By Miguel Lizarraga

Returning to the moving waters where my father first introduced me to the art of fly fishing three decades ago feels like a journey through time, each ripple on the surface a memory stirred.

What once was a simple father-son outing has now transformed into a pilgrimage of sorts, as I witness the fruits of nature’s labor. In the tranquil stream where my father patiently taught me to cast my line without snatching a tree limb above me, wild trout still spawn. 

Not fires, pollution, and other of nature’s wrath can stop these fish.  Even though graffiti and trash may still paint the picture, the trout are doing their part.  It’s time that we do ours.