I grew up in the flatlands of western Missouri — a place where woods and wheat fields collide, and old red barns and dilapidated windmills dot the landscape. Our house sat on several acres of land bordered by miles of rolling pasture. On one side horses grazed, the other cattle. Giant oak trees, farm ponds and countless hay bales populated the countryside. It was here I played and explored and gained a true appreciation for the outdoors.

My dad taught me spin cast fishing at an early age, and like most kids, I started with a hook and bobber. It didn’t take me long though to discover a better alternative to worm dunking and within just a few years I had a tackle box filled with an assortment of spinners and top water lures. With these brightly colored contraptions in my arsenal I soon became quite proficient at catching my share of bass and a variety of other sunfish. Occasionally though my family would venture far enough north and I would get the chance to throw lures to bigger fish on bigger water. Some of my best memories were with my dad fishing for walleye and northern pike up in Northern Minnesota.

The summer I turned 13 our family took a trip westward through the Rocky Mountains. This was my first experience with life outside the midwest. I loved it! I remember thinking the mountains were like a giant playground just waiting to be explored. I must have driven my parents crazy all the times I begged them to pull over and let me out of the car so I could climb some precarious looking rock or canyon wall. All this to say when I finally packed up my Jeep and moved to Colorado after college it came as no surprise.

My first couple of years in Colorado were a true Rocky Mountain high! I lived in the mountains and worked in Denver and spent every possible moment exploring the wilderness just outside my front door. Along with immersing myself in the beauty of the mountains, I also went back to school to became an EMT and joined a mountain rescue team out of a neighboring town. This soon proved to be a wise decision as it gave me the training and experience I needed to pursue my newest passion… mountaineering. From here I went on to climb all 58 Colorado 14ers.

My introduction to fly fishing came a bit later and while on a week long backpacking trip in Southern Colorado. Our trail skirted Big Blue Creek, a not so popular trout stream that ran through the heart of the San Juan Mountains. We had chosen this route not for the fishing, but because of its close proximity to some of the most magnificent peaks in the state, and of course, the creek would be our source of drinking water for the week.

It was our first night of the trip and as usual my internal clock woke me early. I stepped from my tent into the cool air and was welcomed by a morning fog that had settled on the valley floor overnight. With the mountains shrouded in a blanket of white one might think winter had come early that year. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I could see in the distance a lone fly fisherman traversing the banks of the Big Blue near our campsite. I watched as this man methodically walked the waterline, effortlessly casting his fly into the air and then out across the stream. The scene was beautiful, almost spiritual, and something in my soul stirred. Within minutes he disappeared into the mist, leaving only the sound of the stream behind him and this image forever locked inside my mind.

Not long after this trip I went down to the local fly shop and purchased my first fly rod… I have been chasing trout ever since.