I have a very clear idea of when my passion for fishing began. And it was all my father’s fault.
It was late May, three weeks before my ninth birthday. My father took me on a wilderness fishing and camping trip to the famed Allagash River in northern Maine. There was plenty of time for momentum to build in my young mind. Each of the previous four years my father had taken one of my older brothers on the trip, in alternating turns, as I impatiently awaited the age when I (the youngest of three sons) would be deemed old enough to join the rotation.