Think trees. Think water. Think rocks. Remember baseball. Remember being 10. My mother taught me to fish. Cane pole -- not rod, but pole. Long string, bobber, a bolt-nut weight. When it was my turn I foresake the fly rod for a spinner. Thought it might be easier. Little by little. One, The Kid let it be known we were "exploring" more than fishing. He didn't put it in those words, exactly. "Whazzit in the water, Dad?" "Wow, what kid of bird is that?" He more often put his line in the water for about ten minutes then was off. He was more into pond or river fishing than any other, with more things to explore. One day I was looking the other way when he went floating by down river. We got him rescued, only to hear his shouts a half hour later. Got stuck up in a tree -- drying off. If he caught one fish, he was done. Now he's 22. In love. With books and his honey. He says he'll go fishing again sometime. It's not a priority and likely never will be. I'll be in seventh heaven if and when it does happen. Yet, I'll never forget the time I came home from a two hour commute from the ad agency only to find him anxiously waiting for me with a bag of minnows he had found at the access. He and his mother, my wife, had gone to the access to explore and found one of those bags with the knot in it that had been shot with oxygen and was left behind by a fisher. He was about six years old. Maybe my grandkids will catch the spirit. Maybe my son will yet. Meanwhile we both ply our passions with equal zeal. He's a hell of a young man . . . and I love him whether or not he ever fishing. JGW