’s cheeks felt heat and she realized with a start that she was blushing. They were playing the flirtation game. And she was enjoying it. Good God, she thought as her blush deepened, was she supposed to let him run or reel him in now?
She looked at her rod, nervously averting her gaze. She decided to let him run. “Would you mind tying my fly on? We’ll be here for hours if I do it.”
“Sure,” he replied, and reached out for her fishing rod.
She enjoyed watching him. His expression was serious, and short wisps of dark hair fell over his forehead as he bent over the extremely fine fishing line. Standing close, she saw a few equally fine gray hairs interspersed with his darker ones. His long fingers worked quickly as he attached the fly; then he brought the line to his lips, the upper one disappearing over the fuller bottom lip as he moistened the line before tightening the knot. The cuff of his shirt slipped back and she noticed that his wrists were slender and tanned, too. She also noted that he did not wear a wedding ring. She looked down at her own hand and self-consciously rubbed the small pale line on her tanned left hand where her wedding ring used to be.