Somewhere around 1993 my old man decided it would be a good idea to take the family back east to harass Atlantics on the Miramichi with fly rods. [Thanks Dad!] Thus started my long and rarely illustrious career in fly fishing that now has spanned the better part of my life. I can snag branches on the back cast with the best of them, and I'm not afraid to blog about it.
After introducing her to fly fishing, she almost instantly became a more successful angler than I. In one moment after a particularly satisfying trip she'll honestly say how she's content not catching another fish all season, and in the next she'll best her own personal record without trying. I'm just glad she puts up with my obsession, even if she catches the better fish.
As the newest member of our family, Mason's first day on the river was just six days after birth. Since he never wet a line it's hard to measure his day against the rest of us, but he did manage to fill seven more diapers than either The Wife or I and was the only one caught up on sleep. I'm sure it's just a matter of time before he bests me in the fishing department as well.
Karta might just be the best damned fishing dog there is. After witnessing her first fish caught and released, a tiny high-desert redband, she immediately thrust her head underwater searching furiously for the fish. She's been with me nearly every day I've been on the water since and, on occasion, some would swear I go fishing only to satisfy her curiosities.
Stan the Man is our cat, and he alternates between something of a pain in my arse and the benevolent dictator of our household. He's not much for fishing so he rarely makes an appearance on the blog, but he'll make one hell of a mess of your tying materials if you leave them out too long. Leave your lap exposed and he'll be your best friend.
