I guess I have been a little remiss in keeping up with the goings on in our lives, so I would like to update everyone with the last event in our lives. Actually, this is kind of a one-sided entry, because it involves Erik and a son and son in law. From the time I can nearly remember, my Grandpa Gardner would come to Utah and pick up my brother and me to take us with him on a fishing trip to Star Valley, Wyoming. As a youngster this was the highlight of my summer because it was nearly
the only time I would ever get to go fishing. I never knew the
impact those trips would have on my later life. After nearly a 20-year hiatus following the death of my grandfather, My son Steve asked me to take him to Star Valley to go fishing upon graduation from High School. That was 6 years ago and we have begun to re-establish that tradition. As far as I know, my family now has been fishing the rivers of Star Valley for six generations. The fishing is usually pretty good, but even when it isn't the memories generated as a result make it a worthwhile experience. I look forward to the day when I can repeat the experience with my grandchildren and let them walk the banks of the Salt River, Snake River and Grey's river.I
close this entry with a few pictures of our recent trip and a quote from author Norman McLean
who wrote one of my favorite books/movies, "A River Runs Through It." It describes the way I feel about this experience
Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.
Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. 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 the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.
