I will always remember my fishing trips with Grampa. We'd get up super early and make bologna sandwiches and gather our gear as Grampa drank his coffee. To this day the smell of morning coffee brewing before dawn takes me back to memories of Grampa's house.

We'd drive to the mountains and park by the logging road and hike into our secret spot on the river. The drive would be spent laughing and bragging about how many trout we were going to land and how big they were going to be.

Hiking through the woods we'd marvel at how it had grown over since the last time we'd been there, thankful that no one had been there to catch all of our fish. We both knew that even if we didn't get a single bite the whole day it wouldn't matter. It was about the bonding and sense of adventure.

As the sound of the river grew louder our eagerness would mount and we would quicken our pace, ignoring the brambles that snagged us and the buzzing bugs that bit and bothered until finally we reached the bank and saw the river churn and splash.

I'd kick off my sneakers and Grampa would set out our gear and prepare the rods as I would make my way down the bank to test the water with my toes. I would slip on the moss and slide down on my fanny and Grampa would stand, hands on hips, head back just laughing and laughing.

Then I'd throw him to the ground, kneel on his throat and grab a handful of his white hair.

"Laugh again, old man, I double fucking dare you to laugh again...BITCH!!"