tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6233175956319138492012-02-16T01:26:37.946-08:00laurin f parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17195099181365640137noreply@blogger.comBlogger11100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-623317595631913849.post-16077610085204009192009-11-23T15:13:00.000-08:002009-11-23T16:42:29.322-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3HMqM2n5VP8/SwsreVSJ53I/AAAAAAAAAAM/1CRnFSaskdc/s1600/rainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3HMqM2n5VP8/SwsreVSJ53I/AAAAAAAAAAM/1CRnFSaskdc/s400/rainbow.jpg" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I am a Maine native. I began fishing at age four. My earliest memories are of fishing for brook trout with rods rigged with brown twine, red dot pearl spinners, fresh dug worms from beneath wintered rows of corn, and family. I was intrigued. I still am.<br /><div><br /></div><div>My father is a fly fisherman as I am. I bought a rod at the age of nine, sat at the table, and tied with my father. The first trout on a fly. Blackwell Bog. Chest deep along side my father. Blue jeans, sneakers, fish rising. He was pleased. I was proud.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I never tire of fishing. It is the same. All conditions aside and as everything else is changing, the fishing is the same. I am thankful to have this transcendence to the richness of my youth.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/623317595631913849-1607761008520400919?l=laurinparker.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>laurin f parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17195099181365640137noreply@blogger.com0