My father, who died on March 23, was never a fancy fly angler, but none were more enthusiastic. Although he got the chance to fish in the Rockies and in Alaska, he was never more at home than when creeping along a small stream in the Cascades, dapping a gray hackle peacock for forest brookies. And he passed this love on to his sons and his grandchildren.
A skill we all have in this family is to laugh at ourselves every time a fly gets tangled in a bush behind us -- and that is no small gift in my view!
So farewell to a fine father and a native Oregonian.