Who was yours?
Mine was my Dad, he loved to fish on the weekends & started taking me along when I was about 8 or so, this would be around 1965.
We had this section on the Cedar about 300 yards of river, you might know now as its upper section is currently marked out as a kayak run, you can see it upstream off the county road.
He had a high end spinning set up and was a technician with it. Pflueger Colorado spinners were the weapon oh choice, he liked the copper/silver blade with just enough lead ahead of the lure to swim it behind the mid river boulders. If the bite was tough he'd add a shucked caddis fly larva to the hook
I also remember Royal bonnell monofilament line on his Bach Brown spinning reel attached to 7' glass rod. If he didn't have a Russ Peak glass spinning rod he should have.
Looking back his mentality was pure fly fishing, he just never took it up that style.
Here's a story I found you might enjoy.
Interesting stuff
Uncategorized
My introduction to and love for fishing came from another father figure in my life. Grandpa. My maternal grandfather was my hero. Grandpa lived in a double-wide on a half-acre just upstream of Pinantan Lake outside Kamloops.
He was a man’s man. He played hockey for the Portland hockey team and won an NHL arm wrestling contest. For a 10-year-old boy who loved sports and the outdoors, no one could compete with Grandpa as the arbiter of cool.
One morning at breakfast, Grandpa brought out a battered leather wallet populated with a half-dozen small, rusty lures. He pulled them out, one at a time, each reveal accompanied by a fish story about some monster he had landed with those tarnished miracles. I was hooked immediately.
With Grandpa as my gillie, I plunked the spoon into the holding water, as Grandpa explained where the fish might be hiding. I cast, a few feet. I reeled, also a few feet. And I hoped. Oh, how I hoped.
Though I didn’t know the expression at the time, the tug is the drug. The first rainbow I connected with was six inches of raw power. I can still feel that tug to this day.
Grandpa passed away shortly before his 85th birthday. He had gone for a morning walk, come home and done his daily 50 pushups, when an aortic aneurysm took him. He taught me to fish, and he shaped my life in ways for which I will always be grateful.
As an adult, fly fishing has become my passion. But my memory of one tiny, speckled rainbow, caught on a spoon in an unnamed creek outside Kamloops, with Grandpa crouched over my shoulder, will always be my favorite.
Thanks, Grandpa
Thanks Dad
c/22
Mine was my Dad, he loved to fish on the weekends & started taking me along when I was about 8 or so, this would be around 1965.
We had this section on the Cedar about 300 yards of river, you might know now as its upper section is currently marked out as a kayak run, you can see it upstream off the county road.
He had a high end spinning set up and was a technician with it. Pflueger Colorado spinners were the weapon oh choice, he liked the copper/silver blade with just enough lead ahead of the lure to swim it behind the mid river boulders. If the bite was tough he'd add a shucked caddis fly larva to the hook
I also remember Royal bonnell monofilament line on his Bach Brown spinning reel attached to 7' glass rod. If he didn't have a Russ Peak glass spinning rod he should have.
Looking back his mentality was pure fly fishing, he just never took it up that style.
Here's a story I found you might enjoy.
Interesting stuff
Father’s Day Collection | Dwight J.
Mon Jun 1st 2026Uncategorized
My introduction to and love for fishing came from another father figure in my life. Grandpa. My maternal grandfather was my hero. Grandpa lived in a double-wide on a half-acre just upstream of Pinantan Lake outside Kamloops.
He was a man’s man. He played hockey for the Portland hockey team and won an NHL arm wrestling contest. For a 10-year-old boy who loved sports and the outdoors, no one could compete with Grandpa as the arbiter of cool.
One morning at breakfast, Grandpa brought out a battered leather wallet populated with a half-dozen small, rusty lures. He pulled them out, one at a time, each reveal accompanied by a fish story about some monster he had landed with those tarnished miracles. I was hooked immediately.
With Grandpa as my gillie, I plunked the spoon into the holding water, as Grandpa explained where the fish might be hiding. I cast, a few feet. I reeled, also a few feet. And I hoped. Oh, how I hoped.
Though I didn’t know the expression at the time, the tug is the drug. The first rainbow I connected with was six inches of raw power. I can still feel that tug to this day.
Grandpa passed away shortly before his 85th birthday. He had gone for a morning walk, come home and done his daily 50 pushups, when an aortic aneurysm took him. He taught me to fish, and he shaped my life in ways for which I will always be grateful.
As an adult, fly fishing has become my passion. But my memory of one tiny, speckled rainbow, caught on a spoon in an unnamed creek outside Kamloops, with Grandpa crouched over my shoulder, will always be my favorite.
Thanks, Grandpa
Thanks Dad
c/22
