Fathers, sons, and generational differences were, appropriately, at the forefront of our minds as my good friend Keith Seppel and I departed for Thompson Falls in the pre-morning dark for trip 45 of our mission to fish together once a month for as long as time allows us.
My father’s formative years were spent fishing the Clark Fork in Thompson Falls. The river was his childhood canvas. He spent hours in the pursuit of the giant bull trout and pike minnows that owned the river at that time, tossing thousands upon thousands of casts into the river, with each cast brushing up against that powerful human emotion – hope. When the fishing would slow or the summer sun became too oppressive, he would put down his pole and plunge into the cool waters of the Clark Fork.
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