Growing up, I thought we were a bit different.

We ate wild game. Spent time outdoors. Tried to be as self-reliant as possible.

Independence, and the value of wild things and places, those were things that mattered.

One time, we were fly fishing.

My grandfather had severe Parkinson’s at the time. His green rubber chest waders filled with water, and he was swept downstream.

We managed to get him to shore safely, but after that, river safety became a theme in my life.

I have a lot of memories of the Miramichi River, fishing for black salmon in the spring. I’m forever grateful.

– Jamie C. | Pennfield

My own father passed quite a few years before I ever learned to fly fish.

I joined the Cornhusker Fly Fishers in Nebraska because I had always wanted to learn. It looked so cool, almost like poetry in motion. I even bought my first fly rod and reel before I really knew how to use them.

Ed was this tall, slender member of the club. He became my father figure.

We tied flies together. He showed me the small details and the tricks of the art.

One night after a meeting, he saw me struggling and walked over.

“Let me show you how this is done.”

Five minutes with someone who knew what they were doing, and something clicked. I felt like I could do this.

And I did.

I’ve been fly fishing for years now, often with Ed. We’ve represented the Cornhusker Fly Fishers at events across the state, sharing our love of the sport. I even followed in his footsteps, running for and serving as the club’s president.

What made that moment meaningful wasn’t just learning how to tie or cast. It was finally learning something I had always wanted to do, and doing it right.

Ed made it all feel comfortable.

– Mike L. | Bellevue, WA