Home

Rusty

December 21, 2009

It's snowing softly this morning. It's so quiet in the winter woods; lonely and empty. That’s never been as true as it is today. There’s a hollowness in the AuSableRiverValley opened by the loss of the courageous steward to these waters—Rusty Gates. He was and will always be remembered, by me, as a long ago friend and mentor. Many of us wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Gator. His knowledge of all things trout was endless and his love for the river boundless. A leader to all that wanted to do right by the river and a ferocious warrior for what he believed in; Rusty, in his generosity, left us all a legacy.

Some years ago now, I used to spend many nights with Gator fishing and it was there he seemed most at peace. Whether it was in the boat, on the banks, or on the ice, Rusty loved to fish. I once asked him why he almost never took vacations in the off season. He simply said, “Why would I want to leave here?” And so it was in the winters I knew him. He taught me the cold weather rhythm of tying flies in the morning and sitting on the ice in the afternoons. He was, perhaps, the best fly tyer I’ve ever met. And he was certainly the most beautiful fisherman I knew.

Great fishermen pay close attention to details and Rusty was no exception to that rule. One weekend, we locked ourselves in an ice shanty on a trip up North and fished hours for perch while everyone else in our group minded tip-ups for giant Northern Pike. We turned on the heater and had a fine time skimming ice from the hole and catching smallish fish. He made a science out of the whole deal. He insisted we used 5X fluorocarbon and different hooks than the manufacturer provided on our jigs. He’d touch my arm silently when a fish moved into the jigging hole so that I’d know to be quiet and not spoil to opportunity. You should’ve seen him when he was reeling up panfish through the ice—hooting like a kid and completely thrilled. I wish you all could’ve seen him when a 6 pound Northern swept across the shanty hole sucking in Rusty’s minnow tipped jig and disappeared under the ice peeling off drag. He ended up landing that brute on 5X. He was a great fisherman.

I haven’t been close to him in a few years . . . something I regret. But whether he knew it or not, he was always close to me. I doubt there’s a day that I don’t think about him. He’s in the grouse woods and on the two tracks. He’s there when I cut wood and when I pound nails (he loved a project). He’s there when I think of the River. And of course he’s there, with me, when I’m on the river. Rusty is in the currents. He will always be there for all of us.

Be Well,

Andy