Leaves of orange and gold fell to the ground. My son and I walked side by side down a remote but well-worn trail. Listening to the sound of the river and to each other, the day unfolded. Through a canopy of aspen trees the sun warmed our shoulders. When a riffle or run would call, we’d fish it, then catch up to the trail again. The air was crisp with the smell of autumn, tall grasses and fading wild flowers. We talked of how we wanted to come back and camp in the meadow somewhere beyond the waterfall. I have no doubt we will someday if time allows.

Jake was no more than five or six the first time I took him fly fishing. I remember fastening a life jacket around his chest and tethering a rope to his belt per his mother’s instructions. He would play in the water for hours while I fished, content just to be in the outdoors with his dad. I loved watching him take in his surroundings. Even at a young age he seemed to be made for the river.

I introduced Jake to the sport slowly. First I would let him net my fish, then use my rod to land them. Within several years he had his own setup and was fishing elbow to elbow alongside me.

“Dad, what flies are we using today?” He would ask, legs dangling from the tailgate of my truck.

I usually strung up his rod with something from his own box, an assortment of flies he bought with his own money.

These early years were precious. Every knot tied, broken, and retied – a gift. The questions asked and answered, some more then once, were never a bother.

As with all things though, time brought change, and it wasn’t long before my role as “guide” diminished and Jake started making his own decisions on the water. Right or wrong he would rig up his rod and choose where and how he wanted to fish. Both his successes and failures shaped him as a young fisherman.

Like any kid, there were times he lost interest. I would look over and see him chasing a lizard down the riverbank or I’d hear a splash and see him swimming in the same hole he just hooked a fish. I enjoyed watching these flashes of youth. Most of the time though Jake seemed to have the maturity of a seasoned fisherman. His patience and ability to listen were uncanny for a kid his age. When most youngsters would have unravelled in frustration, Jake persevered.

As a parent you never know what your kids are going to latch onto. You expose them to things you are passionate about… some stick, others don’t. When kids are young their energy and passion is derived from you. They are excited because you are excited, and they go along for the ride. Somewhere along the way though (usually around high school age) this changes and your enthusiasm alone isn’t enough. At this point as much as you might want it for them, if their heart isn’t in it, neither are they.

The moment I realized Jake had finally turned that corner he was around seventeen or so. We were on our way back from a float in New Mexico and opted to spend the afternoon on a remote stream in southern Colorado. Having fished a good while, with neither of us even seeing a trout, Jake decided to switch over to a streamer.

“Dad, come here, quick”, he yelled from downstream!

I could tell by his voice and the bend in his rod, he had a nice one on. Stumbling over moss covered stone I made my way down to where he stood, knee deep in a pool no more than 20 feet wide.

“What did he take?” I asked, somewhat out of breath.

“Got ’em on a wooly?” He said, with a ten inch smile stretched across his face.

I watched as Jake maneuvered this beauty up into the shallows. The quick flash of gold and yellow had me thinking brown trout at first, but once in the net we could see the unique pattern of a cutthroat trout… twenty inches to be exact!

It was then I realized, my son had come into his own as a fly fisherman. He was no longer just along for the ride. He was out here because he wanted to be. He had found his own love of the river.

Jake is now a senior in college and living up in Montana for the summer. I think he actually gets more time on the water than I do. As I write my mind is flooded with so many moments he and I shared. Memories strung together throughout the years, some distinct, others a collage of things remembered, lacking any context at all. Mostly thoughts of the river, and times in the canyon, and a trail to a meadow somewhere beyond the waterfall… and my son as always, right next to me.