I lifted the posting below from the Gates Lodge website. I'm not much of a writer and over the course of the past couple days I had put down some thoughts and memories of my time with Rusty and I was going to post it. However, as a read it over a few times I thought to myself...who would really care. I think it was really more for me than anything. Then I read Josh's post and thought he nailed it pretty good.
12/31/09
John Russell sent me this picture of Thendara in the winter as a reminder of what we -- meaning all of us -- need to protect in the wake of Rusty's passing. It's been a somber week, certainly, but it's been well punctuated by great stories and memories of our time with "da' Gator" (I once told him that he was the only person I would ever tolerate referring himself by his nickname). Many of the emails I've gotten are from people like me who walked into Gates Lodge a nervous neophyte, and walked out, many years later, a part of something very special.
Today -- the last day of what was a real bust of a year -- I got to go fishing with my good friend Alex. I met Alex at the shop here. He was sixteen -- a trout bum shop rat -- and I, at fifteen, would soon be the same. Rusty introduced us with that knowing little smile, and fifteen years later Alex and I were trudging through snow to shake hands and prepare for an afternoon on the river. Rusty liked to call us -- not just Alex and I, but all his young summer staff -- his "kids." Looking at Alex and I now -- gray, balding, or both -- I'm not so certain about that.
It was a beautiful day, a light snow falling, temps in the low thirties, ducks kicking out of the bends in front of us. We talked about our boss. We talked about the river. We saw no one except a friend going for a winter kayak trip. The fish were on the bite. Big time. We floated past Rusty's home pool, a place where he sat quite often, quietly waiting to make that one cast for that one fish. He called himself a "bank beaver." He had nicknames (what we called "Rusty-speak") for everything: antifreeze was "red pop," gravel guards were "spats," bourbon was "brown water," good fortune was "huge," and so on: a dictionary that will never make it to press.
Today we had to fish lead-eyed streamers on floating lines, jigging the fly slowly through the little troughs and buckets of the Holy Waters. Dry flies and evening rises are half a year away. It was classic winter fishing in classic winter conditions.
So many of us owe these pictures, these moments, these friends, and the lives we lead to Rusty. He was the backbone of a very unique culture, one that captivated me and so many, young and old. For the many who were unable to attend last week's services, there will be a memorial in the spring at the Lodge (we're working on the details). But, truly, eulogize at anytime. Go fishing and say thanks. That's what we did today, and it sure felt right. I have a lot to thank Rusty for, more than he would have ever known. I was fortunate enough to tell him that a few months before he died. I really do owe my entire social life up there to him, as Josh put it, I was blessed to be apart of something pretty special. I think it would have been about four years ago and I wanted to head up and try my luck with the Hex. I emailed Rusty early in the week, told him it would be my first time and I was going to come up in a few days. I knew there wouldn't be any rooms at the lodge so I told him I was bringing my tent but If he had any advice on where to chase the bugs on the river I was all ears. I got an email in typical Rusty fashion a few hours later. He was not long for words, and even shorter with an email. It said..."leave the tent at home" that was followed by a set of directions and one more line saying he would be there at 7pm.
So Thursday evening I come to the end of a two track road and I see a little camp sitting on a bluff above the river. I get out and walk around a bit and end up sitting down by a campfire pit on the river. It was probably a half or or so later when I here a truck pull in, a door open then the site of a couple familiar faces tearing down the path towards me and the river...Buster & Ruby, Rusty's dogs. I walk up to camp and Rusty gives me the lay of the land. I said "is this yours?" "Ya, this is camp" he says. I thought wow, over the past number of years he always talked about camp in person or through emails...and here I was.
He told me that a bunch of people would be coming out that evening and I needed to meet them...they're friends he would say with a wink. That weekend as it would turn out, went on to be one of the best I've ever had up there....and the fishing had little to do with it. That night, the folks I met are now some of my closest friends. I really think Rusty knew we would all hit it off, I became part of the group and camp became home base.
To this day, I don't know what I did, or what he saw in me to invite me into his world outside the shop...but I am forever grateful.
I will miss those nights out there with all of us, the camp fires, the dinners, the stories. Yup, I got to be a part of something pretty special and 'Gator was directly responsible for it.
Gator sitting on a log, Michigan opener '09 mid chemo....
I did go up for the funeral last Wed. It was a tough afternoon, but we were all together...as Rusty would have wanted it.
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