He was the greatest fly-fishing writer of his generation, a legend whose first book, Trout and the Meaning of Life, continues to sell hundreds of copies every year.
The critics raved about his graceful prose, while the fans envied his lifestyle. He seemed to be everywhere at once, fishing for tarpon off the Keys or chasing Moroccan trout in the Atlas Mountains. He made the gossip columns, too, the first celebrity angler since Hemingway, when he married Alison Winters, the star of Cronenberg’s sci-fi blockbuster Point Zero.
His name was Grayson St. Claire. I met him at The White Thorn Lodge in Lassen County, an exclusive hideout that limits the number of guests to reduce the pressure on its three miles of private stream, where 18-inch browns aren’t uncommon. It’s ridiculously expensive, of course. I’d never have stayed there if my wife, Susie, hadn’t splurged on a three-day package deal as a treat for my 40th birthday. Once I got over the shock, I looked forward to the gourmet meals, fine wines, and superlative fishing.
I spotted St. Claire the afternoon we checked in, a stormy one with heavy rain. He sat in an armchair off the lobby, scribbling in a notebook on his lap. He looked just like his jacket photo—a little older, maybe, but he had the same bushy beard, flecked with gray now, and the wild head of hair that made barbers reach for their clippers. His face was ruddy and weathered from exposure. His clothes were so rumpled he might’ve slept in them. An unlit cigar rested between his lips.
“That’s Grayson St. Claire,” I whispered to Susie.
She stole a quick glance. “Your hero!”
“He’s not my hero, Susie!” I corrected her, although it’s true I’d told her all about Grayson and how much his books meant to me. “I’m too old for heroes. I admire him as a writer, that’s all.”
“Well, go over and say hello to him then.”
“Just walk up and say hello? And do what? Ask to take a selfie?”
“Get over yourself, Robert. You’re going to be 40, remember? You’re all grown up!”
Susie can be tough, but she was right. There’s no point in being shy at my age, so I approached Grayson—a bit tentatively, I admit, worried I’d disturb the lion in his den. “Mister St. Claire?” He gave me a tired smile, as if he’d met my type many times before and knew exactly what I’d say. “I love your books. When I read Trout in college, it changed my way of thinking about the world. I wanted to thank you for that.”
“Won’t you sit down?” he asked. “Otherwise you’ll wear yourself out singing my praises.”
We chatted for 15 minutes or so. I don’t remember what he said, but I know I blathered. I asked too many questions. It’s possible I did most of the talking. When he signalled our time was up, I blurted, “Sir, I’d really like to buy you a drink.”
At that, Grayson brightened considerably. “You’re very kind. Shall we meet in the library after dinner?”
The rain kept up, washing out the evening’s fishing. I unpacked my gear and made appreciative noises about the gorgeous room and king-size bed. “I’m having a drink with Grayson after dinner,” I reported, playing it cool, trying not to show I was excited. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Susie shrugged, hanging up her clothes. “He looks like a guy who could use one.”
The food at the lodge was superb, worthy of a Michelin star. After Susie and I finished a bottle of Turley Cellars Zinfandel with our Grisdale Ranch prime rib, I’d had enough to drink, but I rose to the occasion. Grayson was already in the library with a glass of Irish whiskey in hand. The room reminded me of the gents’ clubs in London I’d seen in photos, very masculine with walls of hunter green, a big fireplace, and framed sporting prints for décor.
For the next two hours, I sat rapt and listened to Grayson spin his tales. He’d told them all before, of course, but not to me. They were honed to a fine edge. I heard about his trip to the Yucatan for permit, and the time he landed a record brown in Patagonia on a foam Chernobyl ant. He described the landscapes he’d seen, the exotic food he’d sampled, and—with a sly look—the women he’d met along the road.
We were polishing off our third single malt when someone called out, “Grayson, time for bed!”
I turned to look and there stood Alison Winters, an imperious figure dressed as if for a cocktail party in the Hamptons, diamond earrings dripping. I recognized her right away as the crooked dealer in body parts from the Cronenberg film
“It’s only 11, darling,” Grayson countered.
“I’m not going to repeat what the doctor told you, Grayson. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your young friend.” When he made no move, she barked, “It’s your funeral, pal.”
Grudgingly, St. Clair set down his glass. “Sorry about this, Robert.” He was a bulky guy and took a while to get up from his chair. I could hear his joints crackling. “Never marry an actor, no matter how beautiful,” he whispered, wheezing a bit. “Alison’s made my life a living hell.” With that, he limped toward the staircase, doing as he’d been told.
Susie was already asleep when I got to our room. I showered and slipped in next to her, trying not to read too much into Grayson’s nasty comment about his wife. He’d been drinking, and people do and say stupid things when they’ve had a little too much, as I knew from personal experience. I hoped they’d patch it up, or I’d have to avoid Grayson for the rest of our stay.
The rain quit in the night, and the dawn broke cool and gray. I woke early, grabbed some toast and coffee, and headed for my beat, a quarter-mile of spring creek I’d have to myself. It was a lovely piece of water, alkaline and rich in oxygen, slow-flowing and as clear as “a picture of eternity” to borrow a line from St. Claire’s book. The trout were wild and wary, fished over countless times. They must have seen thousands of flies by now, dries and wets and nymphs and streamers, all the variants and new creations that anglers dream up. The stars would have to align in some mystical formation before I’d have a chance to hook a trophy like those displayed in the library, two huge browns caught in 1956 and 1981, respectively.
My analysis proved right. I took one good rainbow on a Muddler Minnow, my old standby, but the day stayed cool and the bugs were few and far between. But I relished the solitude, listening to a woodpecker punch holes in an oak and watching a red-tail sail by overhead. I caught sight of one hulking trout lurking beneath an undercut bank and teased it with a grasshopper, but the trout ignored my fly the way royalty snubs the common folk.
I’d have fished through lunch except for Susie. She wouldn’t be happy if I left her alone all day. This was her holiday, too, so I returned to the lodge for a lavish buffet. The desk clerk called out to me as we left the dining room, and informed me that Mr. St. Claire had asked after me. I’d find him in the library.
He sat in the same chair. A pint of stout rested on the table, and he hoisted it in greeting. “Hair of the dog.” He looked sheepish. “I’m glad you survived my palaver.” He didn’t mention Alison or the embarrassing scene she caused, maybe hoping I’d forget it. Or maybe he just didn’t care. “I can be an awful old bore at times.”
“Not at all,” I objected. Though it was true he could be boring.
“What say you and I fish together this evening? I’d like the company if you can stand another dose of me.”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. I might slow you down a bit. I banged up my knee in Quito”—he tapped the right—“and it never healed properly.” He wheezed again as he got to his feet, careful to swallow the last foamy bit of beer. “I’ll collect my gear and meet you out front.”
I had mixed feelings about the excursion. I’d be fishing with a legend and earn bragging rights with my pals, but I dreaded another session of yarn-spinning. I’d be stuck with Grayson, a virtual prisoner, while he loosed a cascade of memories. I thought of poor Tony Last in Evelyn Waugh’s A Handful of Dust, trapped in the African bush and forced to read all of Dickens aloud to his captor.
But St. Claire underwent a transformation, as if the scent of the river woke him up. He looked alert, 10 years younger, ready for anything. The lodge reserved a beat for him, but he claimed he knew it too well and insisted we fish mine instead. From his case, he produced a nine-foot Hardy Marksman and waded into the stream. He wheezed no more, and the slight limp I’d noticed had vanished. Here was the Grayson St. Claire I recognized from Trout and the Meaning of Life—a consummate fly fisher, each cast picture-perfect, his very being in harmony with the natural world.
Right away he proved his mettle. Where I’d seen only the odd mayfly come off, St. Claire had the sort of laser vision that only develops with vast experience. On his third cast, he reeled in a rainbow of 20 inches or so. He showed me the fly on the palm of his hand, a #20 Trico Spinner. “Go even smaller if you can manage it,” he advised. “These are very selective trout.”
All evening, I learned from St. Claire. It happened through observation, not because he played teacher. If I had a question, he answered it, but he didn’t mind me being silent. What impressed me most was his equanimity. On a stream, I’m a creature of many moods, angry at myself if I mess up, likely to explode if I lose a good fish, and going too fast for my own good. Grayson had the steady, slightly bemused demeanor of a monk who takes delight in every wrinkle life throws his way, good or bad. He didn’t rattle easily.
When we reached the undercut bank, Grayson went right to work. Again, I could see the hulking form of a big fish, a Methuselah with the wisdom of the ages in his favor. This wasn’t a trout to be tricked into gulping an artificial. He probably indulged in laughing fits in his watery cave, reduced to tears by the optimism of anglers. But he’d never crossed paths with one as clever as Grayson St. Claire. On his fourth cast, the victim bit and the fight was on, a thriller that lasted a long while, with a terrific amount of thrashing, before the trout, a brown of four-plus pounds, surrendered. As it lay panting on the bank, St. Claire plucked his fly from its lip.
It was a beetle, but not like any I’d ever seen. It consisted of deer hair dyed black, lashed to the hook shank, and pulled over to form a rounded shape. It resembled a filthy mop head nobody had bothered to rinse out for months.
“The Crowe Beetle, it’s called,” Grayson explained. “I heard about it years ago in Wisconsin. The tier was a John Crowe from Johnstown, Pennsylvania. It has an industrial look, doesn’t it?”
“It’s ugly, all right.”
“I used to rely on Vincent Marinaro’s Jassid for a beetle imitation. Trust me, the Crowe Beetle catches more fish.”
The sky was dusky when St. Claire began to tire. “Let’s rest a minute, shall we?” The lodge provided for flagging energies. The clientele was older, well-to-do, and expected certain amenities. A few benches were scattered along the banks, and there were a couple of huts for shelter. Grayson and I grabbed a bench.
He sighed when he sat, fidgeting with his bum knee. “You’re a delight to fish with, Robert. A mannerly angler.” I braced myself for an epic tale of the unmannerly angler he’d met in Tanzania, but it didn’t come. “You’re just 40, you say?” I nodded. “I imagine you feel a little old.” I nodded again, and he laughed. “I’m staring at the cliff face of 70. That’s old! When I wake at night, I see a neon sign pulsing the message, ‘There’s no reprieve.’ But I don’t dwell on it. That’s a good attitude, don’t you think?”
“To be honest, I’m so busy with my job and the kids, I don’t have much time to reflect.”
“Ever wonder how you came to be where you are? The choices you made and those you didn’t?”
“I suppose I do. Late at night when I’m up alone with a drink.”
“I wonder all the time. It’s a symptom of my great age. What am I doing with Alison? She’s 22 years younger. I know what people say. They think she’s my daughter, or pretend they do. But Alison and I get on. Heaven knows why, but she cares about me. Not everyone does in the end, I can assure you. My kids are okay with it, but they’re grown up. Their mother…”
“How many do you have?”
“Four with my first wife, one with my second. Alison’s my third. We met in Sun Valley. She was taking a rest cure after finishing a film, I was shooting a promo video for Orvis at Silver Creek. I approached her at a drinks party at the hotel. She came over to my cabin, I poured an Oregon pinot and served her pan-fried rainbow and hash browns, and the rest is history.” He looked pleased with himself. It was a story he liked to tell. “Life’s crazy, Robert. The undertow might get me if not for this.” He gripped his rod. “As long as I’ve got a rod and a stream to fish, I can hold my center.”
It was dark now. We needed a flashlight to find our way. “I’m afraid we won’t have another chance to fish,” Grayson said. “I’m off to Vancouver at dawn. I’m to give a talk at an anglers’ convention. Sign some books, schmooze, that sort of thing. I wish like hell I were going home instead.”
“Where is home?”
“I’ve got six acres on a river in upstate New York and a bolthole in Manhattan in Hell’s Kitchen. I spend time at Alison’s in Santa Monica as well. Not my scene, really, but I slip off and fish the beaches for surf perch.” He held out a hand. “All the best, Robert. It’s been a pleasure.”
“And for me,” I said. “Thanks, Grayson.”
It’s been almost 20 years since I met and fished with Grayson St. Claire at White Thorn Lodge. Although my 70th birthday is still a little way off, I catch glimpses of the coal face at times. I wonder about things a lot more now. Should I have left my job to join that start-up? Have I been a good dad to my boys? Have I done anything out of the ordinary with my life? So many questions. I do know I never could’ve lived a life as large as Grayson, lately inducted into the Fly Fishing Hall of Fame on what would have been his 88th birthday.
