First published in Volume 15, Issue 3 of The Flyfish Journal

I was 19 when I met James Warren. He was best friends with my stepfather, Jamie, and as long as I have known Jamie I have known of James Warren. Stories of his legendary character were sprinkled into conversations with Jamie for years before we ever met. When our paths finally did cross, it was on a steelheading trip I joined with my mom and Jamie. Only a couple years into my flyfishing journey, I didn’t yet know why but the idea of steelhead and spey casting was alluring to me, as was the invitation. Not many anglers would wish to suffer a rookie on such a trip. While fumbling with the added length and two-handed coordination of the spey rods, I watched in awe as James and Jamie launched beautiful loops across the river. 

With James was his elderly golden retriever, Doc. His new puppy, a wirehaired pointing Griffon named Shep, stayed home with the dog sitter. James wasn’t confident Doc would make it through the week and didn’t want to abandon this responsibility to a sitter. He’d lumber along the snowy banks behind us and, inevitably, as all retrievers seem to do, find something disgusting to eat or roll in. On our last day of fishing, Doc wandered off into the tall grass and did not return when called. After a panicked few minutes from James, certain his beloved dog had wandered off to die, Doc emerged from the brush with a ratty tennis ball in his mouth, tail wagging like a puppy again. 

The evening brought a remarkable feast, my first exposure to the art of wild-game fine dining. Tucked around the small table in the cabin, we shared stories while passing around plates of elk and duck, root vegetables and expertly paired wines. Doc fell asleep by the fireplace to the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses.

Doc didn’t wake up the next morning. I watched Jamie and James load his body, wrapped in a blanket, into the bed of James’ truck. James picked up the dirty tennis ball and set it next to his companion. Tears welled up in my eyes. James remarked on Doc’s “hell of a life” and how this wasn’t such a bad way to go—surrounded by love and laughter, the warmth of a fire, and the sounds of a frigid river in the background. Doc had, by all measures, chosen a good day to die.

As years passed and flyfishing overwhelmed other pursuits, I started working in my family’s fly shop in Livingston, MT. Still young and figuring out who I wanted to be, I knew a couple of things for certain—I wanted to fish and I wanted to tell stories. I jumped at an opportunity to fish with a group of women for muskie on the famed Lac Seul in Ontario. Jamie suggested reaching out to James about borrowing gear and to pick his brain on the topic of esox—muskie and pike were some of his favorite species. 

James was thrilled to oblige, and a few days later came by the shop with half a dozen Cliff Bugger Beast fly boxes jammed with hand-tied muskie flies, a couple of rods and reels, and a college course’s worth of knowledge on the topic. We set up a time for me to go out on the river with him to practice my casting with the heavy rods, lines and flies. We must have been a sight to see anchored at Mallard’s Rest on the Yellowstone—me casting an 11-weight rod with a 10-inch fly over and over again, him in the rower’s seat coaching me over a can of PBR.

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In Search of Small Gods
2024
Mixed Media
9”x12”

That night began our years of fishing adventures together. James had officially taken me under his wing.

One day in early summer, James called. The tiger muskie bite was on a little more than three hours north of where I stood in a downtown Livingston bookstore. After hanging up I checked my bank account. The books would have to wait—there were toothy fish to catch. 

Putting the last $60 I had to my name in the gas tank, I loaded my truck hastily and rolled out of town. It was enough gas to get me there and maybe back home, but getting home was Sunday Chloe’s problem. Three and a half hours later I pulled into the campsite, set up camp in my truck next to his and ate dinner with him and Shep. 

The next morning the fish were out, but as anyone who has fished for tiger muskie knows, that doesn’t mean they were eating. We saw dozens of fish stacked in the bays, but the brutally bright sun and calm conditions on gin-clear water gave us little cover. Some fish would follow, even follow into the figure eight, but none would commit. We ended the day sunburnt and dehydrated, hearts full of promise from all the encounters. James encouraged me to stay another night, convinced we could get up at the crack of dawn, launch the boat, do a lap around the lake, hopefully have some luck with the fish, and I could hop in my truck and drive the three and half hours to work. Besides, he pointed out, I didn’t have to work at the fly shop until 9 a.m. the next day.

“You’re OK, don’t cry,” James said. “You leadered him, it counts. I’m proud of you. That’s your fish.”

“I’m fine,” I told him. “I’m not crying about losing it; I’m crying because that was amazing and a lot—it’s the adrenaline.”

“OK good,” he said. After a moment of silence, he chuckled. “You got to hear me use my guide voice. I haven’t done that in forever.”

We laughed and checked the time. We were cutting it close. At the end of the drift, he dropped me off on shore. I jumped out of the Hot Hen and ran to my truck, throwing my rod in the back still rigged up in one piece. In the cab, I sobbed in disbelief at what had just happened. I felt accomplished and heartbroken all at the same time. Rolling into Livingston three hours later, my gas light came on. I showed up to the shop, busy with early season activity, a little dazed and with a shit-eating grin on my face. That was my fish.

For years, James and I would share time together on the Hot Hen—a jon boat with an Astroturf-covered casting platform welded to the bow. It wasn’t pretty, but it was practical. The name was emblazoned on the steering console in flame letters. We sank it once and had near misses with lightning and bad weather a handful of times, but most importantly the two of us, usually accompanied by Shep, would float around the lake propelled by the trolling motor and laughter. 

While we sat at the bar where Charles Russell drew the original sketch for “The Last of Five Thousand (Waiting on a Chinook),” James told me stories of his own hunting and fishing adventures across the world. Not only did he have truly remarkable stories to share, but he was also good at telling them. I couldn’t get enough of the stories, hanging on his every word. He made me look forward to growing older and collecting my own stories. 

James was a Renaissance man and a romantic. Not in a Valentine’s Day type of way. In the way he made his life so beautiful and loved it. He fished, hunted, ate fine meals, surrounded himself with great art, read more books than anyone I have ever met and kept great company. Every aspect of his life was wonderfully and purposefully curated. He was equal parts cultured and rowdy, at home anywhere—be it the helm of the Hot Hen, a Grateful Dead show, dinner with renowned artists or in a duck blind. He embodied so much of what I wanted to be “when I grew up.”

The funny thing is, James himself never grew up. That was part of his charm. He stayed curious his whole life—picking up every antler, bone and notable rock he found along the way. He kept feathers from most of the birds he shot for fly tying or memory’s sake. He pursued lesser-known waterfowl species and had a collection of game bird and waterfowl taxidermy to rival any natural history museum. 

I slept one more night in my truck and awoke before the sun to help launch the boat—the infamous Hot Hen. We made our way around the lake in the growing light and used the early cloud cover to our advantage. Halfway through our drift, still half asleep, I stripped my fly back to the Hen and out of nowhere a giant, toothy mouth appeared. I came tight, my eyes widened, and the fish started fighting back. James’ voice lowered and slowed as he gave me direction, adjusting the trolling motor. 

The leader inched closer and closer to my bent rod tip—it just had to get through the first guide for it to count. I finally felt the perfection loop from line to leader slide through the guides, James held the net at the ready, the fish made one last run and, as a rookie, I put too much pressure on it. There was a snap, the line went limp, and everything was quiet. We stood there staring at the dark water. The world around us was nearly fully awake now. I sniffled, trying not to cry. 

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Select Contents and Dreams of the
Tying Desk
2024
Mixed Media
9”x12”

“You’re OK, don’t cry,” James said. “You leadered him, it counts. I’m proud of you. That’s your fish.”

“I’m fine,” I told him. “I’m not crying about losing it; I’m crying because that was amazing and a lot—it’s the adrenaline.”

“OK good,” he said. After a moment of silence, he chuckled. “You got to hear me use my guide voice. I haven’t done that in forever.”

We laughed and checked the time. We were cutting it close. At the end of the drift, he dropped me off on shore. I jumped out of the Hot Hen and ran to my truck, throwing my rod in the back still rigged up in one piece. In the cab, I sobbed in disbelief at what had just happened. I felt accomplished and heartbroken all at the same time. Rolling into Livingston three hours later, my gas light came on. I showed up to the shop, busy with early season activity, a little dazed and with a shit-eating grin on my face. That was my fish.

For years, James and I would share time together on the Hot Hen—a jon boat with an Astroturf-covered casting platform welded to the bow. It wasn’t pretty, but it was practical. The name was emblazoned on the steering console in flame letters. We sank it once and had near misses with lightning and bad weather a handful of times, but most importantly the two of us, usually accompanied by Shep, would float around the lake propelled by the trolling motor and laughter. 

While we sat at the bar where Charles Russell drew the original sketch for “The Last of Five Thousand (Waiting on a Chinook),” James told me stories of his own hunting and fishing adventures across the world. Not only did he have truly remarkable stories to share, but he was also good at telling them. I couldn’t get enough of the stories, hanging on his every word. He made me look forward to growing older and collecting my own stories. 

James was a Renaissance man and a romantic. Not in a Valentine’s Day type of way. In the way he made his life so beautiful and loved it. He fished, hunted, ate fine meals, surrounded himself with great art, read more books than anyone I have ever met and kept great company. Every aspect of his life was wonderfully and purposefully curated. He was equal parts cultured and rowdy, at home anywhere—be it the helm of the Hot Hen, a Grateful Dead show, dinner with renowned artists or in a duck blind. He embodied so much of what I wanted to be “when I grew up.”

The funny thing is, James himself never grew up. That was part of his charm. He stayed curious his whole life—picking up every antler, bone and notable rock he found along the way. He kept feathers from most of the birds he shot for fly tying or memory’s sake. He pursued lesser-known waterfowl species and had a collection of game bird and waterfowl taxidermy to rival any natural history museum. 

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A Good Day to Die
2024
Mixed Media
18”x24”

Fly tying was his art—he’d tie elaborate and colorful flies, some clearly more of an art project than for actual fishing. 

It was as normal a November day as any in the fly shop when the phone rang. It was James’ girlfriend who lived in Washington. She wanted to know if either Jamie or I had heard from James recently. She hadn’t been able to get ahold of him for a few days. I checked with Jamie, confirmed we hadn’t heard from James, and relayed that if we did, we’d let her know. Jamie sent texts and called James and got no answer. It was bird-hunting season after all, so maybe he was out of service, somewhere on the prairie with Shep. 

She called back again an hour or so later, this time more worried. Being in Livingston, we couldn’t easily go over the hill to Bozeman to check but said we’d ask my mom to stop by since she was there. My mom went to the house and found his truck in the driveway. She knocked without answer. The lights were on, Shep didn’t bark. She knocked again and waited—nothing. 

Jamie and I sat in the back room of the fly shop, on the phone with her while she started to check the windows around the house. We prayed and hoped he was just in the shower or on a call, prayed he would pop out from another room and answer the door, but the pits in our stomachs deepened. Mom climbed up on the stack of firewood to peek in a side window. She saw James lying in his living room, and Shep’s greying face appeared and looked up at her. James was 51.

Jamie left the shop to go to James’ house. I went home alone. Death arrived, close, profound, for the first time in my adult life.

I called my mom and asked what the plan for Shep was, told her he could stay with me if needed. My young Gordon setter, Hiatt, could use an older brother. Shep made himself at home under the blankets of my bed, a place he continues to occupy to this day. 

My mom and Jamie took charge of squaring away James’ estate. Aside from Shep, I inherited a collection of books, mostly Jim Harrison, Tom McGuane, Cormac McCarthy, Hemingway and myriad other random books on bird dogs, shotguns and poetry. I hung artwork from his house on my walls and stacked a collection of game-bird drinking glasses in my cupboard. I placed feathers, rocks and other earthly treasures from his windowsill on mine. Large black bins of fly-tying materials stacked up in my garage.

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Bag of Ice:
Found Full of Feathers
2024
Mixed Media
18”x24”

After unpacking a box of his books in my living room, I sat on the floor in front of the bookcase, tired from crying. I missed him. This grief was new to me. It was exhausting and confusing. My teary gaze danced across the full shelf of Jim Harrison books in front of me, a writer James had taught me to love. The copy of A Good Day to Die caught my eye. Speaking out loud to James as if he were there, I told him, selfishly, there was no good day for him to die. I pulled the book off the shelf, a retired (or stolen) first edition from the Tompkins County Public Library in Ithaca, NY. On the inside of the cover, overlaying the library card, I found scrawled: 

“To James,” with the signature, “Jim Harrison.”

My tears turned to laughter when I realized James had indeed been listening and this was exactly how he would tell me that he was OK and everything would be fine. He was letting me know that, after all, it had been a good day to die.

Black bins full of his books and tying materials were packed away and stacked in my garage, the most convenient place for my family to store them. For two years I’d see the totes in my garage among the seasonal ebb and flow of dirt bikes and various ungulate quarters. Not much of a fly-tyer, I never bothered to open the bins. 

On a bright summer day while working on cyanotype prints, the thought occurred to me to search the bins for feathers beyond the pheasant and grouse I had harvested the season before. Upon opening the first tote, I was met with an overwhelming volume of colors and textures. There were exotic-colored feathers, dozens of packs of Flashabou, craft fur, deer and elk hair, rabbit and squirrel in every natural and unnatural color. Eyes, legs, tails, hooks and other fly components in every size were all packed away neatly awaiting use. The energy of the boxes in front of me was crushing, as if I had opened a Pandora’s Box of grief and creativity.

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Hot Hen
2024
Mixed Media
24”x48”

Before anyone puts pen to paper, brush to canvas, or hook to vice, there is potential creative energy around us. It sits waiting in our materials, our brains, our hands and our souls. It stays there until we pick up the pen, brush or bobbin. As I looked through the tying materials in front of me, I wondered what happens to this energy when we die. What happens when the only thing left of an artist are the materials gathered and the dreams of what they would become? 

I sat in the garage for hours sorting through the bins, collecting whatever materials caught my eye. As I set each one aside, I felt the soul of my friend and mentor. The energy of someone who taught me life is best practiced as art radiated from the heaps of feathers, fur and flash.

Here I was staring squarely at James’ creativity, and it was staring back, challenging mine. 

What started as a violent clash of grief and creativity ended with their harmony. The result is a collection of works fabricated with unlikely mediums—a tale of two artists and what happens when one leaves the other behind.