When I was eight, I was introduced to the magical world of fly fishing. I had always loved to fish and was fairly accomplished at catching large gold fish at the 72 street boat basin in New York city's central park with a safety pin, some thread and old bread. They were the kind of gold fish that would choke a full grown snake, stupid enough to try and swallow one. My father on the other hand never truly enjoyed or embraced my passion for fishing in general and fly fishing in particular, but, being a good father, would spend hours at the basin keeping one eye on the New York Times, and the other on me fishing. The 1970's were interesting times, with world events swirling around like angry bees, beyond my thoughts or comprehension. My life personally was swirling as my parents had divorced three years earlier, I was introduced to new words, like custody, and lawyers. My father would soon remarry and I had a new step-mom that just happened to have a father that fly fished.

Bob Jacobs became my step-grandfather, but more importantly my fly fishing mentor. My first year was spent learning on my own, but was watched from a distance by Bob-Bob as we called him. The Duchess Valley Rod and Gun Club in Pawling New York became, my Disney World, the club had a lime fed stream with deep cool pools that held hatchery stocked fish, browns, brookies, and rainbows  kept my upmost attention all spring and summer long. Bob-Bob was a great fisherman having fished with Lee Wulff on his exploratory trips Labrador. He was also his best man at his wedding to Joan Wulff. I knew nothing about, Lee Wulff at the time but was absolutely mesmerized watching Bob-Bob cast line across the still cold dark pools that held our quarry, well really his, as he would catch fish, and I would catch trees, bushes, and on occasion, myself. I think the first year Bob-Bob wanted to see how dedicated I was to learn his craft. He could have helped more, but, having a new step grandson that was crazy to learn, he probably thought for me that fly fishing was some fad, that I would give up having not caught any fish. That first year I had became an expert bird nest knot maker and quite skilled at undoing the knots, but no fish. My glass 5 wt Fenwick untested, well at least with fish, plant life however were battled on many occasions.

My brother Richard that year got casting lessons, I was jealous that he got the lessons and I did not get any lessons at all from the club's casting expert and fly tier Tom Balash, hell they were all experts to me and I thought that my brother with his lessons would become one too. Since I was not getting the lesson I would watch intently on the side mimicking everything that Tom Balash was teaching my brother. I was always within ear shot to learn what I could, to better my odds on the stream, after all he was my big brother, but I was not going to let him catch more or bigger fish then me. Tom probably could and should have approached my Dad and asked for extra cash since he was in a way, teaching two kids how to cast a line.

The next year I started fishing that spring with a vengeance having had a whole winter to dream of large trout inhaling my flies, and the most epic battles my mind could ever imagine. I had rules to follow, I could not wade above my rubber boots, I feel that the club in retrospect would frown on a 9 year old floating dead, face down past the well maintained houses and lawns along the stream. I remember fishing one warm spring day with Bob-Bob, finally taking me fishing on his favorite pool around dinner time, I would have fasted for days to learn from him. He really never went fishing except around dinner time, when the hatches were in full swing on the water, He was after all as I would reflect later and label, a true dry fly addict.  This drew distain from non fishing family members that obviously cherished food and meal time more than Bob-Bob and I did. On the water with him, I listened intently as he explained how to fish the rises, where the fish hold in the current, fly selection by learning to "match the hatch", roll cast, and how to play and land a fish. I watched as he effortlessly cast his dry fly out and then drifting down to a rising fish. He hooked the trout, and allowed me the honor to battle his nice rainbow into his waiting net. I asked well formulated questions that my nine year old mind could come up with, not wanting to blow any future opportunity to fish again with him by asking a stupid question.

I only caught 5 fish that year, most likely, the top five genetically challenged fish the hatchery ever produced. I believe to this day that those fish had a suicide gene and would have most likely offered themselves up to any predator or beached, killing themselves on their own accord. But to me they were some of the most valued five memories I had that year fishing on my own.

The years that passed I was able to catch more and more fish as my cast went further and further, and more importantly my knowledge, and of course Tom Balash's fly box keeping me well supplied by taking flies out and just signing my name. I remember incredible early mornings bathed by the warmth of the sun's rays as I opened the door fly rod in hand, when nights coldness still hung heavy in the early morning air. The mayfly hatches with hundreds of thousands of flies doing an aerial mating dance at suns last light over the water, and every fish in the river gorging on bounty that only a few nights would bring. I fished more with Bob-Bob, always gaining more insight every trip on the water at dinner time enjoying his fishing stories to salt and freshwater destinations far away from Pawling New York.

When I turned twelve in March I received from my Dad for my birthday a fly tying beginners kit. The gift, I think, was so that I could tie my own flies instead of the monthly car payment like bills for flies that my Dad received year after year from April to August from Tom Balash. My Dad really came through this time by giving me fly tying lessons from Tom Balash, though I think that for my Dad that was most likely a cost cutting measure for my fly habit. Much like why would you buy carton of eggs from a supermarket if you get some chickens to lay eggs for less! I had a small book on fly patterns that came with the kit with instructions that mimicked discount furniture instructions from a writer with way less mastery of the English language then my own at twelve. I  feverishly went to work trying to construct pocket pins, woolly worms, various streamers as well as any other easy pattern I could recreate. Tom Balash was instrumental in instilling in me good construction techniques filled in the blanks, and taught me how to do a whip finish knot so that my flies would stop unraveling on the first back cast I would make. The patterns have changed for me over the years but not the fundamentals by a true master of the art I learned from that summer.

So what's the point? The destination is never important, stopping and saying well I learned all I could learn, can really never happen, not in fly fishing and really not in life. The journey is the real lesson. Having a Father that always gave you the tools to learn, though never really embracing what you wanted to do or why you did it. Bob-Bob and Tom Balash, long gone of this earth, but never truly forgotten, from a boy that learned so much and appreciated  more then they would ever know or realize. The journey continues with the passing of what I learned by so many people I have met along my continuing journey to my two boys.

My twelve year old who goes out with me from time to time complains he's hypothermic after ten minutes in his float tube. I can't blame him, he's got zero body fat, I just enjoy the ten minutes of fishing together and the 20 minutes of time talking and loading everything back into the car. I hope he wants to learn more, as he can really cast a fly, but I don't push him, I want him to really show me he wants to learn, when he is ready to. We really share a lot of other interests together and I think a salmon at the end of his line this fall will dictate a lot of his future interest. My eight year old is almost ready learn to cast and catch his first tree on the fly. He loves to spend his summer shoeless communicating with nature, he really is a lot like me, except I like wearing shoes. The key is to keep an eye on them like my father, have patience like Bob-Bob, teach them like Tom Balash.

Much like the life of the flies we imitate, the journey will always continue, the destination will never really matter.