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From the Ground Up
The Tie That Binds Life Outside
By Doug Humphreys “It’s the tie that binds.” I
wasn’t sure if he was making a statement to me or talking to himself. He slid the line through the
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eye of the hook, then doubled it back so he could hold both ends between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He looked at me and said, “Seven times, no more—no less.” He turned the hook seven
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full rotations, poked the end of the line through the small gap just above the hook eye, then continued through the loop he had created. Then he said, “Be- fore you cinch the knot, moist- en it”. He wetted the loopy tangle
with his tongue, then gently pulled on the hook. The knot tightened around itself until there was a tidy stack of coils tightly gathered just above the hook. He held the knot in a beam
of sun coming through the kitchen window, and said, “Not a single kink in the line. That, my boy, is a properly tied Im- proved Clinch Knot. If you nev- er learn another fishing knot, you’ll probably be okay”. He took a sip of coffee: “The
most carefully tied fly attached to the most expensive line are useless if they aren’t bound by a decent knot.” I still wasn’t
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sure if he was talking to me. I wasn’t even sure if he knew he was speaking aloud. Either way, what he said seemed to make sense.
“Thank you Mr. H.B.,” I wheezed into the smoky air. My granddad Baker sat at the
head of the kitchen table blow- ing smoke rings and making a point to only partially pay at- tention. Crushing a butt in the ash tray, he quipped, “Seems like a lot of fuss just to catch a fish. I’ve caught plenty on a sapling with cheap line and an overhand knot.” With a smirk only I could see
H.B. replied, “I bet you’ve lost plenty too. I’ve never lost a fish that could be blamed on this knot.” He added a wink in case I didn’t get the smirk and pro- vocative retort. Granddad processed what
he’d heard as he lit another cigarette, then blurted, “Oh, for God sake’s H. B., you’re so full of crap I need boots just to talk to you.” He didn’t really say crap. H.B. looked back to me, now
with an ear-to-ear grin, and said, “I’m not sayin’ you won’t lose another fish. I’m just sayin’ that if you do, it won’t be the knot’s fault.” The grin faded as he gazed at the knot still lit by a beam of sun. “Yeah,” H.B. said, most cer-
tainly talking to himself this time, “it’s the tie that binds.” Granddad just huffed, though
it was a huff of begrudged agreement this time. I knew enough to know that
they had just seen eye-to-eye on something, I just had no idea what that something was. But at the time it was of little importance. I figured I had a few more steps to take before I could call myself a fisherman, but I had that fishing knot thing covered. To this day the Improved
Clinch is the only knot I can tie without removing the cheat
sheet from my fishing vest, and long ago I resigned myself to the fact that I will never be a fisherman. I genuinely enjoy the pursuit of fish, but the sim- ple truth is that maybe five per- cent of the people who wield a rod and reel will ever really be fishermen. The rest of us are just people who fish with vary- ing degrees of competence and success. We call ourselves fish- ermen in the same way we call the McDonald’s menu food. What I have learned through
a lifetime of drowning worms is that a fishing knot does more than bind a fly or lure or bait to line. It binds a person to the idea of catching a fish, and once a person is bound to that, they are bound to an endeavor that brings a lifetime of happiness and meaning. Fishing knots have bound me
to the purple and red clouds of sunrise that reach to the hori- zon, making it difficult to tell where water ends and heaven begins. They have bound me to rivers and streams, the deli- cate lifeblood of nature, and to the responsibility of preserving them. I’m bound to the sound of surf and the smell of salt in the air. I’m bound to the mo- ment when I lift a fish from the water, and then release it to be free—or slip it into my creel. Most importantly I’m bound
to the responsibility of passing the heritage of fishing to my children, and to the pleasure of teaching them the skills that every child should know. Most especially, I’m bound to the look on their faces when their bobbers dip below the water’s surface. A long time ago I learned how
to properly bind a hook to line. At the time I had no idea that I would bind myself to so much by simply tying knots. If asked today how I feel about that, I’d simply huff in agreement, and with infinite satisfaction.
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© 2012 Vera Bradley Designs, Inc.
© 2012 Vera Bradley Designs, Inc.
© 2012 Vera Bradley Designs, Inc.
New! Spring 2011 Colors & Styles
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