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The first time I met Charlie was back in the mid 80?s. It was spring and I was guiding on the upper Sauk, from Darrington down to Bennettville. One day in April, I noticed an old army style tent perched just in the woods overlooking a fine pool the river. As I would enter this drift each morning, I never actually met the man attached to this tent, but I knew he was fishing the pool, because I could see the fresh prints of his caulked shoes in the sand. Not many anglers fished this section of river. Curiosity finally got the better of me and I started my next day trip at O'dark hundred, as Les would say.

As we floated down stream to the camp pool, there in the misty morning as light was just breaking over the hills, was the figure of a man out on the water. He was already half way down the run.

“What time did he start?” I wondered.

As my anglers and I rafted in from behind, the river noise muffled any sound. Charlie was concentrating on his fishing. I have found when you approach someone by water you will startle them. There really isn’t anything you can say that won’t. We startled him. Charlie almost lost his footing as he wheeled around, to see who these early morning invaders were.

I apologized from frightening him, as I pulled my raft in near shore, as to not disturb his fishing. I introduced myself.

Charlie is not what you might call a Down Town angler. His waders had more patches than rubber, his vest was so tattered, it was a wonder it held together at all. He wore no hat, even in the chilly morning, and his hair looked......confused. In a nutshell, Charlie looked more like a bridge person than a fisherman. He reeled in his Pflueger Medalist flyreel and put the biggest gosh-awful black marabou on his keeper. It looked like a river leech perched on his rod. I couldn’t believe he was actually fishing the thing.

He saw me staring at the fly, and just kind of smiled. Charlie spoke in quiet tones. You had to concentrate to hear him. I was ready to write him off as a, got lost under the bridge gang, until he asked me if I had taken any fish from this pool. I had to admit, I hadnt.

He then pulled from his vest pocket the most beautiful cedar fly box I have ever seen. Like a Mercedes in a junk yard, it seemed so entirely out of place, for the rest of his attire. He pulled a huge red marabou from his box and said.

“Try it if you get stuck.”

I thanked him and went about my fishing. Crazy old man.

I never saw him again that spring but the tent didn’t move until a high water, just before the end of the season.

The next I saw of Charlie I was fishing on my own, just before dark, on the Stilly, North Fork. I was wading a tailout just above Hazel, when I noticed a fisherman playing a steelhead in the tailout of the pool. It was Charlie. By the way he handled and released the fish, it was pretty obvious, I had seriously misjudged the man.

Charlie recognized me at once and hailed me over like an old friend. We chatted for a while and he asked if I wanted to share the pool. He took the Royal coachman with a pink belly fly off his own tippet and said.

“Here Dennis, fish this one.”

I would love to tell you I caught a fish on that fly that evening, but I didn’t. Didn’t matter. It was a lovely gesture.

Later, I found if I were to fish really late or really early, I could run into Charlie. We would chat for a minute, then go about our fishing.

Once, I was hoping for a last hour pool, just below Boulder Creek. My clients hadn’t touched a fish all day and I figured if I could only get them into this particular pool, in this last hour, we had a shot. As I rounded the corner, there was Charlie just wading into the pool. He saw me about the same time, and waded back out to shore. We walked up. Charlie kind of leaned back on his wading staff like he had kink in his back, as we made introductions. I told him to go back to his fishing, we would try a run down around the corner.

Charlie looks at the young couple and I and says “ Ya know Dennis, my back is kind of acting up on me. Think maybe I have had enough for the day”. I knew Charlie had been waiting for the shadows to cover the water. He was lying and I knew it. Before I could protest , he had turned and was gone. Charlie was like that.

When I would see Charlie out, I would always make a fuss over his wooden fly box, and finally got up enough courage once to ask him if he would sell me one.

“Don’t build them to sell,” He muttered.

I noticed in the last few years Charlie started slowing down, but he was out on the river most everyday. Early mornings, late evenings. Never at mid day and always alone.

I don’t know what ever happened to Charlie. It seemed that one day he just stopped coming. I find in early mornings in spring I still look for him wading the Sauk pools, or camped along the Stilly in the fall. Its as if he belongs there.

You know, I bet every river has its Charlie. You will never find him in a club meeting, never see him hanging around the shop. Never see his picture in a book, or read about him in print. Trade shows crowds would make him nervous. He is the first to admit, he never casts over fifty feet, let alone enter a casting contest. But he is there, wading the steelhead streams he loved.

The one thing you can say about Charlie though........The man can fish.

Best of fishing, Dennis