My joy became more full when I realized my husband loves to fish. This may sound funny, but I worried when I was younger, what if my future spouse doesn't enjoy the outdoors or fishing like my family does? What does fishing have to do with anything on this blog? Well, I guess that I look at it like a simple, yet sometimes complex, form of art.
We normally fly fish, but on this particular day, we were feeling a bit lazy and wanted to do some fun catch and release with a worm. 
When fishing, I often reflect on what has become one of my all-time favorite books, "A River Runs Through It." I remember reading it in high school and not really understanding it, but after more recent experiences in my life, including the loss of my grandmother who we always fished with, it now resonates deeply.
Two favorite quotes from it are:
“Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete understanding.”
Any my favorite quote that reminds me of the many summers I spent fishing with all my family and late grandmother: "Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters."- Norman Maclean
Fishing has been in our family blood for a long time; my great-great grandparents livelyhood depended on the amount of trout they could catch seasonally and salt and store through winter. Dad taught mom, who eventually did some guiding in Jackson Hole. For my past 24 summers, our family has bonded over fishing in pretty remote places in Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming. Even as babies, mom would strap us on her front and fish the willow-lined rivers as the older-siblings played and napped in a miniature makeshift tent on the rocks. Trout have beautiful coloring, and us children loved identifying them by their colors; Rainbow, Brookie, Cutthroat, Brown. We learned about the importance of catch and release, how to clean our own fish, and that my grandma (the primary trout eater) liked them pan-fried with lemon over a fire. At BYU, some teammates of mine would laugh as I pulled my large fly box and waders out of my locker after practice so I could take off to fly fishing class along the Provo river and learn to tie flies. I still know so little, but am grateful that a love for fishing allows me to spend time with family.
A few weeks ago, we were able to enjoy a beautiful evening fishing together. It was one of those memories you hope to always have frozen in your mind: laughing and tromping through the tall grass with my mom and husband, the pale evening light and smell of the cottonwood trees, shimmering of gently swaying yellow trees, and the sound of the water.
We normally fly fish, but on this particular day, we were feeling a bit lazy and wanted to do some fun catch and release with a worm. 
When fishing, I often reflect on what has become one of my all-time favorite books, "A River Runs Through It." I remember reading it in high school and not really understanding it, but after more recent experiences in my life, including the loss of my grandmother who we always fished with, it now resonates deeply.Two favorite quotes from it are:
“Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete understanding.”
Any my favorite quote that reminds me of the many summers I spent fishing with all my family and late grandmother: "Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters."- Norman Maclean
My grandma, at almost 80 years old, managed to fully sheetrock and build this library in her home so that she could use the opposite side as a pantry. When she passed, we found tons of tools in the back of her truck as well as wire cutters, saws, post hole diggers, etc. Naturally, during her last hour on this earth before she passed away, she built a knife rack. I feel like it's a family legacy of hard work, but I have so much to learn! I love to build, but sometimes I don't have the best attention span when I'm working in new territory.
