The Bucket List

My Bucket Runneth Over

Doc’s bucket and scoop. He fed the fish promptly at 4 pm every single day. The rods were put to the side. I swear the fish could see the color red.

Fishermen Catch Fish. Sportsmen Catch It All.

So went the parables according to Doc.

“Doc” Stever was a Spruce Creek legend. Well known for his private stretch of water holding some of the biggest fish in Huntington County, Spruce Creek is famed for its world-class fly fishing. Former Presidents Dwight D. Eisenhower and Jimmy Carter have cast lines here. Doc has stories that include both—and so many more.

Doc with one of his “pet” fish.

Doc graduated from Tyrone High School in 1954, attended Mercersburg Academy, Swarthmore College, and graduated from the University of Pennsylvania Dental school in 1960. He joined the Army Dental Corps as a captain at Ireland Army Hospital, Ft. Knox, KY, and proudly served from 1961 to 1964. Doc always said his time in the military was one of the most favorite times of his life.

He returned home to Tyrone in 1964 to join his father to practice family dentistry. Doc served the central PA community as a dentist for 44 years and referred to himself as a molar mechanic. He cared greatly for his patients and never forgot one, usually
recalling the tooth number and procedure!

Doc retired in 1998 to live full-time on his childhood homestead in Franklinville along the picturesque and breath-taking Spruce Creek. He was well-versed on the habitat of the stream, and being the expert fly fisherman that he was, would describe the perfect cast as "landing the fly on the water like a butterfly with sore feet".

Doc partnered with Home Waters, an exclusive fishing club, to share his slice of heaven with trout fishermen from all over the world and privately welcomed veterans who came to heal their wounds through the tranquility of fly fishing and being on the water.

A retired dentist, military veteran, accomplished photographer, former guide to Indian Caverns (open to the public from 1929 to 2017), and general fish-whisperer, Doc’s bright blue eyes lit up most when he talked about his family.

Doc was a brother, son, father, mentor, and friend—and he shared not only his vast knowledge of the outdoors, but also his stories and, most importantly, his time.

I smile, wiping my leaky eyes as I recall that late summer stretch of fishing at Doc’s.

Along the groomed banks of the creek—or “crick,” as the Central Pennsylvania locals call it—my fly rod in one hand, my camera in the other, I softly hummed a tune with no name. My heart beat in time to the musical melody of the water, tumbling over rocks in a syncopated splash.

A fat behemoth of a trout breached the surface to porpoise, only to disappear, leaving a tell-tale ring in its wake.

I stretched my neck, rolled my head to work out the kinks, and raised my eyes to the skies.

Don’t forget to look up.

A shadow passed overhead. I tracked a huge figure that came to rest in a tree nearby. A flash of white confirmed my excited hunch: a bald eagle.

I motioned to my fishing partner as I hurried to grab my camera and attach the telephoto lens. Giddy with joy, I started snapping away, hoping to capture just a few clear images of this majestic creature. Eager to get closer without spooking it, we inched our way under the tree, my shutter clicking—a steady staccato interrupting the silence in the reverence of the moment.

“OMG” we mouthed to each other silently, careful not to make a sound, feeding off the exuberance of this happy moment. Does it get any better than this?

Delicious anticipation. The promise of just seeing this water was enough. The actual fishing, catching, and landing these amazing beasts just about put us over the top.

Doc made me raise my right hand and take the oath.

Doc: Repeat after me. Do you promise to tell the trout, the whole trout, and nothing but the trout?

Me: (smiling) So help me cod.

A selfie during that glorious late summer stretch where we shared so many laughs. He died the following March. I’m grateful for the memories.

Joy is contagious. Pure, unadulterated joy is complete and absolute.

We had the opportunity and privilege to meet Doc’s family, and they quickly embraced us as one of their own. For five glorious days in August, we shared fish stories, wildlife encounters, and the fellowship of connecting with friends—old and new.

Because Doc’s greatest catch wasn’t trout—it was connection. His presence was the gift. And like all the best gifts, it keeps on giving: in the stories we retell, the pictures we linger over, the laughter we share, the reverence we feel when the water sings and the eagle soars.

Doc had a unique sense of humor and wit, and he was quick to hit you with one of his famous “Doc-isms” about life. He’d love that I’m sharing these last words of advice:

Be true to your teeth, or they will be false to you.

Only floss the teeth you wish to keep.

Err on the side of caution… look twice, cast once.

Fishermen catch fish, but sportsmen catch it all.

You can’t go over, under, or around a brick wall—only through it.

Doc is now through the brick wall, sharing his stories and philosophy with loved ones in heaven. No doubt he’s telling the trout, the whole trout, and nothing but the trout.

We came for the fish. We left with something far more enduring.

My bucket runneth over.