REBERSBURG, Pa.— I wheeled Dad out to my rental, then wedged him, wondering how a man who threw 40-pound bags of ag lime around at a quarry into his 60s had grown so frail. Stashing his walker and wheelchair, I avoided busting my spinning rods.
Then it was off in mid-September to fish.
Dad, Leroy Bowman, had started to grex about wanting to “go to the mountains” for one last fish as my four brothers and I planned his 95th birthday this summer.
Driving from the farmland/suburban sprawl of Lancaster County north into the mountains of central Pennsylvania, we soon stopped for breakfast. For a man who says he’s ready to move on, Dad eats — loaded egg croissant, pile of fried potatoes and coffee — like he intends to stay on earth a while.
Reality is that I made sure we visited the restroom before leaving and that he was put back together clean. If you’re at that stage, you know what I mean.
Because of a bridge-out detour, we stayed on Route 11/15 by the Susquehanna River to Selinsgrove before cutting west. As we drove into Middleburg, he started a story I had never heard. He had stopped in a grocery/gas station there while it was being robbed. The owners said to get the guy. Dad grabbed him. The robber broke free but not before the workers recognized him.
With that story, we settled into old routines. Driving “to the mountains” was when Dad and I talked. Even in my high school years, when we didn’t talk much, that was true.
I felt anticipation as we climbed to R.B. Winter State Park and did the obligatory stop at the overlook to survey endless mountains.
At McCalls Dam State Park, I parked and rigged a downsized presentation — light line, micro jig and maggot — in hopes of a brook trout. Dad stunned me by using his walker with a lift-and-go style on the gravel to reach the bridge over White Deer Creek. It scared the crap out of me, and I rushed toward him. He only folded the walker against the bridge, then stared into the water.
When I dangled the bait, a small fish darted and missed it. After pulling out enough line to reach the rock where fish hid, I handed Dad the rod. Against all odds, he hooked one.
“Just reel it in,” I yelled.
When Dad swung it on the bridge, I started laughing hysterically. Dad gave me a look. OK, it wasn’t a brookie. But it was a fish, a redside dace, and Dad had caught it. I caught several dace, then he was ready.
As we drove familiar roads through the Amish farms along Elk Creek, he kept checking his watch, finally saying it was lunchtime. We stopped for the buffet at Burkholder’s Country Market.
I dropped Dad at the door, then parked. He had found a seat but looked pale when I brought our meat loaf, pot roast, mac and cheese and mashed potatoes.
“I’m done,” he said.
It was time.
Even so, as we started home, he pepped up enough to suggest driving a backway. We wound through more memories before I noticed he was dozing.
Wild things
The first count of cranes Oct. 4 at Jasper-Pulaski Fish and Wildlife Area in Indiana was only 744. It was up to 2,078 on Tuesday. Click here to check the weekly counts.
Stray cast
I’m a Stones guy, but I would rather body surf the rapids at River Park during low water than hear “Angry” even once more.
