01/08/2024
While standing in cold and shin-deep water on one of my favorite trout streams yesterday, I received the kind of call that none of us ever want to receive – but do. Like so many other people, I’m devastated at the sudden loss of my friend and fly-fishing mentor Bruce Miller.
We first met in 2008 when my son Peter and I floated with him on an early October afternoon down the Main Stem of the Delaware, Bruce’s favorite stretch. He introduced us to fishing a streamer likely his own black bu**er, tight to the bank. And he was sure to let you know when he didn’t like where your fly landed or the way it moved in the water. As a musician, I was okay with improvisation in my cast and retrieve. As a former IBM employee, he understood the importance of precision in the “code.” Opposites attract.
Being the expert oarsman he was, he kept us on target for miles from Fireman’s to Buckingham – that day and every day after. He pointed out specific rocks and trees where he knew a big fish lived and where he lost a few over his many years on the river. He fostered my love of the Delaware System and fishing with a fly. When the fishing was slow, we talked about our kids or about music, and on occasion, I would sing one of his favorite songs with made-up and sometimes profane lyrics to get him to giggle.
In 2019, after many client trips with Bruce, and others (Samantha, Steve, Kevan, and Bob Lewis), I called Bruce to have him look at a drift boat I was considering buying. Time to solo. He said he would sell me his boat, the one I had been fishing in for the last 10 years. He gave the “friends and family” discount which included a rowing lesson – a day which I write with the greatest of affection and love, almost ended our friendship.
After more than 80 days and two years of learning the water on my own, Jeff White asked if I would be interested in doing some weekend guiding for the Delaware River Club. I called Bruce to get an honest opinion about my skills. I wasn’t sure I had learned enough but Bruce said, “Do it. Every day, every trip is a classroom. Never stop learning.” And so, with Bruce’s encouragement, I started down a path of learning, teaching, comradery, and patient observation – all key ingredients of fly fishing.
As his health reduced his own guiding time, I tried to keep him in my boat as often as possible as a guest. He had a standing invitation to join me whenever I was up to fish. We traveled to Tennessee last March to fish the famed South Holston and Watauga. I made a playlist heavy on Steely Dan for the drive and tried not to scare him with my not-so-subtle New Jersey driving skills. We fished for stripers on the fly in Raritan Bay with Capt. Joe and Capt. Zach, which reminded him of fishing on Cape Cod and Long Island Sound which he did for many years in his youth.
He was eager to fish as much as possible in these coming years, we talked about driving down to Arkansas to fish the White River this March and maybe revisiting the Big Horn this Fall. Never stop learning. One of my favorite poems is “Ulysses” which to me, highlights how I saw Bruce these last few years. The final lines seem fitting: We are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
My deepest condolences to his wife Lucy and his children and grandchildren who he talked about often when the fishing was slow. He loved you all very much. You were his greatest catch of all.
Suburban Fly Fishers
