You laid on your stomach about a foot from the creek as I fished. I showed you this trout, caught on this fly, with this odd 7’6” stick. But what truly amused you was an odd pine needle that had dropped a few inches from your face about three minutes ago. What is it? Why was it here now? What would it taste like?

You were four months old; only a drop of the time you get to spend on this earth, in these forests, along this creek. But you have spent many days of your first summer smelling these pines, hearing the birds sing out across the bubbling eddies that you understood much better than the first time you heard me whisper I love you on the recliner during one of the many late nights you kept us up.

But, as the same with your brother, I want you to understand the backcountry more than the roads and streets and noise and horrible traffic that our small town has been plagued with now for years.

Does this mean I never want you to run from this small, podunk town one day? Absolutely not.

Your mother and I lived in a large city for a decade before we decided to come back home, and they were the best years of our lives so far. But there is a difference between being raised within city lines or rural lines. Many pros and cons to either, but a rural-raised person is more likely to sleep soundly when there is no sound outside their window. They can be more humble, more caring, more in tune with life outside of tram cars, businesses and people around you constantly.

Yet, of course, this is all with how you are raised by your parents and your surroundings.

People in a city have an easier time accepting others. People in a city have the pleasure of having more unique food options, park programs, a good night life (you have a little over 20 years before you have to worry about that one, missy), and more opportunities for a career that does not exist in a rural setting.

But what they don’t have is a slow day and the access to the outdoors that we have up here.

The film of the water breaks and my fly is out of my sight. I set the hook, my rod bends and the fish races down the creek. You begin to cry, and I turn my head to look at you. You have rolled yourself off of the soft blanket you rested on and are now laying with your back on the rocks. I rush over to you, holding the rod up to try and keep the fish from racing further down, and pick you up. You are clearly upset as I pick pebbles, worn smooth from years and years in this creek bed, off your clothes and I run down the shore with you in one arm, my rod high in the other, and my net handle clenched tightly under my chin. I looked like a court’s best fool as I hobbled my way over and switched the positions of the net and the rod, bending down while making sure your body stays in a somewhat reasonable position, and netting the trout.

It wasn’t a large rainbow, eight-inches with parr marks that will be gone by next year.

I removed the fly and held it up for you to see through your tears. A babble, a straight face, and then your signature pout came out. I let the trout go, sat down against the trunk of a large redcedar and set up my stove for coffee and I stood you up in my lap. It was the one sure thing to cheer you up: you love to stand on your chubby little legs.

Marching you around while the water boiled, a crow landed on a tree across the creek from us and sang us its grating song of caw-caw-caw. Not the most danceable of tunes, but we make it work. Your little, chubby legs shook as your bare feet form over the stones of our outdoor ballroom; slow figure eights of our first father and daughter dance. Over my shoulder I saw the coffee boil over and I laid you down as I finished the ritual.

A half-filled, lukewarm bottle of mother’s milk for you, and rich brown liquid from the kuksa for me. Your eyes are fixated on me as I watch the creek for both of us. You don’t understand about the creek this early in your life, but one day you will be watching it with me. One day you will understand why the trout poke their noses through the water right outside the current. One day you will understand the difference between a trout sipping at the water’s film or leaping out of the water for its meal. One day you will understand why your father sits at these creeks; why he wishes he could stay near one until the end of time.

At least I hope so.

Tight lines out there, friends.