In Remembrance

Nearly four years ago, my grandfather passed away from Alzheimer's. I idolized him and we spent many hours on the Swift Reservoir fishing for rainbows. He was responsible for my first King Salmon on the Columbia River at the age of 11.

One of the oddities of death is how people decide to remember you. At my grandfather's funeral, many family members stood up and spoke of how religious my grandfather was. As I sat and listened as people tried to paint him as a devout man of faith, I wondered whether my grandfather had fooled the masses, or whether they ever had a chance to really know him. He was spiritual, but not in the orthodox sort of way. In fact, I remember being his alibi on several occasions, and the two of us managed to skip out on church.

I was going over files on my old laptop and came across this short poem, which I wrote to convey who he truly was. He worked hard to become a successful businessman and he spent his free energies in the outdoors. He hunted elk and deer near Indian Heaven (Washington), fished steelhead on the East Fork of the Lewis River, fished for salmon on the Columbia River, and fished Alaska several times. He was an instrumental figure in my becoming an angler.


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Trout are the Israelites of fish.

Their creeks, rivers and ocean are the Promised Land.

Water is the bible,

All that are in it are its words.

Church occurs daily.

Earliest is the best service;

Each sermon is transparent and lucid,

Captivating and holding its audiences.

Men stuggle on the water

Because they are not spiritual. 

They forget how to obsorb the water 

And digest its words.