Published: Saturday, Jun. 16, 2007 / Updated: Saturday, Jun. 16, 2007 11:56 PM

Reminiscing about Father's Day

As most of you read this column, I will be on the road to North Carolina's Great Smoky Mountains, the place where I grew up. I intend to get in some fishing, hike the hills of my highland homeland, and enjoy the special appeal of comfortable temperatures which are standard June fare. Mostly though, the journey will be to spend some time with my father.

Dad has lived by himself since Mom died seven years ago, and at the age of 97 he welcomes company and someone to help with things like meal preparation, house cleaning, and chores in the yard and garden. We even have a friendly competition going in regard to the proper way to raise tomatoes. Never mind the fact that, as I planted some under his supervision (his way) and others my way, I have well over 40 years of experience as a serious gardener. That can't hold a candle to his experience, and if his tomatoes do better than mine (as they probably will, thanks to lots of extra attention), he'll be sure to remind me.

In the days and weeks to come, we will also talk about a lot of shared interests, and those focusing on outdoor experiences will be well to the forefront.

With that in mind, and given the fact that this is Father's Day, it seems appropriate to look back and tender overdue thanks for all sorts of gifts Dad provided in my evolution as a sportsman. What follows is but a partial list, at best, but it will provide some indication of one undeniable fact -- like my favorite outdoor writer, Robert Ruark, said in his Author's Note to his delightful book, "The Old Man and the Boy," I had a real fine time as a kid. Here are some reasons why.

• At the tender age of six I received my first fly rod, a hand-me-down South Bend 7 1/2-footer made of Tonkin cane, and I've been an avid fan of the long rod and whistling line ever since.

• Dad introduced me to the joys of fishing for trout, and thanks to that I have been privileged to live a life filled with marvelously misspent hours on pristine streams all over the world.

• Dad (and Mom) had enough common sense, and no small degree of faith, to let me explore and enjoy the wilds of the mountains from a quite tender age. That involved such things as days spent on the bank of the river which ran through town waiting for a bobber to bounce, joining other boys on backcountry camping trips, hitting the woods by myself in fall and winter to hunt small game, and much more.

• Even though he was busy and our family was anything but affluent, Dad always found time to include me in his hunting and fishing trips, and he saw to it that special times, mostly Christmas and my birthday, brought the key tools for hunting and fishing. There was the afore-mentioned fly rod, my first shotgun (a little single-shot 20 gauge Savage Model 220A which I still own), a full box of shotgun shells every Christmas, willingness to overlook recurrent raids on the fly boxes in his fishing vest, and especially, the priceless gift of patience.

• That patience took many forms. It included letting me tag along on trout fishing trips when my age and size unquestionably limited Dad's mobility. It involved squirrel hunting trips where my inability to keep perfectly still and quiet unquestionably was the salvation of many a bushytail. Nor should his tireless tutelage on such things as how to handle and train rabbit dogs, how to locate a rabbit in its bed, how to tie essential fly-fishing knots, and much more be forgotten.

• When I was old enough to venture out on my own, there was an incredible degree of understanding in terms of his recognition of just how much I cherished all aspects of the outdoor experience. Whether it involved fishing for trout, solitary still-hunting sessions for squirrels, or just a long walk in the spring woods, Dad intuitively knew that the world of nature was one which held me entranced and enthralled.

• That recognition gave me free rein (admittedly with plenty of guidance ranging from gentle to quite stern) to develop into an individual who has always loved all aspects of the outdoor experience. Neither of us could have possibly known it during my adolescence, but Dad's careful mentoring, his willingness to share his own love of outdoor sports, and his knowledge of the natural world shaped the way I now earn my livelihood.

• I also must give a literary nod in his direction for any ability I may have as a teller of tales. Dad was always a fine storyteller, and was his father, and even today, with his 98th birthday less than two months distant, he delights in calling back yesteryear in the form of memorable hunts, treasured canine companions, humorous moments afield, and magic hours astream.

My abilities as a wordsmith fall far short of being able to express proper appreciation to Dad, but I am eternally grateful to him and can only hope that many of you among my readers have been similarly blessed with memories of outdoor experiences with their fathers.

As Archibald Rutledge wrote: "It is my fixed conviction that if a parent can give his children a passionate and wholesome devotion to the outdoors, the fact that he cannot leave them a fortune does not really matter so much."

Dad has given me a fortune. It is just one which is measured in the form of countless joyful outdoor experiences rather than as a bank account or bottom line. That's riches beyond compare.