Fly fishing was not a catch and release concept as it applied to my life.
Oh yes, when applied to angling, I believe and practice this concept quite religiously as an adult. But the art – the vice – of fishing, never let go of me.
It happened gradually. My Dad would not just let his five boys stay at home on weekends and watch the tube. Instead, he had us out helping him carve figure four deadfalls for rabbits, or getting as close to drowning or smacked by lightning as we possibly could without actually doing so.
Sometimes these family outings involved fishing. Usually, some type of homemade vessel was in the mix, and added to the anticipated and unforeseeable outcome of each trip.
The seed was planted and cared for well. Any interest in outdoor pursuits of any kind were well received by Pop. Mom played along even when we would bring the outdoors inside, turning the house to splinters while whittling full sized canoe paddles from choice pieces of driftwood.
And so an obsession was born.
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