Getting Away From It All

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity.”
(John Muir)

It's good, on a regular basis, to get out of the noise and crush of the city, and drive out into the country...where it's much quieter. Where life slows down. Where you can hear the sound of the breeze and Red-winged Blackbirds. Where you can hear your own thoughts...

Where you can just rest.

As much as I love standing waist-deep in a swirling river, pursuing and catching big trout, the drive through the countryside that takes me to my destinations are just as cleansing, and magical to me.

The smell of burning stubble in early spring. The smell of mint in summer fields. And the smell of onions being harvested at the end of summer are forever implanted in my senses.

There's something about getting up before dawn, and hitting the road at first light, that makes me come alive. A fresh start. A new road to explore. A new day in the journey.

My camera is always on my car seat next to me whenever I hit the road. You never know what you're going to see out on the open road. You have to be ready.

When I was younger, the prize was always the destination and especially the fish to be caught there. But now, the real prize for me is the journey.  The fish that may be caught at whatever the destination, are merely sprinkles on top of the frosting. 

Whenever I get a really early start, I always see things that I wouldn't have otherwise. An amazing sunrise, deer, elk, or wild turkeys. 

A beautiful trout, with just the right light and background, can make for a great photo as well.

Coming home from a long work road trip, I witnessed this amazing winter sunset over the lower Snake river.  To get the shot, I had to walk out onto the bridge over the interstate. From the road, the area you can (supposedly) walk on looks a lot wider. But once you're out there, it looks two feet wide at best, and the wind thrown at you by diesel trucks screaming by at 85 MPH feels like it will blow you right off the bridge and into the river. I literally took my life in my hands to get this shot, and swore to my wife I'd never do it again...

As much as I like "glory shots" of the big fish we're often blessed to catch, my favorite photos taken over the last ten years are shots captured on the way there, the way back, and exploring the scenic areas in-between fishing...

I also love capturing an unsuspecting friend in a surprise shot at last light.

Or a glimpse of rapidly vanishing small town USA...

There are times when you have to act quickly to catch that perfect lighting before it's gone...

For me, getting away from it all is found in seeing the beauty along the journey and capturing those priceless moments in my heart, mind and camera. 

More and more, what I want to get away from are the hordes of consumers. The noisy, insensitive, competitive anglers, ready to steal or defend their favorite fishing spots.

The once longed for destinations are rapidly being overrun by the very same people Muir wrote of that long to come home to the mountains. And many of the wild places we need to escape to aren't so wild any more.

But the journey of the soul in the wild places of a man's heart is something no one can take away or spoil. 

The memories of hot summer days, the smell of wild roses and sagebrush, the sound of a peaceful river, an afternoon breeze whispering in the pines, and Red-winged blackbirds chirping in the willows, and the peace that passes understanding, are mine to cherish forever...

—At The End of My Line. 

A Breath of Spring

Finally... mercifully... it begins again.

The long dormant winter is fading away and brilliant green blades of grass are appearing. Crocus, Tulips and Hyacinth are poking up through the dry, arid soil, crying out for, and beckoning the spring rains.

Succulent green buds are popping out on the Lilac bushes, and those cool fuzzy things are draping from all the Aspen trees in the front yard.

My soul cries out for the breath of new life that always comes with the arrival of Spring.

My heart longs for the refreshing spring showers and the intense thunderstorms with deafening claps of thunder that accompany each piercing bolt of lightning. I love the big spring storms that shake the entire house, and also shake your spirit, letting you know just how alive you are... that there's something much bigger out there than just yourself.

I'm not a winter person. As I get older and my joints and torn meniscus ache, I don't miss the times I used to ski as a younger man. Six months of spring, four months of fall, and one month each of winter and summer would suit me just fine.

Hopefully, in the next life it will be eternal spring there. Perpetual times of refreshing, cool, cleansing breezes, brilliant green plants and trees with sparkling, crystal clear springs and creeks everywhere.

I love to walk out into the back yard on a warm spring morning and just breathe in the fresh air and newness of spring.

The breath of life.

The first day of March called me out to don my waders, and hit the river in town, with boxes packed full of every kind of fly I think might entice a hungry trout or two. It was great to get my rusty fly casting arm loosened up and see if I could still hit my target. Fortunately, it's just like riding a bike. You never forget how.

The sky will continue to get brighter blue and the grass and trees more brilliant green in the the upcoming weeks. Bugs are hatching rapidly and the trout are hungry. Get outside and breathe in the fresh spring air. 

It's a time of new life. 

A time to become fully alive...

—At The End of My Line. 

Seasons of Life

While a few hearty souls may enjoy wading freezing rivers, with ice in their guides, and icicles hanging from their beards, I usually opt to hang up my fly rod until early spring.

I was blessed to enjoy many amazing days of fishing this year.

From early February, to Late October, the many faces of a river throughout the changing of the seasons is truly something to behold.

Choosing to vacate my favorite brown trout streams starting in mid-October, I like to give the old spawners plenty of peace and quiet, to ensure there will continue to be a healthy population of new fish in the seasons to come.

It's also very comforting to just say, "It's been good, and that is enough."

In my younger years, no matter how good a day of fishing had been, I would continue to fish until dark like a madman, as long as the fish were still rising. It was never enough for me.

But time and years have a way of changing your perspective and altering your priorities. 

Relationships have become much more important to me than the recreation itself. And while I enjoy fishing alone on occasion, the fellowship within the fishing is priceless. A day on a river spent with your Dad or a best friend, enjoying the creation—well aware of our glorious Creator—is woven into the unforgettable tapestry of your life.

I can count on one hand, the true friends I've had in my lifetime. Friends who "Stick closer than a brother."

Looking back on a remarkable season, what made it so remarkable, were the priceless times of fishing and fellowship that I enjoyed with these true friends. 

And I look forward to another new season in 2015.

As we celebrate this Christmas season, more than anything, I look up, to my best Friend of all—Jesus, the Son of God—who has woven us into His story. 

He said:

"Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends."

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

—At the End of My Line.

The Bridge

Imagine you are driving along on a dark, stormy night.

Thick fog and blinding rain obscure every curve on the narrow, winding road, high above the jagged rocks and raging sea. Something catches your eye as the lightning flashes, and you stop your car and get out to investigate. The bridge has been washed out. And where pavement once lay, a bottomless chasm now vanishes into the night below.

You rush back to your car, pop open the trunk, and furiously tear apart the contents, searching for your emergency flares. Racing 100 yards back up the road you just came down, you light two of the flares, ready to warn any unsuspecting traveler, of the imminent danger which lies unseen just ahead.

Soon a set of car lights pierce through the fog and are coming straight at you. As you frantically wave the flares high above your head and shout "stop!" The truck finally screeches to a halt on the wet pavement, just inches from your feet. The driver jumps out and screams at you, "What is your problem?" You immediately respond, "Sir, the storm washed the bridge out just ahead. Please, I implore you, go no further, or you will plunge to your death!"

The driver angrily responds, "You're crazy! That bridge is solid steel! A perfect example of man's finest engineering. Nothing could possibly ever destroy it. Now get out of my way you crazy fool, I have somewhere I have to be!"

But no matter how much you plead with him to stay with you in safety, he drives blindly on into the blackness of night…

—At The End of My Line

Rivers of Living Water

Why do we have an innate need to "get away from it all" and drive for hours if necessary, to find a secluded spot, along a pristine, winding river, where people are absent, and big trout are in abundance?

I'd dare say it's because it was never our Creators' intent that we multi-task ourselves into an early grave, from over-work, over-stress, and over-indulgence.

A man was made to work. "If you won't work, you won't eat." That's simple enough.

But we've taken it way too far. 

We've sold our souls on the altar of self-idolatry. Career and success seem to come before all else. There are many men's wives who have become job widows. Your children don't recognize you anymore. You look in the mirror each morning, wondering, "who is that guy?" You never have any time for friends.

Your entire identity as a man is all self-centered on what you do for work.

It's all about you.

Is that really the legacy you want to leave behind?

In the classic movie, "It's a Wonderful Life" Jimmy Stewart's character, George Bailey, is left a book from his guardian angel, Clarence, with the personal inscription:  

"Dear George, remember, no man is a failure who has friends."

I can count on one hand, the number of truly close friends I've had (and still have) in my lifetime. Genuine friends. A friend who would literally lay down his life for you, or your family, if it came right down to it. And I will be eternally grateful for each of these men who I call "Friend.

The image of these soldiers—a Band of Brothers—carrying their battle-wounded friend to safety, deeply stirs my heart of what it truly means to have a friend, and to be a friend.

A true friend is a man who will sit by your bedside when you are in the hospital dying of cancer. He is the friend who will one day help carry your coffin and speak at your funeral service of what your friendship meant to him. He is the friend who fills your car up with gas when you are unemployed and flat broke. He is the friend who risks your anger when he stops by your house to see how you're doing, when you don't feel like talking to anyone. He is the friend who has earned the right through relationship, to tell it to you like it is, and speak the truth to you in love. He is the friend who has your back when you are under attack from an unseen enemy. He is the friend who would literally take a bullet for you.

He is the "friend who sticks closer than a brother."

For me, going fishing is much more than going out to sore mouth a bunch of big trout. It's an opportunity to fellowship with a true friend, and connect on a deeper level than just seeing who can catch the most or biggest fish. My friend Craig calls it, "Filling up his spiritual tank."

Life in the concrete jungle can drain a man's body and soul. It saps you of your strength and leaves you exhausted and spent.

Time to get back to the River of Life.

I like the serenity of standing waist-deep in a pristine river because the constant flow of cool, refreshing water can take away all distractions and the memory of what went wrong at work yesterday. Sitting along a shady river bank enjoying a sandwich, talking to a good friend about the deeper, spiritual things of life, is far more important to me than what's going on in Washington D.C. Who is going to the Super Bowl this year is the furthest thing from my mind. I could care less.

How my friend is doing in his life—how I can encourage him in his marriage and with his struggling relationship with his kids—is far more valuable than looking for ways to catch more fish today.

The River of Life is about people and relationships. It's about putting someone else's needs ahead of your own. It's about listening to people from the heart—with the intent to understand them—instead of just waiting for your turn to talk. 

When I have stepped into the next life and have left this present mortal coil, what I will be remembered for is how I treated people, not how good of a fly fisherman I was. How much of myself I invested in the lives of others is what will be remembered, not how much I invested in the Stock Market. What kind of husband, father and friend I was is what will be remembered most.

No one ever lies on his death bed and laments, "If only I had spent more time at the office."

One of my favorite sayings is,

"There is no greater love than this—that a man would lay down his life for his friends."

Water with no outflow grows stagnant, and is a lifeless, useless pond.

The River of Life continually flows from the Spirit, through the heart, and is meant to flow outward and bless and refresh others...

—At The End of My Line.

Where The Pavement Ends

Noise.

Gray noise. White noise. It’s all the same.

It’s the noise that is always present when you step outside in the city, even at 4AM. The Interstate never sleeps. Semi trucks always running. Kid on a motorcycle revving it up on his way home from a party. Sirens wailing. Jet planes circling the city. Neighbor’s dog never stops barking.

It’s the noise you feel in your soul when the alarm rudely jolts you out of a sound sleep at 6AM. It follows you and picks up intensity as you back out of your driveway and pull onto the street, and within the first few minutes, you already have some jerk tailgating you, alwayson your back.

Like a clanging cymbal it continues as you step into the office and your boss is on you like a pit-bull on a cat, barking orders, demanding to know where that report is which was due yesterday. It stalks you even when you go to lunch and try to lose yourself over a burger in the park. The ever-present noise that reminds that your paycheck will never cover all of this month’s bills. Noise that is relentless as you drag yourself into the house at 6PM and turn on the news, only to hear all that’s wrong in the world.

And that damn dog next door will not stop barking.

The noise doesn’t stop until you slip back into sweet unconsciousness after your weary head finally hits the pillow, sometime after 11PM.

Tomorrow morning rises up to meet you, in your face, reminding you again that you need to make more money to pay your monthly obligations. The fence needs repairing. The furnace and air conditioner are twenty-eight years old and will die any day now, and where are you going to get the money for that? You forgot to take the trash out again this morning. Floss your teeth? Did you pay the gas bill that is past due?

The “Check Engine” light is still on.

It never ends.

Living under the weight of everyone else’s expectations can kill a man. Oh, not right away. But slowly, over time, like a cancer, over a period of years. It erodes your confidence. Wears you down. Takes its toll.

Lord, get me out of this town.

You and your best buddy planned this trip to the back country a year ago. And, like Bilbo Baggins in "The Hobbit" secretly, you mean not to return.

Saturday morning, up at 5AM, coffee on, gear loaded, including the fresh batch of size sixteen Elk Hair Caddis flies you stayed up tying till 2AM the night before.

You’re long past due to get out of here—to escape to a place not burdened by the grit and noise of the city, by ringing cell phones, work schedules, demanding bosses, or the constant pounding in your weary brain from the neighbor’s noisy mutt.

Your destination is a pure, quiet and peaceful place, uncluttered by the crush of interstate traffic, where road raging jerks are mercifully absent. Where there are no time clocks, or alarm clocks. Where jet planes fly so high the only evidence of their existence are squiggly vapor trails left at thirty three thousand feet, lit up a bright golden-orange by the morning sunrise. To a land virtually unchanged in a thousand years.

Where the pavement ends.

As you pick up your buddy at first light, grab a hot cup-o-Joe for the road, just point your vehicle due north-east of town. You need no map. You’ve been to this place many times over the years. Your internal compass is always set somewhere north of civilization. Let the car run where it wants to go.

To somewhere far from here.

As you begin to climb, leaving behind the subdivisions and neighborhoods, the last convenience store is finally in your rear-view mirror. There is some redneck in a big red four-wheel drive truck on your tail. But on this beautiful, clear, blue morning, it feels natural to pull over and just let him pass. Let him have the road for once. Don't let him get to you. There is no competition for space and position where you’re going. Just peace.

You enter the river canyon where the highway follows alongside, and just the sight of the blue-green, sparkling river begins to loosen your stiff neck and joints. Like the Tin Man who came back to life when he finally got some fresh oil, this first view of river, mountains and pine trees lets you know you are leaving the rat race behind.

It’s like fresh oil to your soul.

As the morning sun slowly warms the canyon, you roll down your window and that first sweet scent of Ponderosa pine fills your nostrils and senses. The traffic is sparse and the tension that has been clenching the base of your skull for the last six months begins to slowly loosen and unwind like a spring in an old fashioned, wind-up alarm clock.

It won’t be long now. You can almost smell the old dusty road that lies ahead.

You continue to climb.

Higher and higher. Further and further away from the city. The weight is almost completely off your shoulders now. You stretch your back and settle into the comfort of your car seat. Your warm cup of coffee is a soothing old friend, not merely stimulant to give you an early morning buzz so you can win the rat race. It tastes better and smells better than it ever has.

And what a blessing to share your life stories with your best friend. You talk about all the big Cutthroat trout that are going to inhale your Elk Hair Caddis flies. You know just the spot. That first big hole is only a half mile from camp.

 Not much farther now.

You’ve lost all sense of time. Clock watching is not allowed, not part of the drill, here where the pavement ends. You’re not on anyone’s schedule. You’ll get there when you get there.

Soon the stands of Lodgepole pine get thicker and you know the turn off to the River lies just ahead.

There it is! “Ranger Station; 28 Miles.”

And we gratefully make that final left turn onto the last stretch of paved road.

Won’t be long now.

I love this country. There are huge, lush meadows, lined with big green stands of lodge pole pine, with small, sparkling streams flowing throughout. Occasionally, if you’re lucky, you will see herds of elk, especially if you enter the meadows early enough in the day. And this morning was no exception. We counted at least thirty head of elk, just along the edge of the cover of the pine trees.

I never tire of coming to this place. It’s always just as special to me as the previous trip.

 
This was one of my Dad’s favorite places on earth. He felt free and alive here. The uncluttered serenity and purity of these meadows, where big six-point bull elk roam, and Chinook salmon and Cutthroat trout swim in the crystal clear creeks, were an integral part of the wilderness wanderer soul that God gave him. Whenever I think of Dad, the picture of these beautiful meadows, elk, and mountains always first come to mind.

As we wind along the road to our destination, all our conversation and focus lies on what’s ahead—not on what’s behind us.

And therein lies an extremely valuable life lesson. Most of us, in one way or another, are enslaved by our past. By our bad memories and experiences. Still carrying around that full set of Gucci luggage… bound, in chains, from someone else’s poor opinion of us.

Lord, help us to leave that whole set of baggage at the airport.

One of my favorite authors made the following profound observation:

“Spirit-led people cease defining themselves by their reflection in the thousand mirrors of others' expectations.”

As we come over the last hill that descends down the road that leads to our campsite, the last memory of the noise of the city has vanished from sight. And the paved road has long ceased and become gravel road.

We have crossed over... to where the pavement ends.

And there it was.

Our old family camp site. No other cars nearby. Someone left behind a small stack of six or seven pieces of split firewood. Far exceeding our expectations. We pulled in, parked the rig, took a deep breath, cracked open a couple of frosty brews and walked down to look at the river before we set up camp.

It was to be a time of refreshing.

The gin-clear waters of the river of no return looked pure. Unchanged for thousands of years. The same rocks have been in the same spot with crystal clear waters flowing over them continuously for millennia.

Author Norman Maclean, in “A River Runs Through It” gracefully said it this way:

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. —I am haunted by waters.”

In the same year my father passed away, I read the book and saw the movie, “A River Runs Through It.”

It’s interesting how you can read a book and in some of the passages, it’s as if the author is writing your story along with his own. The above passage is one such instance. In ways I can’t fully explain, I am haunted by the crystal-clear waters of this river.

After my father passed, my mother decided to have a memorial stone cut from local quarry rock, bearing, along with his name, date of death and birth, the simple inscription: “Beloved.”

We, his sons, and a small gathering of those who knew him, carried my father’s one hundred and twenty pound memorial stone on our shoulders, lashed to two pieces of Lodgepole pine, several miles down the river trail, to a special spot at the confluence of one of my dad’s favorite creeks, where it empties into the main river. And it was there, that my mother scattered his ashes.

In some ways, that, to this day I still cannot understand, a big part of our family died there, that day we laid Dad to rest along his river.

The remaining part of our family died twelve years later, on the day we laid my Mother to rest at a cemetery here in town. Mom was always the ‘glue’ that held our family together after dad died.

And as a family… we’ve never been the same since her passing.

I’ve never been back to visit the place where we laid my father’s memorial stone. But part of me will always be there with him.

My friend and I walked back to camp, set up our gear, and built a nice fire. We unloaded the stash of firewood that we brought from home. Plenty to get us through the weekend. As my Dad taught me, I brought along a shovel and a big water jug to douse any sparks that might spread and become a potential forest fire hazard. Along with his trusty shovel, dad told me you never leave home without a roll of bailing wire and some duct tape. Thanks Dad.

We popped open the cooler, and my friend who is quite the gourmet cook brought out Portobello mushrooms, cloves of garlic, onion, purple potatoes (which I had never seen before), and some garden-fresh ears of corn. After another frosty brew, we wrapped the mushrooms in tin foil with some olive oil, red wine, and a sprinkle of salt and pepper. The corn on the cob was oiled and also wrapped in foil. After carefully placing the foil-wrapped bundles on glowing orange coals in our camp fire, my buddy sautéed the purple potatoes with garlic and onion in the well-seasoned frying pan I had brought along. And soon we were enjoying a gourmet dinner and a glass of Merlot.

Rough duty.

After dinner, we unpacked our fly rods, rigged them up and tied on some of the Elk Hair Caddis flies I had made just for the occasion. After a while I sat back on some rocks and just enjoyed watching my friend paint pictures in the sky with his fly casting technique.

We didn’t catch many Cutthroat trout on this particular evening, but we were blessed with an early evening thunderstorm. The lightning cracked loudly just overhead, and the thunder rolled down the canyon like a runaway freight train that made the entire hillside shake. We ducked for cover underneath some huge rocks on the hillside until the storm passed. As the intense, golden sunlight slid underneath the iron gray storm clouds, the rain drops were divinely illuminated and looked like clear-white drops of liquid glass falling on our faces. Probably one of the most beautiful storms I have ever seen.

What a priceless gift.

The entire trip. The camaraderie and friendship with my buddy. The great food and campfire. The river, The storm. The sunset. God is truly revealed and glorified in His incredible, amazing creation.

Words cannot properly express.

The next morning after some yogurt and fruit, we made our way down the trail to the confluence of my father’s favorite creek. We did catch a few nice Cutthroat trout. And the only other people we ran into that entire day were two yayhoos who said, “Hey, have you been sore-mouthing our fish?”

We eventually made our way back, broke camp, and continued on our journey to our other favorite places along this incredible mountain range. There were more rivers to wade, and big trout to pursue.

We could not find any available camp sites that night, so we bushwhacked into the woods and drove way up a hillside and camped in a very ‘unauthorized’ spot where, trust me, no car had ever been before. It was one of the best campsites I have ever enjoyed. No cars within a mile or more. It was not legal, but that was many years ago when I was much younger and impetuous. And I’m glad we camped where we did. That night we experienced another amazing thunderstorm after dark.

Memorable times.

At my father’s memorial service that day in 1992, along the river of no return, my Mom read the following passage from the book of Isaiah:

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,” says the Lord. “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts. “For as the rain comes down, and the snow from heaven, and do not return there, but water the earth, and make it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the Sower, and bread to the eater, so shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; it shall not return to Me void, but it shall accomplish what I please, and it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.“For you shall go out with joy, and be led out with peace; the mountains and the hills shall break forth into singing before you, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress tree, and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree; and it shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.”

Life is cyclical.

Borne from a storm, rain and snow falls on mountains, soon melting, flowing down, mingled with tears, forms tiny rivulets and creeks. Creeks become streams, become rivers, become giants; all flowing together on their long journey, back to the ocean from where they began. Ocean water vaporizes, rising into the air to become storms, which fall anew on mountains as rain and snow, and the life cycle repeats itself.

The River of Life.

I am haunted by the waters where my Dad was laid to rest. In the place where part of our family died, where part of me died, I came to life.

We’re all on a journey. We each have a story that is being written, and has been written.

Victor Frankl, whose wife and family were murdered by the Nazis in one of the Holocaust death camps, and who endured indescribable suffering, later wrote:

“What is to give light, must endure burning.”

As I write this, it’s been twenty two years ago since we laid Dad to rest along his river. And in this difficult life, for me there has been much suffering... what Frankl calls burning.

As Maclean wrote, “The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time.”

The trials we go through, are, like a river that flows, a constant in our experience, which, painfully at times, etch out the story of our life. Rivers of living water, cutting canyons, deep, painful, and yet beautiful.

My story is still being written, and has already been written.

No one knows the day of their departure.

But I look forward, to that time, when I will see the fulfillment of my story, where I will be fully known, when I have reached my ultimate destination, where, along the banks of the River of Life, the rain falls softly on my face like illuminated drops of crystal-white, liquid glass. . .


—Where the Pavement Ends.

Fathers In The Field

Each day in our nation there are an average of over 5,400 Suicide attempts by young people grades 7-12.

Many of the young boys who attempt suicide are growing up without a father in the home. 

Crime rate statistics also prove that boys who grow up without their father at home go on to commit violent crimes. Today's over-crowded prisons are full of men who did not have their father in their home, or a father figure or mentor in their life.

37% of this country’s children - over 25 million kids under 18 - are growing up in fatherless homes.

Here are some other startling statistics:

Children from fatherless homes account for:

• 63% of youth suicides
• 71% of pregnant teenagers
• 90% of runaway or homeless kids
• 85% of youth sitting in prisons
• 71% of high school dropouts
• 75% of teens in drug treatment

Research shows that mentored children are:

• 46% less likely to use drugs or alcohol
• 33% less likely to resort to violence
• 59% more likely to get better grades

It's hard for me to personally relate to the sad statistics of fatherlessness, because my Dad was always there for me at home. He was a positive influence and mentor in my life. He taught me to hunt and fish, and took our family camping practically every weekend from the time I was age seven through fifteen.

(My Dad, 1971)

I was at a Men's Wild Game Dinner a couple of nights ago, and a true hero of a man gave a presentation about something we as men can do to take action and help mentor boys who have no dad in their life. When I heard the frightening statistics of how many boys grow up without their fathers at home, I knew that I could not just stand by and do nothing.

For those of you whose lives have been blessed by growing up with your dad at home, or if you had a good man as a mentor in your life, knowing how much you were loved and appreciated, and you had the privilege of being taught to hunt or fish, and were mentored by a dad or caring man who was always there for you; will you please consider taking a kid under your wing and be a mentor for him? 

There are basically two kinds of men; 

1.  Guys who just talk about doing something.

                                or...

2.  Guys who take action and actually walk their talk.

Boys who have been abandoned by their fathers have a broken spirit. But you can help these kids by becoming a mentor and a friend to them.

—At The End of my Line.