It was March 8th, 2019, two days after my dad’s passing. A light drizzle fell to the ground as I walked that familiar shoreline just miles from my childhood home in western Missouri. It had been years since I had been back to this place and things looked strangely different. The water was now frozen and the trees stood strikingly bare against the somber sky. I made my way toward the far side of the lake where my dad and I had spent most of our time. We would cast our spinning rigs from the spillway and wait for some unsuspecting fish to grab our lines. I don’t recall if we did much catching, but we were out on the water together and that was enough.

My most vivid memories fishing with my dad were times up in Minnesota. I remember many icy cold mornings we would roll out of our sleeping bags just before light and make our way down to the boat dock. It was there we were met by the chatter of fisherman stringing poles and filling tackle boxes, and the smell of oil burning off a two-stroke motorboat engine. Soon we were speeding out across the water to some distant cove where we would cast heavy lures to big fish. I’ll never forget the look on my dad’s face when I landed my first northern pike. Even though there wasn’t much skill involved in that first catch, that didn’t seem to matter. He was proud of his son just the same.

As my dad and I grew older our time together became less. I moved away and traded my spinning gear in for a fly rod and my dad became content just listening to stories of my adventures rather than experiencing them. You see my dad was never really much of a fisherman. The little he did was mainly to spend time with me. Though he did enjoy the outdoors, my dad was more of the intellectual type. He was a preacher turned history teacher who had a love for reading, writing and poetry. These were his passions. He was a well educated man whose speech was well thought through and well delivered. I can remember many times throughout my life gaging whether or not to ask him a question based on how much time I actually had to wait for his answer. He definitely loved explaining things. I think that is what made him such a good teacher.

There was one trip though that still stands out in my mind. I was visiting from Colorado one summer and had convinced my dad to join my nephews, brother-in-law and me for a little fly fishing adventure down in southern Missouri. He accepted and we ended up having an amazing time. Funny, what I remember most about this trip wasn’t even the fishing, it was our time together back at the lodge eating dinner at the end of the day. Somehow time stood still for me as I took in the moment. I’ll never forget the rustic warmth of the lodge, the big game antlers on the wall, and my dad in his red flannel shirt laughing and talking as we shared our stories from the day. What a memory. It was the last fishing trip we ever took together.

My dad is now gone and the thought of him not being there to listen to my stories is a stark and painful reality. I am grateful though that a part of him will always be with me, on every mountain I climb and every river I fish. The connection he made with me when I was younger will forever live on in my heart and in the moments I now share with my son and two daughters. Thank you Dad for being exactly who you were. I love you now, and always.

Fish on!