opened a bit, the gravelly stream bank supported sweet smelling grasses and the purple-blue flowers of wild cranesbill. And everywhere, there was the faint terpene smell of ponderosa pine and douglas fir.

We slept in. Breakfast was a lazy affair around a cheerful campfire. Days were spent exploring, photographing, throwing rocks, tying flies, and just being alive. Each evening, high above the river and twinkling like a million stars in the fading light, a throng of mayflies in nuptial dance would play out their last rites of life. As the shadows would crawl inexorably across the river to scale the eastern wall of the canyon, the tiny insects would drop to the surface in numbers beyond imagining.

I would rig two rods, and casting with one, hook a fiery rainbow or deep-fighting whitefish. Then I'd hand the rod to Jason.

"When the fish pulls, you let go of the reel," I told Jason, "and when it stops pulling, you crank.," The instructions were simple, and Jason followed them carefully. When he'd get a fish in close, I'd cast with the second rod and hook another eager fish. Then, we'd trade rods. And thus it would go for over an hour, trading rods and chattering uncontrollably in our excitement. Nancy would fish nearby and offer encouragement to Jason. When I became eager to fish, she would help Jason. He became very adept at playing fish.

It was with reluctance that we moved on. On to a camp high in the hills above Bozeman and nestled in the conifers along tiny Squaw Creek. It was another slice of the Garden. Deer came through camp and Canadian jays visited regularly to steal the pieces of bread we left on the table. And of course, there were the fish. Not large ones, but many. Every pocket contained one or two and they were always on the alert for food. On the second day at the camp, we decided to take two trout for our evening meal.

At the first pool, as I was tying on a Red Brown Nymph, I saw a fish take something just under the surface. Jason and I were well hidden by the vegetation and the high bank behind us, so I was sure the fish would continue to feed. Quickly I pulled several feet of line from the reel and prepared to cast. But then I thought, "Why not let Jason try. It would be fun to see what he does." He'd never cast before, but he had obviously developed a mental concept of getting the line out.

It's a good thing I can duck fast. His two-handed whipping motion tossed the fly somewhere, and as I tried to spot exactly where, I saw the flash of the fish. I knew it had taken the fly. Calmly I screamed, "You've got him Jason, you've got him." Responding to the cool, reassuring tone of my voice, all of Jason's training evaporated, and he hoisted on the rod with all his weight, falling back against the gravelly bank and sending the thirteen-inch rainbow high into the alders behind us.

Though I remember many fishing days from my early childhood, I can't remember the first fish I caught by myself. Maybe that's why I have such bright memories of Jason's first fish. But then again, maybe not. After all, what father has ever looked into the loving, radiant face of his child and not seen himself openly admired there? And what fly fishing father has ever shared that first fish and not felt all the years rush away, leaving him standing there naked in the emotions of his own youth? It's been said that we can never go back, but I wonder, I wonder.

Gary Borger is the author of several books on fly fishing, including his latest Presentation. He teaches biology at the University of Wisconsin/Wausau and has produced several videos on fly fishing.