It was a simple four bench seat aluminum boat but after I began to understand the different size of boats, I asked Dad why we didn’t have a bigger one. His reply was “boats don’t catch fish”. I was more worried about going fast and looking good though so his response didn’t make sense to me at the time, along with many other things Dad said which didn’t make sense to me until years later.

“Fish On!” The called echoed off the walls of the paper mill along the shores of the Chehalis River. Lined peeled from the reel as the giant Chinook dug deep into the rushing incoming current. This fish was different from the ones we had already caught, he knew the game. He had battled for his life before, and was hell bent to prove once again, he was a fighter.

Essays have never been my thing. Sure, I can write a passable essay on any given topic to dazzle a teacher or two, but essays are not my favorite. That is until my dad showed me an ad in the Fly Fishing & Tying Journal encouraging me to write my nemesis, the dreaded essay. They wanted to know why I would want to go to The Fly Shop’s Fish Camp on their dime. I checked out the website that showed all the camp’s information and decided it looked great and was worth a try. I had never fly fished before but last year I had started my new hobby of tying flies. My grandfather had seen my interest in his old hobby and passed down to me all of his old tying supplies and, I was hooked! (Pardon the pun)