New adventure-Crane Creek Video Blog

"I am not an adventurer by choice, but by fate"

                                            -Vincent VanGogh

https://vimeo.com/channels/cranecreekblog 

Picture, if you will, a spring creek nestled in a hardwood bottom. In that creek, swims what is ( arguably) said to be a genetically pure McCloud rainbow trout (salmo Shasta). Skittish, strong and self-sustaining.

Now, picture it in the Missouri Ozarks...

My goal with this video blog is to educate, entertain, and leave a record of my adventures on the Creek for my kids and anyone else interested in this jewel. I'll try to post something each week, and at the end of the season, do a "changing seasons" type montage.

I've struggled with posting about this creek. It's fragile, and won't take a lot if abuse. You wont see any posts of me fishing it in the summer ( between late May and September). The reasons for that will become self-evident; it's a Spring fed creek, the water warms in the summer, the fish become stressed, so no need to add to that stress. Crane, in the summer, is a "losing stream", meaning parts of it disappear underground. This causes the fish to stack up in pools, so again, no need to stress them any further. I will, however, be checking on Crane weekly, and will share that video in my blog.

There has been some national attention focused on this creek ( a well known "pro" fished it for a national outdoor show, and a few articles have appeared in the trade rags), so I balanced my need to share it, with the publicity it has already received, and came to this conclusion:
I rarely see other people fishing it, and I am there twice a week, so evidently the "national" exposure it received had minimal impact. My blog is anything but "national" so the impact should be in proportion to my reach...

I hope you enjoy this journey. My editing skills keep improving with each try, so at some point they will be at least mediocre...

Tight Lines..

My next evolutionary stage...

"What most persons consider as virtue, after the age of 40 is simply a loss of energy."

-Voltaire

There I was; standing in The Orvis Store in Madison, Wisconsin ( go here, talk to Bill, he's a peach and a great source of info for Wisconsin Flyfishing) discussing the "good old days" and it hit me: If I don't qualify for Old Fart status yet, I'm damn close.

Old Fart (adjective)-The process of becoming or attaining "crusty" status, all the while being unaware of said status and furthermore denying said status all-the-while complaining about how " things were better in the old days".

(noun)-a person who has surpassed "crusty" status. 

Gierach believes becoming an Old Fart "to be the secret, lifelong ambition of every serious fisherman". ( as quoted in The View from Rat Lake)
I'm not sure I agree, but while I was explaining the finer points of Sawyers Pheasant Tail,  I overheard the following conversation (and I may be paraphrasing):

Young Flyshop dude (YFD, for short): "Sup Bruh, how can I help you?"
Younger Flyshop Patron (YFP): "nuttin, Bruh, tying some streamers, need some flashy goodness."
YFD:"Sweeeeet! Articulated chewy goodness or standard nomnoms?"
YFP: " Oh man, Articulated chewiness for sure, I found some heavy eaters on the creek, gotta tag 'em before they disperse. Buttery goodness in quantity!"
YFD: "Right on! I've got some serious sparkle on the wall, heavy on the flash. You need Jimmy Knutsons Super Sparkle Goodness, what color?"
YFP: "Coolness, somethin' way bright, these fish were deep in Browntown."

Translation:
Can I help you?
I'm tying streamers for some schooled browns, they're deep so I need something they can see. I'd like to tie them articulated to increase the profile.
How about this Silver Krystal Flash, it's bright.
Perfect.

When did I start needing a translator to understand a conversation in a flyshop? When did I lose touch with my chosen passions vernacular? When did I get all this hair in my ears? When, wait?...

Crusty. It's the next stage in my evolution. Old Fart, here I come!

Browntown

Articulated goodness.

The (long) road to Idaho ( or-"This route requires tolls")-Day 2 ( and an ode to day one)

"Creeps and idiots cannot conceal themselves for long on a fishing trip." ~ John Gierach.

It's amazing the places your mind wanders when you've got 4 hours of open road and very little external stimulation. It helps when the only radio you can find is an oldies station ( in this case, the "oldies" were from my youth:-/ )

Did Goldie Hawns daughter marry Jesus, or John Lennon?

Rob Halford is the Chuck Norris of Heavy Metal. Rob Halford isn't Heavy Metal, Heavy metal is Rob Halford.

Haters ARE gonna hate, hate, hate. But I'll just shake it off.

0700 CST-Wakeeny, KS 13 hours and 850 miles to go. The gear is all stowed and safe. Note to self; a $49 motel is just that. Side note-Check for bed bugs.

1100 CST-(Just passed the exit for) Lyons, CO John Gierach lives ( or used to live) outside of Lyons. As my favorite author, our first in-person meeting should not resemble anything close to a stalker incident. Keep driving, Ryan. Keep driving.

1210 CST Fort Collins Colorado-Fighting the urge, again, to stalk down a favorite of mine and Ralena's-Joe Kenda, Homicide Hunter. Maybe he'd be impressed with my sleuthing skills and put me on the show. Or jail.  
Communication between the guys and I is at a fever pitch. I mentioned that a particular part of my anatomy is swollen from sitting in the Armada. Jason kindly volunteers Scott to apply ice to the affected area. Scott politely refuses. Brothers..

1340 CST-Somewhere near Wellington CO-The Google takes me off the beaten path to intersect with Hwy 287 and eventually Laramie Wyoming. Glad it did. Got to see Red Mountain Open Space. I'm a sucker for a pretty face, and this place is gorgeous. 
Side note- I've passed a couple of ponds, situated in arid, high desert, and can't help but wonder if one of those is the one Gierach talks about in Trout Bum. Stalking again, Walker, keep driving.

1530 CST-Rock Springs, WY-It's real now. I can see the Tetons in the distance, and the elevation is consistently around 6000 feet. 6 hours to Idaho Falls ( well, it's 4 hours for someone who won't stop every 30 minutes to gawk at a tree, or mentally fish every trout stream he passes).
Driving through Hoback canyon, I'm running along the Hoback River, and I remember why I am so drawn to Fly Fishing, and the west. In my mind, I'm traveling with the Astorians 200 years ago, seeing this beautiful place for the first time. It's no wonder that people stopped, looked at their traveling mates, and said, yep, this is it. We're home. 
Just as many probably broke a wagon wheel, had already used the spare, and said, "Well, we'll wait here for help". 200 years later, their great, great, great Grandson opens a Fly Shop 15 miles from where they were stranded. 

The rest of day 2 was spent traveling through the Bridger-Teton and Targahee National Forests. When I saw the Snake River, I knew I was close. In a short while, Scott, Jason, Aaron and Josh will land, fish will be caught, whiskey will be poured and stories told. But that's Day 3. 

Stay tuned.

The (long) road to Idaho ( or-"This route requires tolls")-Day 1

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.   -Ralph Waldo Emerson

0638 CST D-Day. It's finally here. D-Day in this case means "Departure-Day". Weeks of planning, scouting, packing, tying, shopping coming to a head with a 20 hour jaunt to Idaho squarely in my sights. Scott, Jason, Josh and Aaron will board an aluminum tube with rockets strapped to it on Saturday, and I have to be at Idaho Falls Regional Airport by noon or else.
 Anxiety is the word of the day. I'm driving our Armada, stuffed to the gills with my gear, and theirs. Shocks, struts, rotors, brakes, belts, oil and tires have all been changed. 
1300 miles
16 miles per gallon
90 gallons of fuel
2 (over night) stops
And that's just the trip out. Rinse and repeat in 10 days. 

1338 CST-Damn. Can this day go any slower? Mowed. Got some last minute work done. Now looking at the pile of gear that has to fit in the Armada. There must be $10,000 worth of rods, reels, lines, flies, waders, packs, boots and various other necessities getting ready to be crammed into a very large SUV, that all of a sudden looks much smaller. 
Gas-Junction City Ks-303 miles
Sleep- Wakeeny Ks
More gas -Burlington Co (646mi), Laramie,Wy ( 933mi), Boulder, Wy (1233mi) and on into Idaho Falls for a night in the Super 8. Then the fun begins...
1454 CST- Damn. Am I ready!!?? Armada is as loaded as it can be. Got to pack the clothes. Scott, Jason, Josh and Aaron are texting, they got the bug too. Seems my nickname for the trip is either Duran or Swedish Meatball..smh...

1600 CST-OFF!! next transmission; somewhere in Idaho!!

The (long) road to Idaho ( or-"This route requires tolls")

"Angling is extremely time consuming. That's sort of the whole point." - Thomas McGuane

T-minus 1.5, 0716 CST- I can't get that stupid Tom Petty song out of my head. The waiting truly IS the hardest part.

T-minus 1.5, 0719 CST-Feels like it's been an hour. Ugh....Yes, I am anxious about a 20 hour drive. But I still can't wait. I've gone over my packing list 26 billion times. 

Rods. Check
Reels. Check
Pack. Check

Seems like I'm forgetting something..... Day 1 starts tomorrow.....

Here I (we) come Idaho. 

It's like an old friend...

Do not protect yourself by a fence, but rather by your friends.
                                                                      -Czech proverb

The decision is never where to start, that's easy. It's when. Thirteen-thousand plus cfs. Tailwater level 709 feet above mean sea level. Just wait it out. Temps will rise, our need for electricity will decrease as the day wains on, and then-"Table Rock power plant reports the number of units generating to be---ZERO." Might be nine am, may be one pm. Then the real waiting comes in. 

703.3'

Time. Time to check knots, again. Time for another glance through the midge box, maybe the black zebra instead? Nope. Second guesses are for suckers. Time to watch the water drain out like the last of the pancake syrup, slowly, deliberately. Time. Look at the rocks. 704? Still falling, but why does it take so long?!

Tailwater elevation 703.3'-Wade in. The water is at that awkward, exclusive-to-tail-waters level where its falling but not moving. I'm sure there is a scientific term for this, but I call it frustrating. 

Tailwater elevation 702.1'- More current now. Fish are settling into their haunts. Low water haunts. The water is moving more, creating greasy currents around the rocks. Low enough now to see midges on the surface. I notice the shucks first. Not sure why, but I always do. 

The Miracle Midge-Always in my box

Tailwater elevation 701.7- Current now, finally. Over the light gravel, the water looks like air. Wade slowly, fish everywhere. Rising fish. Normally, that's a good thing. But the fish here feed on midges the size of pepper flakes, and my eyes aren't what they used to be. Still, with the right conditions and a little luck, you can get a fish or two on emergers, fished in the film. 

Tailwater elevation 700.8- Perfect. Good flow, good light, right fly. Time to get to work. Short, purposeful casts. Up and across. Reach mend. Drift. Throw a big mend at the end of the drift, and get another 15 feet. Time. The number of fish caught is proportional to the time your fly spends in the water. If they are feeding, fly selection is a personal choice. If they are fussy, it may get more specific than that. 

Like any old friend, I accept this water for what it is. A great place to fish. Nothing fancy, no pretensions. Time. It's taught me that there's nothing like coming home to an old friend...

The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it.
-R.W. Emerson

Crane Creek-back to the beginnings.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-Robert Frost

Not that the fishing isn't great, but the walk in is always the best part. 20 minutes of birds, squirrels, and anticipation. Cross the creek twice, have a cup of coffee while the fish settle down, collect your composure, then very quietly sneak to the edge...

Mental check list engaged; 
no sudden movements-check
back cast area clear(ish)-check
(did I close the garage door?)
focus on the target-check
line clear-check
enough out to load with out a false cast-check
(how big is that trout?)
focus on the target-check

It happens fast, but in a high-speed-camera-motion-stop kind of fast-let the line drift down stream, load the rod, push forward, change directions mid-cast, stop the rod tip short, pile on the slack, mend, then wait...rinse, and repeat. Unless..

That's the desired result. This is a small creek. So, you adjust your expectations accordingly. Your pace should be slow, you know it. But there's that pool by the bluff..It'll be there. Three, four, five more casts, one more diamond from the mine, move to the next pool. Slowly. Your mind can out fish your body here. But that's a mistake. Forgot to check your back-cast. 

Focus on the target-check...

Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.
-Kierkegaard 

Why I hate ( fishing in) Summer...( with kind regards to Earnest Hemingway)

I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy.-Ernest Hemingway

That's a fact. So, I'm a bit cranky today. Most of you don't look forward to summers end. I do. Most of my dedicated angler friends do, too. I can't wait to be on the river/lake/pond/stream alone ( ish)..
So here, in pictures, is why I hate fishing in the summer ( if this offends you, then you may be part of the problem!):

Holy Sh**!!!!

My tailwater fishing friends can sympathize 

Seriously? Is this the ONLY boat ramp on this lake?!?!?

Cast NOW! no, wait-NOW-no, wait-NOW!! Aw f*** it!!

No caption needed..

Did I mention that I had West Nile virus?

Maybe we can fish for LungFish

And worst of all- Smarmy millennials...

Well, I'm done ranting now. C'mon fall!!! 

See you out there..( Maybe after Labor Day)

Changing Seasons

Autumn is a second spring where every leaf is a flower. -Albert Camus

Sometimes I think I am more in tune with the changing of the seasons than I am the actual season. Then again, I've never actually seen my feminine side, let alone been in touch with it, so maybe I'm wrong..

In truth, we as fishermen have a vested interest in the passing of spring to summer, fall to winter, and so on. These changes signal something hard coded in our brain, something primal that says-"Hey, I bet the fish are biting!" Ok, maybe it's a bit deeper "something" than that, but you get the point.

Ho Hum, just another Autumn day in the Ozarks..

Fish react to the changes in the season, too. Spring brings lust. Summer, contempt. Fall finds most binge feeding in preparation for the long cold. Winter; sloth. As fishermen, we react according to the fish's mood; aggressive, passive, aggressive, passive.

I truly believe the passionate angler understands the changing of the seasons even more so than the most ardent and trained meteorologist. To us, it means more than change; it represents the seasons in a fisherman's life.

A fisherman's life tacks with the seasons; Spring equals the birth of the fire. The beginning of our passion for the piscine. Summer is the equivalent of our prime. We become an angler in the summer. 

Spring = Rebirth..

Fall brings with it knowledge earned in summer. Long days on the water teach us our prey's habits. In the fall, we start thinking like the objects of our desire; where will I get my next meal, the dark time is approaching. The urge to be at the right place, at the right time, as often as possible, is strong. It means survival. the long, cold winter approaches and our instinct to react is as strong now as it was a million years ago.

Where many fall slow pokes end up....

Winter is my favorite time to fish; mostly because less of you are fishing with me ( evidence to the contrary aside, i am a solitary creature). But also because winter brings with it a freshness. Clear water, cold air, campfires, cowboy coffee by the river.

Several years back, I was invited to join a group of men on the Little Red for their annual winter trip. The purpose of this trip was to catch the big brown trout that choose late November and December to do their "business". And I emphasize MEN because thats what they are. No false pretense, no facades. They have become my best friends. I cherish every single moment I have with them, on the phone or the river. David Moore, Mike Rawls, Glenn Key. Winter was the appropriate time to make their acquaintance. Our trips involve early mornings, camp fires, cowboy coffee and all the things that make winter what it is: magical. Oh, and we even manage a few fish in the between times...

David Moore, me, Glenn Key

For some reason, I can never seem to get Rawls in the same frame as the rest of us, but, here he is;

Mike Rawls and a buddy.

As we start the descent into winter, I am reminded of a quote by Zane Grey- "Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply." True, in life and fishing.

See you out there......

Fishing for a Living...

" You cannot step into the same river twice"
                                                                -Heraclitus

Me and a buddy...

Guiding... Getting paid to fish? Really? Well, sort of..Getting paid to watch other people fish, row a boat, untangle knots, make lunch, laugh at bad jokes ( and some good ones), untangle knots, and, hopefully, impart some fly fishing knowledge along the way..usually while untangling knots..this being the "down time" in between bad jokes and boat rowing....

I started my guiding career quite by accident-I lost my real job and had zero desire to return to another "real job". After a very short but thorough self assessment ( I think it went something like " Hmmmm, what to do now.....??), I determined that I wanted to fish for a living. 
Turns out, It's not all cocaine and hookers, it's hard work. Up at 0300, frantic pre-trip tying sessions, tons of gear up keep and countless other chores keep the glamorous side of guiding in check. Then there's the real trick; getting clients. This was the infancy of the internet, when I began my career, and clients came more by referral than Google. Luckily, I had stumbled into a gig as fly fishing instructor at Roaring River State park, and started to build a name as someone who could catch his share ( and several others fair share) of fish.

In truth, I guided about 2 years longer than I should have. It became a job. I didn't want a job, so this was a dilemma. But, in retrospect, I kept at it because I was good at it, and I was more afraid of not being good at fly fishing and guiding than I was of anything. There is more to the story, but that's another post.

Along about spring of 2000 or 2001, I met the brothers Strength- Jason and Scott. I think we met the first time at Bull Shoals Dam, but I'm not certain. Doesn't matter, I liked them immediately. They were "part timers", i.e. they had real jobs and lived to fish in their spare time, but they were fishy guys, nonetheless ( meant as as supreme compliment, BTW). I decided then and there that I was not going to charge them to fish. They really didn't need my help with casting, bug selection, mends, or any of that. They needed River knowledge. I had that. They got it. They understood what I felt every day. They could comprehend a man's decision to give it all up and fish. Both Jason and Scott were successful adults, but still had the river in their veins. We fished together on and off for a year or a year and a half, and I still remember thinking, the last I time I saw them, that maybe it was time to join the world again. I saw in them the ability to merge two distinctly different worlds-River and Real World. It was time to go home.

The brothers Strength-Scott and Jason  (center)-Probably near a Tennessee freestone...

All of that leads me to this; why did I start guiding? My answer came in a series of essays I was writing at the time of my brothers death. I am including an excerpt here that sums it up. I still cannot read this with out some emotion, even though I wrote it more than 15 years ago..

                                     Chapter One: Dimly Lit Threads of Silver

The life I lead, that of a full time fly fishing guide, fly tyer and general nut for all things related to fly fishing and the pursuit of oneness with my surroundings, was not chosen in haste. To dedicate yourself to a life of near poverty, poor accommodations, and lack of many possessions not related to your field of work is a decision not to be made lightly. But it is one that has rewarded me in ways that are beyond rational explanation.
There are times on the water, like in all of life, when you are completely alone, yet feel surrounded by the things that make life what it is. A constantly changing, fluid operation that is different no matter how many times you attempt to repeat it.

The first step I take into a river is like coming home for Christmas. I feel the familiar rush of liquid energy; smells that have filled my life once again bring the feeling of familiarity. The first motion on stream is to touch the water, as if to, only for a moment, attempt to be one with the stream of life. There is a feeling you get, if you open your self to it, that somehow you belong here. That, even though you've done this a million times, you can transcend normal being, and JUST be a part of the river.
To be included in the daily goings on of the rivers life cycle, is to blessed with a glimpse at wholeness. Watch closely, and you will see in the river all the characteristics we as humans find appealing in others. Beauty, grace, honesty, and giving occur, as they should, without thought or selfishness. The river knows not that it gives life to the fish of our longing; it just does what it does. It doesn't care that it nourishes all things that it touches; it just flows in a more or less forward course, forever changing, always winning.

When you look at it, it just appears to be flowing. Not so. It is breathing. Every riffle, every pool, alive in a kind of way that I will never know, but will always strive for.

I can’t tell you where this enlightenment (if that what you want to call it) comes from. I do however know where it occurred.

Several years ago, I was fishing Roaring River with my younger brother, Jon.
Jon was in the middle of battling cancer, a fight he would ultimately lose, and had not felt up to fishing in a while. Chemotherapy, radiation treatments and the rapid loss in weight that accompanies these treatments had left Jon very weak. But on this day, if I remember correctly it was a warm spring day, Jon had told me he felt he needed a trip. Jon and I grew up fishing this river. We had spent many a childhood summer roaming the hills and creeks in this wonderful watershed. Roaring River was my birthplace as it pertains to trout fishing, my lust for fishing nurtured on it’s stringers of hatchery trout and days spent with my family camped next to it’s cool, lush green banks. As I was saying, Jon said he felt up to a trip and asked if we could fish ‘together’, meaning side by side or at least in close proximity to one another. I knew that even though Jon said he felt well enough to fish, he was very tired and would need help and frequent rests.

Arriving at the river mid morning, we were pleasantly surprised to find few people on its banks. Roaring is a state run trout park and can be crowded at times, so the lack of people was a bonus to an already beautiful day.

I helped Jon out of the car and proceeded to put his rod up, rig my own and select flies for the both of us. I noticed Jon had already made his way to the river and was studying it intently. The look in his eyes told me that he was again wondering if this would be the final time he was going to gaze on the river that had brought us so much enjoyment. That look, that moment in time when I saw another person trying to saturate his being with his surroundings, changed my life and outlook on fly-fishing and trout streams. I saw Jon, desperately ill, looking at the River for what it was, a living, breathing entity that, like his own life, ebbed and flowed and could not be contained. Jon was trying to surround himself with the river, to take a piece of it and suspend it in time, so as to claim it for his own. For as long as I live, I will never forget that moment. Jon was SEEING the river, not just looking at it.

We fished for a while, until Jon needed to rest, and sat, looking at the stream as it flowed by us. I don’t remember what our conversation was about, I just remember that every time I looked at my brother, he was still staring at the river, I think trying to gather some energy from it. He wanted so bad to fish, but his strength was gone. I helped him back to the car and returned to the bank to retrieve our gear. When I knelt beside the water, I reached in, bathed my face in its coolness and said thanks. Thanks because through the eyes of a dying man, I for the first time in my life, saw how much of a friend the River had been, thanks for allowing Jon and I to spend one more moment, however brief, sharing in it’s generosity and grace...

Jon Walker-My bro, and best friend..

There you have it. More to come. Stay tuned...

See you out there...

First loves...

"Hell, if I'd jumped on all the dames I'm supposed to have jumped on, I'd have had no time to go fishing."-Clark Gable


I've struggled for some time now on how to start this blog. After all, This River of my Life is a rather ambiguous title, and could imply some wistful writing and deep soul searching. Yea, not so much...

In the end, I have decided to open my exposure to the blog world with an introduction, a beginning, and an open ended ending. Unless one of you have written my ending, in which case we need to talk...

This River of My Life..My life is actually a collection of rivers. The White, the North Fork of the White and the Little Red in Arkansas,  the James, the Finley ( OK, its technically a creek, sue me), the Gasconade, Spring River, and many, many others in Missouri. Saltry, Rough, Deer and Ayakulik in Alaska. The North Platte and Encampent in Wyoming. The list goes on. All of them have one headwaters as it relates to my life in the river: Roaring River.

The view from here...

It's my first love. My siren. More of my life's memories stem from Roaring River than the the sum of all of my other life memories combined. 

If you didn't know, Roaring River is a State park in SW Missouri, near Cassville, about 50 miles SW of my home in Republic. It is also a real river when it leaves the park, and flows into Table Rock lake near Eagle Rock Mo. It starts as a spring, a big spring, spewing roughly 20 million gallons a day, feeding a regions need for Hatchery trout before heading down the valley. As a kid, I had always heard of the big pool being called the "Presidents Pool". Don't know why, but I DO know it had, and has, some gigantic trout milling about. My brother and I sneaked..oh, wait, not sure what the statute of limitations is on that..Moving on..

Roaring River Spring-yes, those are BIG trout...

My family first visited Roaring River in 1976. The good old days. Gerald Ford was in office and gas was in about seventy cents a gallon. The first thing I remember was my 4 year old brother pointing out the hills "Look, boobs"..I have no idea where he heard that..We camped in a tent, ate trout and beans, swam in the frigid water-why does that cold not bother you when you are seven? My dad had never trout fished, so we did what he did-used a Zebco 33 with 10 lb test and a glob of artificial salmon eggs-snot colored, of course...

I think it was our second trip when we met the Berry's. Bill and his family were from Stockton and had the trout fishing at Roaring down to a science. Bill took pity on my dad, and showed him some of the finer points to catching trout-light line, small hooks, wispy rods and, wait for it-SNOT COLORED SALMON EGGS! The Berry's remain close friends to this day, and we still get to fish from time to time. Bill still believes HE taught me how to fish, but I'm trying to convince him ( and myself) that its the other way around.....

Bill Berry- Master of all trouts...

In 1980, on a vacation trip to "the River", I noticed an older guy waving a very long, yellow rod with really thick line. I thought he was having "issues" and stopped to stare. Old guys being old guys, he looked at me and said "Ever Fly Fished"? In those days when people talked to you, it was to get information, not to abduct you, not to see if you have something for them, they talked to do just that-talk. 

Anyway, I said " no", and he proceeded to tell me what he was doing, then let me try it for an hour or so. That moment transformed my fishing forever. 19 years later, and much to my surprise, I spent the summer as the Fly Fishing Instructor at the Park. It was an honor I am pretty sure I didn't deserve, and the springboard for my fledgling guide service. But that's another post...

We camped at Roaring River every single summer that I can remember, and probably some that I can't. I spent the last meaningful moments of my time with my late brother, Jon, at the bend in campground three as he struggled, weary from chemo, to make it the last 50 feet to the car. I taught my daughter to fish there. Hell, I taught hundreds of people to fish there. 
After we had all grown, we took our kids, now fondly referred to as the "grand kids" or "the wrecking crew", along and made the introduction to the Park. In every single case, it took..All the kids, even the teenagers, LOVE going. A few, three to be exact, are becoming quite accomplished anglers themselves. The little ones, my twins especially, are starting to get the itch, they just aren't sure where to scratch yet...

Yahtzee!!

Most of the whole Fam Damily ( apologies to Anna for the pic with "what's-his-name", I like Lance much better, as you know)

As the years have passed, none of us get to the Park as often as we like (I mean, seriously, someone has to pay the taxes...) We still have our Family Reunion at the Park. We started this "tradition" three or four years ago. This year we were minus one. my Father passed in June, and, in all honesty, i wanted to bag the whole trip and just forget about the Park for a while. Every single inch of the Park has a memory tied to it. In the end, I figured my Dad would still fish if I was gone, and, better yet, now I was the Patriarch, and everyone had to do my bidding..Just ask me and I'll tell you that's the way it worked out....

My dad. I think this was the last time we were at Roaring together (2012)

So, as it turns out, this is the well spring of the Headwaters of the River of my Life. Some days, I miss my Dad and brother so much that it hurts. Some days, i think of the times we spent at the Park and laugh. But mostly, I am content to be thankful for the life they gave me. Thankful for the time I have spent fishing. Which- by the way- does NOT get subtracted from your years on earth. So, in fishing years, I'm really only 25....

There it is. Where it started. Somehow, it always ends up back there. There will be more to come. None will be as thoughtful as this post, god willing, but all will be about a life on the river...

See you out there...

I am soooo serious...