And I love him for instilling in me a sense of urgency to live life that makes 9 or 10 a.m. I love him for introducing me to friends and guides he has made through the years, and hearing all their stories from cross-country campers to starry expanses that lighted up the entire night. I love him for showing me new spots in rural Idaho. Then I grew up, and that hate turned into love.
But as soon as the food coma set in, I hated him again. when we head in to the breakfast nook and I ate away that hate with an oversized FRIED cinnamon roll. And I hated him most for waking me up at 4:30 or 5 to stand in cold water while having my cast scrutinized. The only time I didn’t hate him during these stretches was around 8 a.m. I hated him for swinging by this fly shop on the outskirts of town where wrinkly old geezers waxed nostalgic about rivers past while appreciating ties through bottle-cap glasses. I hated him for hauling me out to the middle of Missouri in the dehydrated dog days of August. I hated it so much there were stretches of time (generally leading up to trips) that I hated my father. I hated fly fishing and everything that it came with.
I remember having a much different perspective for it growing up. And this level of excitement has been a long time coming.įly fishing is one of those amazing passions that tends to take shape later in life.
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