Staring out at a quiet, unusually empty street, on this snowy Christmas day, I’m struck with how I got here. Sipping bourbon and pondering life often makes me nostalgic. But tonight it’s not so much the life choices I made that are on my mind. It’s the adventures I’ve had to this point. Most of which occurred before my almost two year old arrived. It’s funny how the details of life, graduating, getting my license, my twenty-first birthday, can all be fuzzy but the minute details of adventure can be recalled in an instant. My first fish on a fly rod, knee deep in a Northern New Hampshire brook watching a small brook trout sip a well worn Parachute Adams; heck just about every fish I ever caught, is a distinct and vivid memory.
I can visualize the exact route to Ruby Point and recall the feeling of unmitigated rapture when my wife and I stepped out of the truck and were standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon. Completely alone. Nothing but the sound of Cliff Swallows to break the silence. My adventures have always been important to me. Sharing those adventures with my wife, Kayla, has always been important to me. And now, more than ever, sharing those adventures with our daughter is important to me. It’s my adventures, my interactions with the natural world that have shaped who I am as a man, as a husband and hopefully as a father. It’s not always easy to get out. But it’s always worth it.