I got my first digital camera in August 2002, in all the years I've held a camera in my hand, my Pappy Steve would never allow me to photograph him. But this day would be different, as we sat at that kitchen table with a stack of photos from a recent fishing trip. I slowly began taking pictures. As he flipped through the pictures of me holding big fat Kokanee Salmon, and some nice brown trout, a smile spread across his face. Pap Pap didn’t smile much, but I captured it. I reminded him of a memorable time when I was quite young and we were picking fishing poles for our trip to Dunlap creek. “You can have any pole you want,” he said. I pointed to a long bamboo rod that was hung near the rafters "I want that one" Pappy Steve said “Nope, that's a Fly fishing rod fly fishing is for grown ups.” So I settled blue spinning rod and with our coffee can full of dirt and we went fishing.

Smells are another part of our memory and when you can incorporate that into the moment strong waves of emotion come flooding back so that you can even remember the taste of food or perhaps the color of carpet. Pap Pap loved his chewing tobacco, his “buggo”, Mail Pouch and Skoal with his golden brown spit cup right next to the remote control next to his blue chair. It was so gross to see it, ick! I remember his teeth, he would push his dentures out and scare us as kids and gross us out in front of our friends as we got older.

Grandpas house is full of so many memories, so much laughter, tears and the bounty of veggies from his garden. That afternoon, I asked him for a tour of the garden, a constant fixture of my youth. Pappy Steve grew zucchini as big as your arm! When I first left for college I went shopping looking for zucchini and I was shocked to learn that zucchini in the grocery store were only about 8" long and not the same diameter as a softball. I asked him to touch the tomatoes, show me the peppers, and I can hear him complaining now saying how silly this was and such a waste of my film. But as he reached over to steady himself on the piece if steel that served as guides for his crop of tomatoes, I silently disagreed. Does anything taste as much as summer as a slice of white toast with mayo and a thick slice of tomato from his garden? His Hungarian hot wax pepper were legendary, the beans, carrots, onion, garlic, and kohlrabi (which I’ve never even seen in the store) his spicy radishes and of course his beloved grapes all grew in abundance in his garden.

Pap also made wine. Another late summer memory of time spent with him was driving all over town harvesting grapes from the vines. I still remember the deep purple of the skins and the soft green pearlescence of the inside of the grapes. Whenever we had a cold as a kid we were given a hot toddy of Pappy Steve’s wine with a generous scoop of sugar. Worked every time as I recall, although I can't ever remember having his wine on any other occasion. I do remember going down into that red clay lined wine cellar and putting my fingers in that moist cool terra cotta earth, it made him so mad when I did that.

As Pap made us his famous tomato sandwich for lunch and he told me stories about the war, being overseas and working at a hotel in New York. He also talked of his years in the coal mine. This was particularly poignant since I had just gone deep into a mine with my dad. I was so surprised to learn that the walls and ceiling were actually white and just how far underground they go. I learned that he worked in the mine for 42 years, and only missed 10 days of work. I asked him if he still had his helmet, his eyes widen and he heads off to the basement. He reached up into the rafters, pulled down his helmet, he rinsed it off and he gave it to me. It is a brilliant yellow fiberglass helmet that had many years of scratches and dings. That helmet went back to Colorado with me and is proudly displayed on a bookshelf next to a big lump of coal that my dad gave me from his mine.

As I left that afternoon, he gave me a big hug and I thanked him for giving me the gift of love for the water, nature and the smell of soil.

Despite my best attempts, I was never able to convince him to come to Colorado so I could share my favorite trout steams and the majesty of my Rocky Mountains. So thinking I could drag him back to that very spot where it all began so many years ago on the bank of Dunlap creek, I asked him to go fishing with me every single time I visited. It never happened. He always had some silly excuse like he had to get his hair done or his waders were in the shop.

Well Pap Pap, rest in peace and whenever I am standing along a creek or river, Fly rod in hand casting out to a rising trout I’ll have you with me.