My father first took me fishing when I was very young. I have no idea how old I was but there are plenty of pictures of me as a child, with a fishing rod in hand, from before I can even remember. When I was 13, he introduced me to fly fishing. I knew about fly fishing before then and had often gone with my father to watch him. I was always so intrigued by the concept. Mostly because, to my young mind, he was waving the rod around and making cool loops with the line. Which looked like a lot of fun. Plus the line wasn't clear. It was pale yellow. And the idea of having colorful line is pretty appealing when your a boy. Anyway, when I was 13, I got my first fly rod for my birthday. It was stiffer than a 2x4, but it was a fly rod. Yet, it was not just a fly rod, but a right of passage. To me, that rod was symbol that my father thought I was mature enough and patient enough to learn something that, to 13 year old me, was an activity only for the elite.
On our first trip, we borrowed my aunt's camper and went up to northern NH. My father took me to a small stream and set me loose with a few quick instructions. I was having a blast and getting horribly frustrated at the same time. Finally getting the hang of casting, I spotted a small brook trout swimming in a little pool just above the riffle I was playing around in and decided to try to catch it. I must have thrown the fly to him 30 times before he finally took pity on me and sipped my terribly presented Hornburg. I played him for 3 seconds before he gave in and let me bring him to hand. Being only 4 inches at best, he was by far the smallest, and yet biggest fish I have ever caught. That fish was the most satisfying fish I have ever played to hand. Not because he gave me a good fight, because he didn't, but because I was with my father... And because he was passing on his passion for fly fishing to me.
So here's to you Dad. Happy Fathers' Day.
