PART ONE

I first met him in the mid 70s. I, a teenage, nightcrawler dunking, Mepps spinner tossing pursuer of trout. Him, a fly fisher, author and photographer. There he stood, in the middle of our local stream, casting effortlessly, cigarette hanging from his lips. We chatted briefly, he spoke, I was smart enough to listen. A pattern that would continue years down the road. In that first conversation he made one statement that stuck, “ If you learn to catch them here you can catch them anywhere”.

That angler was Tom Wendelburg. Regionally and Nationally known for his fly fishing articles and photography. Soon to become a local icon in our small trout world. Ten years passed before we would speak again. Then, one April evening, just days before our trout season was to open, there was a knock on my apartment door. I opened the door and there he stood. He stopped to tell me he was here for the season. That he’d be living in his car, stream side, and that I should stop by. Tom was the true ‘Trout Bum’ years before the classic book by John Gierach was published.

Tom was many things, liked by many, avoided by some, tolerated by the rest. He controlled most conversations, fly patterns, tackle, trout and the environment in which they lived consumed him. He would, occasionally talk of other subjects, but that never lasted long. At some point, Tom chose to sacrifice most of his once held conventional life. He walked away from family, a profession, and what most would consider a normal existence to pursue one thing. To say he was obsessive would be a understatement. He lived, stream side, in his old red Pinto wagon. Most of the time living on just a few dollars a day. Those dollars, daily, were spent on coffee
and a doughnut, Marlboro cigarettes, and a dinner of anything cheap at a local convenient/gas station. If it was a good week, he would, on Friday, put a couple dollars of gas in the Pinto and drive himself downstream for a fish dinner at a local drive-in restaurant. Most of his money came from selling flies along the creek and the occasional guide gig. He would clean up and wash clothes in the sink of a bathroom at one of the local watering holes while having his breakfast. Often, when pulling in and parking behind him, you would see his recently washed clothing drying on the hood of his car. Some of the locals complained about his existence to the village police, they concluded that he was in a public parking area with no restrictions, was causing no harm and thus left him alone.

Tom spent his days fishing, tying flies and visiting with any other fisherman that fished through. Many found him to be a braggart when he spoke of his fishing adventures. I learned quickly to sift through his words, and found from fishing with him, that most of what he said proved to be true. I eventually got wise enough to conclude many of our conversations with “ show me”. He often did. We would walk upstream and he would proceed to catch fish with the very techniquewe had previously discussed. Always with a Marlboro and a hackling cough.

To be continued…..