Fathers and Sons

As a young boy growing up in the wide open spaces of southern Oregon, our family went camping virtually every weekend throughout the summer break. It was simply what we did as a family. Our faithful family dog, Sam, a black Labrador retriever, always tagged along.

I have a very special memory though... of one particular weekend when Dad asked me to go with him…just the two of us.

And it was to our treasured family river; ”Keepemquiet Creek” as it shall discreetly be referred to throughout the remainder of this story. My Dad believed it was akin to heresy to insult your favorite camping and fishing spots by telling every Tom, Dick and Harry how to find them.

Keepemquiet Creek is a small, sparkling river which cascades off the southern slope of a moderately timbered mountain, into the vast Oregon high desert. The country we camped in was thick with lodgepole and ponderosa pine and plenty of fragrant juniper trees in the lower elevations. Pungent sagebrush were everywhere. Along the meandering river, willows lined the banks in some places, and lush green meadows were scattered along its reaches.

In the springtime, as I sat bored stiff in my classes at Ponderosa Junior High School, I constantly day dreamed of Keepemquiet Creek, and the spunky 12 inch rainbow trout which eagerly gobbled up our carefully placed lures and flies. My neighbor, Bob “Granny” Granstrom, a professional fly tier from Klamath Falls, taught me to tie flies. And the first pattern I learned to tie was his “bucktail caddis.” Bob definitely knew which fly to teach me to tie first. The trout couldn’t get enough of it. And they were relatively easy to assemble for a newbie fly tyer. And I had a very good instructor.

Mid to late June was the ideal time to fish Keepemquiet Creek. The fish were much more aggressive and more easily fooled before the dog days of summer settled in with the onset of the sweltering temperatures of July and August. The stream flows were at their prime level and the meadows are still lush and green in June. And it was on a beautiful, clear, late June weekend that Dad and I took our special camping trip to Keepemquiet Creek.

It was to be a rite of passage for an extremely awkward 7th grader…and perhaps for his Dad as well.

In school I was painfully shy. Socially awkward. I suffered from pretty bad acne, which only made my introversion worse. And I didn’t do well in school. The only place I didn’t feel like a ‘loser’ was when I was walking the banks of my beloved river, fly rod in hand, armed with the flies I had tied myself. I was a pretty good fisherman for a dumb kid. But I had a great mentor in my Dad. He was a patient tutor, and he taught and led by example.

My Dad could think like a fish. That’s what he told me you needed to do to be a good fisherman. When he approached a river, he would carefully study every riffle, pocket, boulder, and undercut bank. Dad was not a fly fisherman in those days, so he didn’t pay much attention to what bugs were hatching. But give him a gold "Phoebe" wobbler, or a "Thomas Buoyant" spoon, and he could pick out a nice trout or two in every spot that looked “fishy” in the creek. I could fish a run and not get a single bite. And Dad could come in behind me a few minutes later and sweep the run and pick up fish I missed entirely. He was one of the best fishermen I ever knew.

We always got an early start when leaving town for our camping trips. And this trip was no exception. Whenever I was being the slowpoke and Dad was in a hurry to get going, he would rush me along and say, “Come on boy, you’re burning daylight!” And after giving his meticulous camp list a final check, and double checking the load in the old VW truck, we were on the road at first light.

I’m not sure who was more anxious to get out of town…Dad, or me?

I was a lonely teenager who was painfully struggling for self identity, and just wanted to fit in and be accepted. And he had the unenviable task of helping raise five kids; four unruly boys and one little daughter. He also had a fledgling architectural business to run, in a small town that in those days was not experiencing much growth. And times were pretty tough for us financially. Mom always had to stick very tight to her food budget. We had some interesting meals the last week of each month with whatever money and food we had left over. Mom called it “pantry perfection.” Some of my favorite dishes were some of Mom’s pantry perfection creations.

We packed the big green Coleman cooler with large Folgers’s coffee cans full of Mom’s frozen chili beans, spaghetti, and beef stew. Sometimes the stew was Dinty Moore canned stew. But I liked her homemade food much better. Mom was a great cook. When it was dinner time, Dad fired up the Coleman white gas stove, and put on a large kettle of water. We put the coffee cans of frozen dinner half submerged in the boiling water, and it quickly thawed out and we had piping hot food. We always had white Wonder bread and margarine to go with dinner. Occasionally we would splurge and have hamburger steaks and fried potatoes with onions cooked in a cast iron skillet with bacon grease. But there were no rib eye steaks on our tight budget. I always carried some Rolaids in my pack for those nights we had Dinty Moore stew.

When we finally arrived at our family “spot” on the river at the end of the road, I always wanted to get out my fishing gear and get into the river as quickly as possible. But Dad was disciplined and his rule was you always set up camp first. Since we usually fished till dark, Dad was wise, knowing it’s a lot easier to set up camp in the daylight than when it’s pitch black. However on this particular trip he said we would just make a "spike camp" and we slept in the back of the truck bed together; under the stars. It made it all that much more of an adventure for me.

I was a total nut when it came to fishing. It was what I lived for in those days. To escape the painful existence of feeling like such a loser in school, and not having many friends. But out here, I was in another world—a utopia for me—whenever we left the cold reality of life in town, and got away to the Creek. The truth is, I never wanted to go back.

I can still hear the sound of the wind blowing gently in the tall ponderosa pine trees on those warm afternoons in camp. The sweet smell of pine sap. The pungent smoke of our camp fire. I would lay back in one of the lawn chairs and look up at the big white clouds in the bright blue summer sky and dream of another time and place. A world where there was no school, or fist fights, or being rejected by a girl that I thought was cute, or the embarrassment of bad report cards and skin marked by acne.

After a great day of fishing, and a delicious dinner of Mom’s chili beans and bread, Dad and I sat around a crackling campfire, watching the occasional sparks float up beyond the trees and disappear into the starry night sky.

I think I can finally understand now that it wasn’t just me…We were both at a loss of exactly what to say to each other, struggling to understand one another as people. This was a first for both of us. I had never been a teenage son to a father before. And Dad had never been a father to a teenage son. We were both learning and trying to figure it out as we went along. Trial and error I guess.

Trying to act like a “man” I would loudly clear my throat and hock the occasional ‘lugi’ into the campfire. Dad said, “You’re a pretty fair spitter!” It made me feel tough and good about myself for a change…like my Dad was actually proud of me for something.

In those days it seemed like I received a lot more scolding than I did compliments. I was constantly in hot water for my bad grades. I started more than my share of trouble with my younger brothers and sister. We boys would generally cause all kinds of mayhem in the neighborhood. Throwing rocks at cars. Fun stuff like that. I was almost always in trouble for something. My Dad often seemed displeased with me. I rarely felt like I ever had his approval.

But as a kid I always knew that my Dad loved me. Even though he was a very strict father, (and today I’m very thankful he was), I never once doubted my Dad’s love for me. I think that’s maybe the one thing that helped me keep some semblance of ‘sanity’ during that period of my life. My parents very much loved and respected each other and us, and we had a stable, happy family. That’s my memory of those days anyway. Even though they numbed the pain of their own problems with alcohol, our home felt happy to me in general.

That weekend on Keepemquiet Creek, my Dad and I began to get to know each other a little bit better as people. And we began to communicate with one another...at least we tried. We laughed together and fished our butts off, and the cares of our tense lives back in town faded away. It felt ‘perfect’ for those glorious couple of days. It remains one of my most precious memories from my early life.

Though for me, in that period, I never felt that I was good enough as a person. I had zero self esteem. I desperately wanted my father’s approval. The honor code among men is respect. He was a straight “A” student. Brilliant. He aced calculus, trigonometry, and all his advanced math classes. He was a gifted architect and artist. He was one hell of a good writer too. I admired and respected my Dad a great deal. Once when I was a young boy, my grandfather (his Father) said with admiration, “Your Dad is a pretty bright guy!” I was so proud of him.

My Dad was far from perfect. 

And like I am trying to do now, he was just trying to figure life out, and do his best to be a good husband and father. And in my eyes, in my memory, he was a success. He taught me right from wrong. He taught me respect—for the land, and for those who share it with us. He led by example of what it means to “die to self.” He worked his ass off to provide for a family of seven. And he gave us a good life. We were well provided for.

And he loved my Mom. He taught me through his example that the best way to teach your kids to love, is to love their mother. And my Dad was head over heels in love with my Mom all of their life together…until cancer rocked his mind and body to the point that he could no longer communicate in the eloquent way he once did. But their love is forever. And that love is the legacy my Dad left for me.

As I fondly recall those warm summer days along the grassy banks of Keepemquiet Creek, I can still hear my Dad’s voice whooping it up as he hooked into a feisty rainbow trout. And I can see the warmth in his smile in the old photograph I took of him on our last day together that weekend.

Today I can feel my Dad’s love for me; as an awkward thirteen year old kid; and now, as a man, still just trying to figure life out…

*Authors note: if you know the name and location of this Creek please do not divulge it or publicize it. On my last visit  in 2018 it was still pristine and mostly unspoiled after 45 years since my last time there in 1973. What a gift to our grandchildren if we keep it that way.

-Thank you.


—At the End of My Line. 

Why The Sky?

"The heavens declare the glory of God,

and the sky displays what His hands have made."

(Psalm 19:1)

After looking up for over sixty years, I've been blessed to see many amazing sunsets, sunrises, thunder storms, and amazing cloud formations.

And in light of the words from the psalmist, I begin to see why the sky is there.

To declare God's glory.

So many times when I've been driving out in the wide open spaces, or standing knee deep in a river somewhere, I've had to stop and just look up in awe and see the incredible, vast sky-scapes that God has painted with His divine paint brush. It makes you start to see just how small you are and how infinitely big...how beautiful... how glorious He is.

So much majesty and awesome beauty has been placed in the sky to keep us looking up.

—At The End of My Line

The Wilderness Wanderer

“He who has not walked alone 
And fished for trout on a wild river, 

Amidst peaks beneath a sky 
Adrift with clouds, 

Has not really had a look at his beginning,

 Or come to fully understand himself.” 

(“Trails of a Wilderness Wanderer”)

One of my Dad's favorite authors was Andy Russell.

Russell's book, "Trails of a Wilderness Wanderer" was a well-worn fixture on Dad's reading table. And he read it often. It's who my Dad was at heart—a wilderness wanderer.

As I write this, it is a cool, blustery day in February. Each year about this time, stagnant with cabin fever after the long, dormant days of winter, I begin to get antsy, eager to get out of town and wander a winding river alone.

And as much as I treasure days spent in fellowship on a river with a good friend, I learned through Dad, and through my own experiences, that a man needs to get outdoors, away from the distractions and crush of life, and empty his mind of clutter...and re-connect with the eternal.

I think that's why I have enjoyed my past outside sales and territory management jobs. I had a lot of windshield time, by myself, with long distances of mountains and highway between one town and the next. My favorite job took me as far as Jackson and Pinedale, Wyoming. Driving up Hoback canyon, en route to Pinedale, was always the highlight of my trip east. There are not many highways in the west where you will see fluorescent orange grizzly bear warning signs posted at regular intervals along the way. This is pretty wild country.

It was to the wild places of the west that my Dad was inextricably drawn. He loved to explore the untouched ranges. We would get up early and get in the old Dodge Power Wagon, and just go explore. Dad would have studied his large pile of various topographic maps throughout the week, and once the weekend hit, he always wanted to go search for new places that we'd never seen before.

Many times, we'd end up on some obscure logging road that dead-ended in the middle of nowhere. And often there were no pretty creeks full of hungry trout to be found. No scenic vistas. No perfect camping spots. But it was the new adventure in just exploring the unknown that inspired us to go further.

Growing up in southern Oregon, on these exploratory outings with Dad, I used to count the deer, antelope, coyotes, eagles, hawks and the occasional sand hill cranes we'd see along the way. Dad always complimented me for having 'eagle eyes' that could spot game when no one else could. I'll never forget his encouraging words as my father.

And it was on these many outings together, that we began to know each other a little bit better as people. The transition of going from boyhood to manhood for me, was excruciating at times. Even though my grades were horrible, and I was basically flunking school most of the time, Dad only grounded me from hunting and fishing as a last resort 'correction' to try and get me to study harder and apply myself in school. But he knew deep down that I had the same wilderness wanderer heart as he did. And he refused to take that away from me.

And it was out in the wildernesses of my youth that I began to appreciate the beauty of solitude and the wild places of America, and at the same time, began, through my Dad leading by example, to develop my own values of loving family, friends, and respecting the wild, beautiful creation, and all those who share it with us. 

And I began to ponder the question; "What is the meaning of life?"

A favorite quote from Russell:

“For it is in such unscarred country beyond the marks of wheels that a man really finds himself – knowing the warm feeling in his soul that only fear is the enemy and that true values are not measured in bank accounts cached away in artificial edifices of stone, but in the depth of serenity and peace where air is clean and water flows cold and pure.”

Some people go out into wilderness to 'find God.'

But in my experience, in this journey we call life, God found me when I was in a place where I was quiet, alone, not seeking Him, and was therefore, able to hear more than just the words of my own soul. It's kind of like when you sit back against a large ponderosa pine tree, on a warm sunny afternoon, and as you close your eyes and just rest, you hear the sound the wind makes whistling through the pine needles. You hear more than just your own thoughts and self talk. You can hear something larger—outside of yourself.

And that is why solitude is such a gift.

Because you are truly not alone out there.

It's getting harder and harder to find any untouched places in the wild. More people are moving here every day. The wilderness we wander is full of other wanderers. Not all have the same respect for that wilderness, or for the rest of us who enjoy it. And so we wander farther, deeper into the wild, beyond the borders of the Shire. Off the road less traveled. Far from the maddening crowd. My own journey seems to be leading me further away from the great fishing spots, and into the wild, unscarred places in my soul, that are still as untouched by this twisted world as can be hoped.

And so we must guard our hearts.

Guard them closely; from the unrealistic expectations of others. From the insane demands of too much multi-tasking. From the pressure of peers. From the expectations of this politically correct world culture. From the failures and disappointments of our childhood and early life. From the trappings of consumerism. From the pitfalls of too much self-reliance. From a prideful attitude. From selfishness.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul;
He leads me in the paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake. ~Psalm 23

The more I wander the few wild places left, I am more aware that I am not aimlessly wandering. But am being led to lie down in greener pastures, beside the still waters. He restores my soul.

Dad at Keepemquiet Creek, 1971.

—At The End of my Line

Where is Your Joy?

Since I was old enough to remember, I've always loved hunting, camping, and especially fly fishing.

Escaping to the outdoors. It was part of our life as a family. It was simply what we did. And it in I always found happiness. Peace. Solace. Joy.

I can't say exactly when that all started to change.

But it did.

After I'd been married for four or five years, when the "honeymoon was over" I began to question, "Is this all there is to life?" I had a beautiful wife, but we fought all the time. I had a good job, with future prospects, but I began to hate, (no, despise) it.

I was a fly fisherman. I lived for it. It was how I perceived myself. It was my main pursuit in life.

But I began to grow frustrated in that pursuit. It was not as enjoyable as it once was. The rivers and places I once loved to go, were becoming more and more overrun with hordes of people, thanks in part to greedy self-promoting fly fishing magazines who felt the "rivers needed more friends."

I had grown more competitive in fly fishing. Always trying to outdo myself. Never satisfied with what I caught. Always bummed out by what I couldn't catch. Obsessed with all the gear, or, more appropriately named; the "Trappings." At one point I had accumulated several thousands of dollars worth of fly fishing and fly tying gear. Not that I paid retail for it. I had friends in the industry that always got me buddy deals. But I was always buying, selling and trading what I had for the "next best thing." But it was never enough.

It became in me, a big, hungry monster that I could never satisfy.

And though I didn't realize it at the time, I had been filling up my life with stuff, to try and fill up the empty and hurting places in my heart.  My mom had told me that back in the seventies she and my dad had done the exact same thing, to try and fill up the empty places in their lives.  But they were never satisfied. And numbing the pain and disappointments of life with alcohol soon became their false substitute for joy.

And I can tell you with sad, deep conviction from our experiences as a family, that this does not work. It only destroys.

Recently in my journal I wrote:

"Your joy can only be stolen if your look for joy in things that can be lost."

 And over the course of my life I have seen that come true more times than I can count.

I used to have a small collection of well guarded "last best places" where I could go to escape, think, meditate on life, etc. But eventually, one after another, all those last best places failed to bring me the solace and peace I so desperately sought. Joy was elusive. Not to be caught.

Where do you look for joy?

For me, what once brought lasting joy, no longer does. Because those things that once brought joy can be, or have been lost. They could never live up to my heavy expectations.

Relationships can die. Spouses move on. Family disowns you. Jobs go away. Money dries up. Favorite rivers or camping spots are now over crowded. Your health can change in a New York minute. Friends move away.

Everything in this life is for a season. Some long, some very short. Our life is literally a vapor. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Today my joy is found in something and someone that can never be lost, never be taken from me. Those of you who know me well, know my secret.

For those of you who don't, I would love to share it with you.

All you need do is ask.


—At The End of My Line.

Thank God for Friends

"There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother."

When I look back over the last forty years of fishing and camping trips to beautiful destinations all over the west, what stands out is not the scenery, the fish, or the photos. What made all these trips truly memorable are the good companions who shared the journey with me.

When you drive a hundred miles and hike the banks of a river all day with a guy, you get to know a lot about each others lives and stories. You discover that you're not alone... that we all share in many of the same trials and struggles as the next guy. And you can encourage one another and have your friend's back.  

All the men in these photos have greatly impacted my life and I respect and appreciate each one of them. Very thankful for the times we've spent on a river, around a camp fire, or just doing life together.

And of course the times you spend with your own family in the outdoors are priceless memories that nothing can ever diminish. I am so proud of and thankful for my Dad and my Son. They have both impacted my life in such a profound way. I will always be grateful

My Dad on Father's Day 1972.

My son Jeremy with his first fish, 1980's.

The following is one of my favorite lines from the story, "A River Runs Through It"...

“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.”

—The End of My Line.

Peace Like a River

The tranquil scene in this photograph, which I took while on a much needed, very relaxing road trip with my wife this spring, is about as close to peaceful as anywhere I know of on this earth. The only sounds we heard were red winged blackbirds, the low dim of the pastoral meadow stream, and the soft gentle breeze in this stunning Oregon paradise.

But then cars and trucks speed by spoiling the moment. Then I saw the empty beer cans and worm containers from thoughtful "sportsmen." Then I saw the "No Trespassing" signs. Then I saw the barbed wire fences keeping people like me out. There were several indicators that we were definitely not welcome here. I don't blame the land owners. I wouldn't want people trampling all over my portion of paradise either.

Every time I travel through this area, which is where I also grew up in the early 1970's, it brings back all the good memories I have from childhood, learning to fly fish in southern Oregon. And a part of me wants to move back here every time I visit. What a place to retire to. I never want to leave when I stop at this spot. So peaceful...

But peace is fleeting. 

I used to have a small handful of 'last best places' where I could go to sit and just be quiet...be still...and find some peace. But all those places have now been invaded by other peace seekers and sportsmen. They are all overrun. No peace is to be found there anymore. I feel like there is no place left to go...

And that's the point. 

It's something I've learned the hard way, after several decades of searching for peace 'out there'... it is not to be found...out there.

True, lasting peace is only to be experienced within. A place can't provide it, no matter how beautiful. Another person can't give it, though they love completely. No, you have to go much deeper, much higher—to the immortal. To the heavenly.

A promise from the Divine, to all those who will receive it:

"Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river, And the glory of the Gentiles like a flowing stream."

And,

“Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst—the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life.”

It's taken me almost sixty years to realize my peace cannot be found in a place. 

But I can truly say that the peace which surpasses understanding is freely available to all who will ask for it and receive it...

—At The End of My Line.

A Fuel Pump and some Coconut Cream Pie

It was pre-springtime in the Klamath Basin, 1973. Cabin fever was making us more than a bit antsy, even a little crazy, after a long winter that seemed to go on without end. Opening day of trout season was still at least a couple of months away and we had to get out of the house. Truth be told, I think my mom sent us away as we were beginning to drive her crazy too.

If you don’t like long, cold, snowy winters, don’t live in Klamath Falls, Oregon. At an elevation of over 4,000 feet above sea level, this is the kind of place that most retired folks quickly move from and go to Arizona for the winter. I remember my brother and I walking to school on some very frigid days, our big Alaska-style parkas zipped all the way up, with faux fur lined hoods cinched up tight around our faces. We usually had couple of snow days every winter where they closed the schools. Those were good days.

My dad and my uncle Jim had been debating about a good place to take a road trip on that blustery Saturday morning. We couldn’t go too high up in the mountains since there was still way too much snow and most of the roads were either closed or impassable. They agreed on Silver Lake, about 100 miles from Klamath Falls. I was a bit disappointed that there was no place to go fishing. But it was good to get out of town and see some new country.

We were hoping the sun would come out and the temperature would rise a bit. But it drizzled sleet and stayed cold. So we packed some salami and crackers and cold drinks and hit the road in my Uncle Jim’s old light blue GMC pickup. The only things we were armed with were my dad’s Bushnell 7x35 binoculars and a camera. We drove alongside Klamath Lake heading north on highway 97 until we passed the small tribal town of Chiloquin, eventually leaving the main highway at Silver Lake Road, entering Klamath Marsh National Wildlife Refuge. We never quite made it all the way to Silver Lake, but we drove until there were no more trees nearby and soon there was only scrub grass and the occasional small sage brush.

 
We didn’t see another human being all day out there, but there was abundant wildlife. I stopped counting at 200 mule deer. They were everywhere, making their spring migration. My dad always told me I had the eyes of an eagle since I was usually able to spot deer in the distance before he did. I appreciated any praise my dad gave me, as it didn’t happen often. More often than not I was in the dog house for my bad grades.

Along with the mule deer, we saw antelope, bald eagles, and several sandhill cranes. If you have never heard the sound a sandhill crane makes, you must do so. Their sound is beautiful, captivating, almost haunting, difficult to describe. Southern Oregon is part of their regular migration path. And they nest there every year.

After spending hours exploring the area and counting all the various critters, the snow flurries were beginning to pick up. Our salami and crackers were long gone and we were getting hungry. Dad said we should probably start heading back. I think we had gone maybe five or ten miles when my Uncle Jim’s truck died. Dead as a doornail. He couldn’t start the thing. He popped the hood and he and my dad climbed up and started investigating what the problem was. They soon located a small hole in the fuel pump about the diameter of a pencil. How the heck that hole suddenly appeared in the fuel pump is a mystery that was never solved. My dad and uncle had to find a way to plug the hole in the fuel pump to get the truck started again. Problem was, we had nothing in the truck to plug the hole with.

In my dad’s truck, he always carried a roll of duct tape and some bailing wire, not to mention a tool kit, a shovel, and a few other necessities. However on this particular day, my uncle did not have anything in the truck that we could use. So dad said we needed to start looking for some small twigs to use to plug the hole with. Problem was, there wasn’t a tree in sight. We were probably fifty miles from any gas station or repair shop. And there were only a few sparse sagebrush scattered along the road. So we found a suitable twig from what brush we could find, and finally got the hole plugged and miraculously, the engine started. They had to pour some gas into the fuel pump to prime it. But we were finally on our way.

A mile or so down the road, the engine died again. They got out and looked at the fuel pump and the dang twig had popped out. So we had to find another twig to plug the hole with. But most of them were too thin. But this time we collected a couple of extras just in case it popped out again. Sure enough, the new twig eventually popped out again too. But we had spares, and after several more times of engine dying, put new twig in, prime pump, we eventually made our way back to the Highway 97 junction where there was a gas station and a café. I was starving!

We dragged ourselves into the café and found a seat. When the waitress took our order dad and I got a cheese burger, fries and a coke, and my uncle Jim said in his slow, smooth-as-can-be southern drawl, “Yes, I’d like a cup of coffee and a piece of coconut cream pie.” I’ve never forgotten how smooth he was placing that order. My wife and I still laugh about it today.

(Uncle Jim)

What amazes me most about this memory is I was beginning to get worried we were going to be stuck all night in the middle of nowhere when the truck would not start. In the same situation I’m not sure I would have had the wherewithal to locate the problem in that fuel pump much less figure out how to fix it. But my dad and Uncle Jim were both calm and made the best of a bad situation. My uncle Jim was always cracking jokes and was a very funny guy. Lesser men might have lost their cool and started swearing around a kid, adding to my fears. But these men were a class act, and set a great example, and I felt totally safe in their care, as always. And it turned out to be among my many memorable grand adventures while growing up in southern Oregon.

(Dad)

In the many trips I’ve taken over the years, the destinations have been incredible. Great scenery. Amazing fishing. Big trout. But what made these trips all truly great were the people I was with. They made an impact in my life. The camaraderie. The friendship. The family relationships. The precious people that will be forever etched in my memory…

—At the End of My Line