Ernie Who?

Two years ago this month my dad, Gerry Lyons, passed peacefully after a full life that ended just short of his 93rd birthday. Though my dad was not an angler, he very kindly took me on several trips to the Battenkill during my early years as an angler. I recall these trips with great fondness, including dinners at the old Sirloin Saloon in Manchester. The story below was initially published on the Orvis News website back in 2013. It was my first article and still one of my favorites. I am offering this piece (with some improvements to the original) in memory of my dad. Later in life, I was able to return the favor, and we enjoyed time at the little fishing camp where his familiar hat and cane sit quietly in a corner by his favorite chair.

My dad, Gerry Lyons at camp in Shushan. Gerry was a willing companion to the Battenkill despite having no interest in angling. Roscoe stands guard.

June of 1980 marked my fourth year fishing the Battenkill. The previous fall I had acquired my first bamboo fly rod after having spent the summer cutting lawns to save up for the asking price of $175. The rod in question was a 7 1/2 foot 5-weight Midge characterized by a rich brown coloring brought about by the hand flaming process that the company used at the time the rod had been built, in the 1960's.

With my new rod in hand, I asked my dad if he was up for another trip to Vermont, to which he enthusiastically said, "Yes". Later in life, I learned that his enthusiasm was fueled as much by the opportunity to get away from the chaos that comes from having four young children as it was due to his generous nature. Permission granted, I sought a suitable weekend while my dad found lodging; which turned out to be the recently refurbished Arlington Inn, a classic lodging site for travelers dating back to the 1800's.

As luck would have it, the Battenkill flows under the Rte. 313 bridge, locally and more properly known as the Water Works Bridge, a mere 200 yards from the Inn. This made an easy point of entry for me and allowed my dad to enjoy a comfortable chair on the Inn's impressive porch and dig into one of the many books he had brought along.

And so there I found myself one bright June afternoon, working the water above the bridge, casting with no real purpose and only a little skill. It was a beautiful day, though, and the evening prior I had spied a large brown trout slowly cruising through the depths of the pool. It seemed as logical place as anywhere to fish, so I planted myself there and enthusiastically set about to catch the big one. After an hour I would have been happy with a trout of any size, and after an hour more I would have settled for a dace.

About that time, my dad came by to check on me and let me know that he was heading to Manchester, a rundown resort village at the time. A few minutes later, I had just about worn out most of my surprising patience and decided to take a seat on the bank. I had not been sitting for more than five minutes when along the path came another angler, the first I had seen all day (Even then, a crowd on the Battenkill meant sharing a pool with perhaps one other angler). As I stood up to get out of the way, I took a quick glance at the other fisherman and realized that I was in the presence of a genuine fly fishing celebrity. In his hand he carried a bamboo rod that I was certain he didn't purchase via the proceeds of lawn cutting. On his head was a quickly identifiable hat of the Tyrolean variety. His vest bulged with boxes and his landing net was of the first order. No patches on this fellows waders.

At this point, if you spent any time at all fly angling before A River Runs Through It was released, you do not need to be told that the angler in question was none other than Ernest Schwiebert, whose prose were as difficult for me to understand as Battenkill trout were to catch.

Earnest Schwiebert in his familiar Tyrolean hat.

Well, I was a little more than a star struck fisher at a loss for words, something rare indeed, as my friends certainly know. As Ernie kept moving upstream he had little to say. He paused for a moment, though, and remarked - and I still remember this as if it was yesterday - "The Battenkill, it is the epitome of a trout stream." And with that, he moved on up river and out of sight, never to be seen again. When I saw my dad later that day, I asked him what the word epitome meant.

Shortly after The Great One headed upstream something of a miracle happened. I managed to catch two trout in quick succession. The first one was a small brook trout that took my beetle as it dangled in my wake while I considered a fly change. The second one was a genuine Battenkill brown trout. All seven inches of him. I think I made a cast to this particular fish. And with that, I was forever hooked on the Battenkill, in love with bamboo, and thankful that Ernie had cast his spell over the river. Or at least these two little troutlings.

Later in the evening, while I was getting ready for bed, my dad mentioned that another guest at the Inn was talking about me. I was fearful that it was the man who had asked me for directions to Manchester and whom I had erroneously sent over the border into New York. The irritated traveler later returned, and assuming me to be a local, said the joke was not appreciated before he drove off in a huff. To my relief, it was not this fellow at all but, as my dad described him, a well dressed gentleman who mentioned a young angler he had seen down by the river earlier that day. Although I pressed for details, all I got out of my dad was that the gentleman had said there was a young angler who had all the right equipment but just needed time on the water.

"Dad", I exclaimed with excitement, "that was Ernie Schwiebert!" Without missing a beat, my dad replied, Ernie who?" and rolled over and went to sleep.