Fishing for life

Few things in life move me the way that fishing does and not just any fishing, fly fishing. I first was exposed to fishing the way many men my age were, A River Runs Through It. I went to see the movie with my Uncle and my Father many many years ago in the theater and needless to say I was consumed with the art and beauty of fly fishing from that point on and though I many pick up a spinner from time to time it never has the same feel or rhythm that a fly rod has.
A flowing motion that starts with the wrist then transfers it's energy to the elbow next the arm and then then crescendo the upper body. Once the line has rested upon the surface it gently drifts, turns and flows down stream hoping to find its goal and German Brown nestled in the grasses, under the banks or inside the feeding lanes. There is a motion that is repeated countless times in an effort to find what you are searching for whether that is fish or an answer to a question that you are milling around in your mind. Simply throwing your line toward the water and expecting a strike every time is like flipping open a phonebook at random trying to find a phone number to your favorite restaurant, you might get luck, but most likely you will be going hungry that night.

My father loved the mountains so much and that is where I was taken to practice my love of the long rod. It was a place that he had said he could truly relax and slow down. Our spot is the Eastern Sierras around Bishop, CA. I have so many amazing memories of fishing, backpacking, hiking, camping and sitting around the campfire just the two of us. We fished the streams together so many times, at least once a summer if not much more. We watched the sun elevate over the snow capped mountains and followed the reseeding tide of night with groggy eyes and a hope of a good day at high altitude. Movements, hours, life went a little slower up there for us each day it seemed and that is the way we wanted it to be. Just the gentle breeze of the mountain air and a distant call of the meadow lark or the warning shouts of a Marmot filled the still and crisp air. Few times in my life I have been happier than those moments with my father, just him and I. The occasional tall green pine over our heads, the low hung sage bush and still peaceful lull that a creek makes will always remind me of my father. With each fish that I catch from now till the day I am called home to my heavenly Father, I will remember my dad. With each fly I present to a river, every time I unzip a tent and each footprint that I leave in the high country his legacy will always be on mind.
My Father taught me so much I do not know where to begin, he was my mentor, role model, boss, advisor, sounding board, and critic at times, but the type of father that pulled you in close with love each time. A whole lot to live up to for sure, but one thing is for certain I get to live these things out with my son Matt. This hope of sharing memories of backpacking and fishing with my son gives me hope to move forward with my family and life. Sharing with legacy that my father had passed on to me, so I could pass it on to Matt is nothing less of the grace of God. With humility and desire I look forward to taking Matt on our first trip together very soon. I miss you dad you were my best friend, but I am sorry Matt I believe has taken your place as I am sure I did with you.