One of my earliest memories is of a fishing trip with my now deceased grandfather. I was around three years old, and I was a tornado of energy. My family was out visiting my grandparents in Roosevelt, Utah, a small town in eastern Utah where my mother was raised. There isn’t much to do in Roosevelt but we always had a wonderful time visiting my Grandma and Grandpa Frandsen. They were the most selfless people I know, they always had food ready for us when we visited, and always were interested in our lives.
My grandpa was a World War II veteran, and an avid outdoorsman. On this particular trip out to Roosevelt, I stumbled upon my grandpa’s fishing tackle box. I was so intrigued by it, I had probably never seen one before. I took the tackle box to him and he began to share what the purpose of each hook, bait, lure, and line was. I suppose he was impressed by my fascination with the fishing equipment that he decided to take me out on the lake the next day.
I don’t remember much of this fishing trip, but what I do remember has stuck with me for over 20 years. We set out early the next morning, we took my grandpa’s little motor boat out to Starvation Lake. I remember my grandpa teaching me how to use a rod, and giving me pieces of advice simple enough that a 3 year old could grasp. We caught a bunch of fish and I immediately fell in love with the sport.
Every time I fish, I think of this experience with my grandpa and feel connected with him even though it has been close to 10 years since he passed away. The tiny little seed that he planted took root and grew into a blossoming tree of passion.