While gently unhooking and returning the fish to the water after the obligatory photo—not so easy with one hand holding a wet, squirming fish and the other manipulating a digital camera—I sent my Dad a mental “thank you” for raising a girl who can handle and clean a fish. Backpacking alone for my thirtieth birthday, with my brother’s collapsible fishing rod and a handful of old lures, I caught six beautiful rainbow trout in the Flat Tops Wilderness and smiled the entire time.

There are lots of fathers who fish, innumerable dads who teach their kids their passion and skills. More who teach their sons—not often their daughters—the differences between dry and wet flies, the cadence of a cast, the fall of a line on top of the river—gently so the fish aren’t spooked from the eddy. Through fishing and camping, my Dad taught me conservation. He didn’t preach. He didn’t mention the Sierra Club, Greenpeace or The Nature Conservancy. Camping and fishing throughout Colorado when I was a child, returning to the same locations year after year, we saw the devastation to our recreation areas. Our favorite camping spot near Granby, the place where I found a bottle of strike-anywhere matches, had been clear-cut. Driving the circumference of Lake McConaughy trying to find an open boat ramp due to the low water levels and seeing the hillsides outside Horsetooth become scarred and dotted with homes, I realized our landscape was changing. I recognized the difficulty of getting away from civilization and the effect we had on our environment. Still, an uphill battle for conservation seemed just that. Wasn’t there something more tangible to apply our energy towards?

One night last fall, Dad called and mentioned he would be in Boulder for a Trout Unlimited (TU) meeting. Could I meet him, return a borrowed cooler, and stay for the meeting? I hesitated. Attend a TU meeting? Come on, Dad. Didn’t I have something else to do? Dad has always supported my interests; I could do the same. Therefore, I acquiesced. Walking into a room of men gathered in groups of twos and threes, beers in hand, telling animated stories of the latest trip, I found my Dad in one such conversation. Before attending a TU meeting, I thought Trout Unlimited was for “fishing geeks”. One of the banner ads I’ve seen online actually asks exactly that: “Fishing Geek? Join Trout Unlimited”. Can’t you imagine it? Cliff Claven types, telling their fish tales, discussing flies: caddis, mayflies, dry flies, emergers, nymphs, streamers, midges, muddlers, sculpins, zonkers, poppers. Over beers and Chex mix, they would ruminate the length of a tippet, the weight of the line, whether the trout were biting on #22 elk hair caddis. I could try to keep up with fly talk, but here were men with PhDs in fishing, speaking a foreign language. Then I listened more closely.

Not only were they discussing flies and their last trip, they were excited to be out there, anywhere—rivers, ponds, lakes, reservoirs, rain, sun, snow—as long as the rod was in their hand. I was impressed. More than that, I was envious. I backpacked and ran, but these men were able to relax, breathe fresh air, and they gave their time to a group that ensured the same joy for future generations. I usually returned from a trip with blisters, bug bites, and tales of leaking tents—character-building stories nonetheless, but not like any of these fish stories.

The chitchat ceased, we found seats in front of a projector screen. There was a father with his young son, around nine, in the front row. The boy’s feet barely touched the ground, yet the guest fascinated him. A celebrity, an expert, a guide, and author provided a slideshow and anecdotes about fishing unusual areas. He had worked the shore of the South Platte in Denver near a transient camp cleaned up by Trout Unlimited and the Denver Police Department.

Once again, my opinions were completely changed. Not only did TU preserve freshwater and natural habitats in national forests but also in urban areas I hadn’t considered as prime fishing spots. As the photos elucidated, anyone willing could catch big beautiful fish in the shadows of Elitches, Coors Field, and elsewhere in Denver. It made the stories of Dad fishing the Detroit River with Grandpa 50 years ago more believable. My brother also attends TU meetings when he’s in Boulder. He started attending after hearing Dad talk about the group and seeing their work in Michigan, where TU was founded 48 years ago.

It made me think: How many varieties of fish have I eaten? Walleye? Brook trout? Rainbow? Pike? How many freshwater fish can most people name, let alone identify? One constant in my life has been eating the fish my Dad caught and intently listening to stories of those he returned to the water. Ask my siblings about their best childhood memories and they will all answer, resoundingly, camping and fishing with Dad in our red Lund boat up and down Lake Powell over spring break, at John Martin, Lake McConaughy in Nebraska, Horsetooth, Alcova in Wyoming, Boyd Lake, Carter Lake, too many for me to remember. We still go on family camping trips—three generations from 63 to one-year-olds, and we fish and enjoy the sun and the feeling of being outside—now I realized perhaps in an area where TU members have restored and preserved what we are enjoying.

I’ve often wondered how Dad could fish for so many hours and never tire. If we weren’t catching fish, I wanted to swim or play on the beach, build mud pies, skip rocks, anything but sit, waiting. Not Dad. He would wake early, push the boat from the beach in the pre-dawn light and return to camp with another story of what was biting, on what bait, and the areas we should visit.

He’s able to have those moments again and again, sharing them with other TU members who also understand the yearning to hold a rod, watch for the fish rising, and feel the jerk on the line as a fish takes the bait. On our trips, Dad took that time for himself—away from the wife, kids, and his work cleaning up the environment, and instead enjoyed the environment. Interested as I might have been to experience the water before the speedboats and Jet Skis ruined the tranquility, to see the sun touch the glassy water with warm buttery fingers, the pull of a warm sleeping bag was stronger and kept me curled up until I could hear Dad rattling pots from wooden crates to make his famous camping breakfasts of pancakes, eggs, bacon, hot cocoa, and sometimes fish.

Sara Yellich
has a BA in English Literature from CU and a culinary degree from Culinary School of the Rockies including one month’s study in Provence. She has over 12 years of experience as a restaurant chef, food critic, and personal chef. Currently a pastry chef at Whole Foods Market Boulder, a caterer, and an instructor at CSR, Sara’s a passionate runner, telemark skier and hiker. She can be reached at 
chefsaracooks@gmail.com

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