I didn’t hesitate for a second when the call came in. “Ty, it turns out Larry is unable to go to Wyoming next week to fish the North Platte. Can you fill the empty spot in a boat?” My father barely finished his sentence when my resounding reply of “yes” went out through the magic of cell phone towers.

Above all things, I am a trout angler. I was raised with a fishing rod in my hand. From my earliest memories, I’ve been stalking trout with my father. He taught me everything I know about reading trout water and being patient. As a teen, when fathers and sons sometimes lose common ground, my father and I would reconnect by fishing together. There were no conflicts on the river, just an opportunity to forge a life-long friendship.

As autumn arrives and the air becomes crisp and leaves are changing, I’m reminded that life too has its seasons. For my father and me, it’s autumn and the inevitable cold, dark winter approaches, whether we want it to or not. My “yes” response to going on the trip had little to do with healthy rainbows on dry flies. Truthfully, I just wanted to fish with my dad. Neither of us seems to do this often enough. The miles between our homes and busy schedules get in the way.

My father is fairly new to the sport of fly fishing, despite his many years on the river. Put an ultra-light spinning rod in his hands with a Thomas lure and he’s deadly. But, for him to put a #18 Adams on a rising trout’s nose in the Wyoming wind, well, that’s a challenge for any fly angler.

As we drifted along past golden cottonwoods and deep cut banks, I was as intent on watching my fly as I was watching dad’s strike indicator out of the corner of my eye. He would occasionally drift off in thought while gazing at the wonder around us and miss the subtle take of a fish below. Of course, our guide and I would both shout out, “Hit it,” and “Hey!” or another alerting word to signal dad to set the hook. I’m sure he got tired of me reminding him, “Just a little pause in that back cast dad, there you go”.

I’m not a father, therefore, I do not know the joy of seeing my own son connect on his first T-ball, go on his first date nor net his first really big trout. But, the joy and pride I felt each time my father presented a fly well with a good drift that resulted in a big trout is surely what my father felt on a creek in the Colorado high country some forty years ago. Just like the changing seasons, our life roles have changed too. I was once his student, now he is mine.

Rivers do far more than deliver water downstream. For my father and me, a river strengthens our friendship and preserves our love for one another. And for this, I am eternally grateful.

Ty Churchwell is a Backcountry Coordinator for TU's SCP and is based out of Durango, Colorado.