I suppose, in most cases, it’s the father who turns his kid on to fishing. In my case, it was Ernest Hemingway. My dad had a lot of passions but fishing was not one of them. When I was a kid I read Hemingway’s “In Our Time” with its Nick Adams stories, and “The Sun Also Rises,” both with powerful trout fishing episodes. It wasn’t long before I was tying my own flies and had received my first fly rod as a gift. It was a whippy, split bamboo pole, which I still have. I’m a saver.
Hemingway was my idol. That wasn’t unusual for my generation. His work spoke to many of us and it still does.
I first met Ernest Hemingway in Sun Valley, Idaho, in 1958.
Beginning in 1939, the already famous writer began visiting Idaho and stayed frequently at the legendary Sun Valley Resort as a non-paying celebrity guest. He always stayed in suite 206 of Sun Valley Lodge. That’s where he wrote most of “For Whom the Bell Tolls.”
Back in 1956, I worked as the publicist for Sun Valley, a property of the Union Pacific Railroad, and one of my friends there was Taylor “Beartracks” Williams, the famed hunting and fishing guide. Williams was a great friend of Hemingway and the author gave him an annotated set of galley proofs of “For Whom the Bell Tolls”—a priceless legacy. Later, at the suggestion of Williams, Hemingway autographed a first edition of “The Old Man and the Sea” for me. It’s signed “To Ernie Beyl from Ernie Hemingway.”
One day Williams came into my Sun Valley office carrying a fly rod. He said he had constructed it for Hemingway—a seven-and-a-half foot, black fiberglass rod with red wrappings and a cigar-shaped cork handle. Apparently, Hemingway didn’t like it. He felt it was too stiff and, besides, by that time he was more into marlin fishing in the Gulf Stream. I gave Williams $25 for the rod and tried it out on Silver Creek; the demanding, spring-fed trout stream just south of Sun Valley. No strikes, no fish. I stuck the Hemingway rod (as I had come to call it) away in a closet.
A few years later, when I was a Hollywood press agent, I went back to Sun Valley for a visit and hosted a cocktail party. Hemingway, his movie star pal Gary Cooper, and their wives were down the road in Ketchum so I invited them and they showed up.
When the famous foursome walked into the Eddy Duchin Lounge at Sun Valley Lodge where I was having the party, Mary Hemingway and Maria Cooper saw some friends at the other end of the room and joined them. Hemingway and Cooper hung back near the entrance and I decided to take drink orders. Cooper wanted a Scotch on the rocks.
“And what would you like, Papa?” I asked.
“Well, I’d like a scotch, too, but if Mary sees me with one she’ll kill me.”
“Okay, why don’t I get you a small glass of wine?”
“Get me both. You hold the Scotch. I’ll hold the wine.”
And that’s what we did. From time to time Hemingway looked over at Mary and when he thought she wasn’t observing, took the Scotch glass out of my hand and gave me the wine glass. Then it was Scotch, wine, Scotch, wine, back and forth, and the conversation picked up.
“I have a fly rod that “Beartracks” Williams made for you. He said you didn’t like it because it was too stiff, so he sold it to me for 25 bucks,” I said, as I handed off the glass of Scotch and took the glass of wine.
“Probably was. Catch anything with it?” Hemingway asked.
“I tried it once on Silver Creek and didn’t get anything. Too stiff I guess.”
Hemingway laughed loudly and mimed the action of casting a fly rod.
As we stood there, a waiter came by with a few things to nibble on, nuts and olives I recall. Hemingway and Cooper both grabbed a handful of olives and set about inventing a cocktail party game. Separated by three or four feet, they tossed olives into each other’s wide-open mouths. It was a sport of a highly competitive nature. Hemingway was soon ahead by several olives. Then, suddenly, Mary and Maria were in front of us, and the game ceased.
Fortunately, I was holding both the glass of Scotch and the glass of wine during the olive tossing. It was time for the group to leave. Mary Hemingway directed the departure. That was the last time I saw Hemingway.
A few years later I took my son, Jeff, to Sun Valley to fish and decided to use the old Hemingway rod. The first afternoon there, just to get in the mood, we visited Hemingway’s grave in the Ketchum Cemetery. “Beartracks” Williams, who died in 1959, is in the same plot. Then we went to see the handsome Hemingway Memorial up on Trail Creek and, finally, we peeked at the house on the Big Wood River where Papa shot and killed himself on July 2, 1961.
Silver Creek is a famously difficult place to fish—at least for me. It was a fine sunny day with no wind. The fish spooked easily and the old rod made casting difficult and quickly tired my arm. My hand ached from gripping the big cigar-shaped handle. It was like tossing a tiny trout fly with a telephone pole.
Neither Jeff nor I did had any luck in the morning with flies like Parachute Hoppers and Caddis Emergers, which were supposed to work. After lunch we fished the same stretch of water and saw iridescent winged insects known as Damselflys hovering just above the creek. Some were floating along the natural seams and dimpling the water. I was determined to stick a fish with the Hemingway rod so I fished with a dry fly called a Blue Damselfly that imitated the insects we saw floating along. And that’s when I began catching fish on Hemingway’s fly rod.
In a few minutes I had hooked a few active—maybe I should say, careless—rainbows. They weren’t terribly large, but respectable nonetheless. Jeff caught a few, too, using a Blue Damselfly. Silver Creek has a catch and release policy and that’s what we did. We both breathed sighs of satisfaction and that’s the way our day ended.
That evening, Jeff and I went to Michel's Christiania in Ketchum to celebrate. We were told that while Hemingway lived on the Wood River, he liked the place and ate there frequently. The bartender was friendly and knew we weren’t locals. I told him about the Hemingway rod and the day’s fishing. He had a few words with someone on the staff and soon we were seated at what we were told was Hemingway’s favorite table. Jeff and I toasted the absent author and the Blue Damselflys with chilled vodka.
To read more about Ernest Hemingway’s adventures in Sun Valley, pick up a copy of Van Gordon Sauter’s “The Sun Valley Story."
