.jpg)
***This is a wonderful tribute that was sent out by Robin Reeve and our friends at 3-Rivers Lodge/Labrador via e-mail. We reprint it here, with permission, as we simply admire Robin's passion and love for his dear, departed friend. RIP John.
Many of you know that Jacob and Jason Oake bought Three Rivers Lodge at the end of last year. They enjoyed a wonderful first season, and they will enjoy future success, I’m sure. They will no longer have the honor, the thrill, of hosting Mr. Gierach as did their forebears for two decades.
John Gierach loved Labrador, its fishing, its wildness, even its quirks. He found comfort and quiet at Three Rivers Lodge. So he came, a dozen or so times, to take it all in, to find his stories. Many of you shared time with John in camp and recall the rich conversations - his humor, his insight and his deep passion for our pastime and its faithful proponents.
After John’s first visit, then after the published the story about his visit, on the Top Twenty chart of questions I answered daily, the #1 question, “How bad are the bugs?” began to fall down the list, soon to be replaced with “Is this the place John Gierach fishes?”
“Why, yes it is,” I’d answer, “ but it’s Gear-rock, not Guy-rash.”
.jpg)
First trip, no doubt, John came for the fishing. He loved brook trout, as those who read his stories have learned. As the years passed and friendships grew, he came more for the people. He loved the Newfie and French Canadian guides, their sturdy confidences, and the stories they’d tell that revealed nuances of their cultures. And he loved Frances, Kev and Judy.
"He once told me that “he couldn’t understand a single word that Jordan, his Newfie guide, said. And I’m not so sure that he does either.”
He went on, “I do know that without him, I wouldn’t have caught a single fish, nor had near so good a day.”
.jpg)
“Do you enjoy being recognized in airports and such,” John was asked one day. He paused, then said “Well, yes, yes I do. I suppose it confirms that your life’s work has made some impact, right. And you get to meet some really neat people along the way.”
I never sold a trip on John’s back. Never advertised “come fish with John Gierach.” Can’t recall his mentioning it to me directly, but I think it was part of the reason he was so partial to TRL. Guests would arrive Wabush and see him there in the hotel or at the plane base, then once in camp, they’d come find me.
“That’s John Gierach, right?” they’d whisper. “My god, it’s gonna be a great week.”
.jpg)
John and I found our way together to many places, some very wild. Here in the north of Labrador on the outflow of an impact crater lake, we were marooned for five days due to poor weather. We made the best of it, ate fire-blackened char and granola bars, and made coffee with yesterday’s grounds, and towards the end, day-before-yesterday’s grounds. “True cowboy coffee,” he called it.
The two day trip turned into a five day stay, but John never complained. “There’s worse things, Robin,” he mused, “than being stuck here, out on the edge of the world, with, as far as the eye can see, big char rising to blue-winged olives.”
.jpg)
Mike Dvorak, a good friend of John’s, took this image of two gray beards relaxing on the front porch. John loved dogs. Told me he didn’t have one of his own because he traveled so often and it wouldn’t be fair to the dog. So he adopted camp dogs all across North America. Never forgot their names nor just the right places to scratch their ears.
John never commented on any of my newsletters, so, wanting to confirm that I had his correct email address, I once wrote and asked if he was receiving them.
“Robin,” he wrote back, “I look forward to them like letters from home.”
.jpg)
I first met John Gierach back in 2001. He had only been in camp for a couple of days when he motioned me to the front porch, lit up a smoke, and looked in my eyes. “Just want you to know,” he said, “that I’m probably going to write about this trip. And when I do, I’m going to tell the story exactly as I see it, just the way it goes down.” Then that smile, “So you’re forewarned. If you don’t want to read it, don’t say it.”
As much as that promise might sound like a mild threat, the warmth through his coffee-stained whiskers softened its impact. In that moment, one angler to another, on the edge of Crossroads Lake, we had an understanding, and John opened his friendship to this admirer.
Like most of us, I felt knew John long before we met. We’d all travel with him, wouldn’t we, bouncing along backroads in the front seat of his old pickup, kneeling stream side by a twig fire with the bum and a strong cup of, well, an easier world. We’d watch him unravel the whims of his high country trout, and Lord knows, we learned to never kick our coffee pot across the campsite.
John took us on some really cool rides. On his vivid, witty insights, we traveled along a deeper but equally perceptive view of the journeys where he explored the values of truth, and the truth he found in values – respect for nature, little patience for the petty, and compassion for fellow travelers. Between all those beautiful lines, his paramount lesson - don’t take all the noise so seriously.
Truth was John’s lesson plan, his master plan as I saw it. Truth, and that a day on the river is as good as life can offer.
John’s gone now, and I’m sure he left knowing that we all thought of him as a friend. I was John’s friend. He said so a few times in his books, “my friend, Robin, the owner of Three Rivers . . .” or words to the like. He came up to fish with us a dozen times. He would take his rod and I would go with him and carry the lunches and point to the fish. He said exactly that in one of his stories, that all he expected from his guide was to carry his lunch and point to the fish. I’d point and he’d fish.
Our better times were at midday when we’d break for lunch, build a small fire, then lean up against a mossy log to eat one of Frances’s sandwiches. He’d ask me about my life and how I was getting on and he’d tell me something of his. Sometimes we’d talk about fish.
I’ll always think of John as my fishing buddy. “What kind of love can have for a fishing buddy?” we once pondered.
“That,” he said, “just might be the easiest kind of love.”
Robin Reeve
