A "fisherman's fisherman": a father-son story

OK, I can't deny it: My son has become a better fly fisherman than me.

I've been fly-fishing for 30 years. Gabriele's been fishing for two.

He casts better than me, locates fish better than me, hooks more fish than me, wades better than me.

And this is a young man who learned to fly-fish in Italy, of all places.

Gabe, who spent six years playing professional soccer in Denmark and Italy, developed his fly-fishing skills on a stream called the Serio in Northern Italy.

One of his Italian friends noted recently that when Gabe wasn't on the soccer pitch, he was on the river.

Both pursuits continue to be his passions.

At first, he caught nothing. Then one day on the stream, an older Italian, somewhat amused at my son's technique, gave him pointers on casting and knot tying.

It wasn't long before Gabe hooked his first brown trout. He was so excited that while still streamside, he pulled out his cellphone and called me in Seattle to tell me of his success.

Gabe, 27, has caught many fish since then, which brings us to our recent trip to the Chewuch River outside Winthrop.

We were going to fish the Methow, but it's a big river that needs to be floated in a raft or drift boat to get in on the best fishing action. We had neither.

We settled on fishing the smaller Chewuch and Twisp rivers, which can be waded and have a lot of pocket water chock-full of rainbows.

It was on the Chewuch that the inescapable truth hit me: Gabe is a fisherman's fisherman.

Although I caught the first fish, an 11-inch rainbow, Gabe caught more and bigger fish that day.

He casts to spots I don't think would hold a trout and casts until the fish is his.

"Dad, I knew there was a fish in there. I just knew it."

But what was sobering that day was running into a guy who was camping along the river. He told me two things I really didn't want to hear: (1) He had caught a 20-inch rainbow earlier that day on a dry fly (Yeah, right!) and (2) My son casts better than me.

I immediately started paying way more attention to my own casting abilities, but in the end, I accepted the fact that Gabe's technique is the smoother and more elegant of the two.

Dammit.

Another thing young men such as Gabe have going for them is balance and an ability to wade in water over their knees.

At 57, I go crashing down into the water so much anymore that when I first get to a river, I fall on purpose just to get it over with.

On the second day, we fished our way around a large island in the Chewuch, casting to this pocket and that. Gabe caught fish all around the island.

I caught bupkis.

As we made our way back to the main stream, I fell down for the umpteenth time. Frustrated, I threw a tantrum and started swearing, a diatribe that would have made a sailor blush.

Feeling for me, Gabe pointed out a nice pool up ahead that was sure to hold a fish. "Fish that one, Dad."

As I made my way upstream, I was so intent on not falling that I inadvertently walked right by the pool.

Gabe noticed I hadn't fished it so he began casting to it and soon hooked a nice rainbow.

I continued to catch nothing.

After a while, I looked back to see how Gabe was doing and he wasn't there. I began calling his name. No answer. My heart was pounding.

"Gabe? Gabe?"

Then I heard him, but I couldn't see where he was.

"Dad, I'm here. Over here."

I had been so preoccupied trying to catch a fish that I hadn't realized he had leapfrogged me and was safely upstream, landing a nice rainbow.

When our fishing day came to an end and we were making our way back to our car, Gabe unexpectedly turned to me and said "Hey, Dad, I know what you were doing back there. ... Thanks for letting me fish that pool."

"Uh, yes," I said a bit awkwardly, my eyes getting a tad misty.

You're a good kid, Gabe, even if you are a better fisherman than me.

Nick Provenza: nprovenza@seattletimes.com