On losing a friend

“A gap has occurred in the line. Who will come forward to fill it?”

— Charles Edward Stuart, Battle of Culloden Moor, 1746

One of my long-time fishing buddies is dying. Malignant cancer cells are slowly ravaging his body. The time for hope is past. It is inevitable that the cancerous cells will take him from us. They cannot, however, take the memory of innumerable pleasant hours spent in his company.

To tell the truth, before I came to know the man, I considered him to be a pest. In the 1960s, I often fished a small stream in Westchester County known as the Amawalk Outlet. It seemed that nearly every time I parked my car alongside the stream I would find a yellow, jeep-type vehicle already there. I would think to myself, good grief, doesn’t this fellow ever go to work? Never did I imagine that he and I were to become the best of friends.

In the winter of 1969-1970, this “pest” became involved with a group known as the Amawalk Rock Rollers. On Sunday afternoons, in between trout seasons, they worked to improve the habitat for trout in the Amawalk Outlet. It was while working with this group that our friendship blossomed, and became ever stronger as the years passed. Eventually, my buddy became both a stalwart member and the chronicler of the Rock Rollers. He took moving pictures in sound and color of their efforts. At each of the Rock Rollers’ annual dinners, his films were always the high points of the evening. In the summer of 1980, he wrote a book, privately published, with photos of the stream improvement work along with a detailed history of the Amawalk region.

At one point we both became members of the Theodore Gordon Fly Fishers (TGF), and were eventually named to their board of directors. That meant we had to take a once-a-month drive into lower Manhattan. His company on those trips made the driving bearable.

TGF became involved in a wide arc of trout stream water testing, under the supervision of the DEC. Shortly after the program began, the original pair of testers in the Catskill area resigned. My buddy and I volunteered to fill the breach. Every month for three years, we drove up from Westchester to test the waters of the Delaware, Beaverkill and Wilowemoc. Those were long and sometimes difficult trips, but my pal, being an erudite conversationalist, caused the miles to fly by quickly.

When it came to mixing a martini, he had no peer. In fact, he was so fond of that particular cocktail, on trips to the Catskills he would bring along a plastic milk jug filled with his favorite libation. Never was he miserly in sharing the contents of the jug with his fishing companions. Many an evening I found myself unable to tie the knots needed to repair my leader after imbibing of his offerings. Barbara Ann once laughingly said that just smelling the vapors that arose from her glass was enough to make her giddy.

Once, on a Christmas Eve, with the entire family gathered around the fireplace, there came a knock on our door. When I opened it, there was no one there. Outside the door sat a large box wrapped in red paper, tied with a large bow. I took it inside, a bit surprised at how heavy it was. What could it contain? I opened it carefully to discover that the “gift” was a rock the size of a bowling ball. A small note read, “from one rock roller to another.” There was only one person who could be responsible for this practical joke. With his sly sense of humor, my pal Anthony Jansic had struck again.

While he rarely missed a chance to tease a friend, he was dead serious about preserving trout streams for future generations. He was no “mouth music” conversationalist. No matter what type of work a project might entail, he always responded by putting his body on the line.

Over the years of our friendship we enjoyed so many conversations. Now, sadly, they have come to an end. For the first time ever, it seems that I am to have the last word. Adios old friend, adios.