The End of My Line

I felt compelled to start this new fly fishing blog as a medium for sharing a lifetime of my Dad's lessons, our personal stories, unforgettable experiences, priceless relationships, and the 'rythym of life'... which I believe one can best experience by standing waist-deep in a cold, clear trout stream.

The precious rivers of the American west are a rapidly vanishing treasure.

And because our home waters are not an inexhaustible resource, you will never hear me divulge the specific locations of any of my favorite spots, or the names of our rivers.

Over the last thirty years, I have watched my home waters become overrun with crowds of people, to the point that the resources are being destroyed.

In the early 1980's a friend of mine manged a local fly shop. He told me that it was "store policy" to never mention the name of a favorite local tailwater river. Back then, you could fish that particular river, even on a Saturday, and not see many people. I recall beautiful fall days where I had a mile or more of river to myself, and rarely ever saw another angler there.

And on the rare occasion that I did bump into another fisherman, whoever was the 'newcomer' to the spot, respectfully moved on to another stretch, far down the river, and out of sight.

This is how my Dad raised me in the seventies.

Respect the environment. Leave your campsite better than you found it. Respect other people. Give them a lot of space on the river, as you would have them give you your space. You know, the old, "Golden Rule."

Not sure how many people still remember, much less live by that grand way of life.

We had a favorite "family camp spot" out in the middle of nowhere, just off the edge of the Oregon desert. This stream, ("Notellum Creek"), is the little river where I first learned to fly fish. It was a small, mid-sized stream. A mix of Juniper, Lodgepole, and Ponderosa pine trees, blended with Sage Brush, and select meadows, were all around the river.

Occasionally, we would get to "our family spot" and find another family already camped there. And though us kids were all deeply disappointed that we missed getting our spot, Dad always insisted that we move at least a mile down the road, and not infringe on the other folks' privacy or space. He was a true gentleman in this sense. He really respected other people in the woods, and taught us these same values.

Dad's values of respect and kindness toward others remain with me to this day.

Nowadays though, on my favorite local rivers, far too often, I tend to run into rude, inconsiderate anglers who show absolutely no respect for you, your space, or the fact that you were there first.

And as much as I want to go off on some rant of bad experiences I have had on these rivers, I will leave that to your imagination.

You get the point.

If you arrive on the river to a spot you really wanted to fish, but there is already another vehicle parked there, keep on moving. Don't blaze down the trail and plop in the river 30 feet away from another fisherman. Would you like it if someone did that to you? Of course not. Show some respect, courtesy, and kindness.

My desire with this blog is to reach out to some of the younger, or inexperienced anglers, and (if they'll permit me) take them "under my wing" as it were, and try to respectfully pass along some of the life lessons my Dad taught me about stream etiquette, and respecting other people's space in the woods, or on the river.

I don't think a lot of people have ever been taught this.

So, I try my best to have some grace for those who don't yet "get it."

And while the largest percentage of offenders I have personally run into on the rivers have mostly been under 40, there have certainly been rude people of all ages.

It's not my intention to pick on people or offend anyone. Just to try and pass along the same values my Father and Grandfather passed along to me.

Fly fishing was presented to me as a way of life from my Grandfather. It was an art form to him. It wasn't really even a "sport." He fished, in his prime, mostly back in the 1930's through the 1950's. He was a gifted fly tyer, and a fly casting accuracy champion. But he was a true gentleman of the sport. Not a stuffy, elitist, upper crust kind of guy. Just a man who loved his family, loved the outdoors, and the pursuit of his passion for fly fishing in the mountain streams of the High Sierras of California.

My Dad was more of a lure fisherman. But he picked up fly fishing later in life, and really loved it. Dad was truly a wilderness wanderer at heart. He loved elk hunting probably more than anything. But his true passion was for wide open mountain spaces, meadows, and rivers; far from the maddening crowd. His wilderness wanderer 'religion' did not allow for camping in "pay to camp" sites, alongside thirty or forty other people.

I remember riding in Dad's old Dodge Power Wagon truck, exploring mile after mile of logging roads together, or we'd blaze off on whatever road looked like it was worth taking a look at. Growing up in Southwest Idaho, we logged tens of thousands of miles on that old truck over the years. Every once in a while, those long, dusty, bumpy roads we explored, led to some pretty amazing places in the mountains, that we would never have found otherwise.

And I think that's one reason that I don't feel obligated to share every special spot I have discovered with the general public online. Half the fun and fascination, was discovering these amazing places for ourselves. They were much more special to us that way. And we have protected and preserved them all the more because of it.

More than anything, for me, the best times I have had out fishing, have been with my Dad, or with my true friends who are like a "Band of Brothers." Fishing, and the fellowship that go with it, are really a spiritual experience. Don't get me wrong, I love to catch big trout. It's a blast.

But the truly memorable times in my life have been the times of fellowship spent in the outdoors with a true friend who sticks closer than a brother.

(Me and my buddy, Craig)

As I write this it's a cold January day.

But Spring is right around the corner. And I long for those warm days when I can hop in the truck, and drive out across the farmlands, and unwind as I think about the smell of sagebrush, and hear the sound of Red-winged Blackbirds, and the gentle sounds of the river.

This is just the first of what I hope to be many more pages of shared memories, new stories, colorful photographs, and memorable times spent with a good friend on the river.

So I invite you to come along, and join in the story,

At the End of My Line...

-M