“Never stand around with your hands in your pockets.” To this day, I follow my Dad’s advice. Be useful. Always bring something to the table. If you do a thing, do it to the best of your ability. Keep moving. That last bit wasn’t advice so much as the spirit of adventure I inherited from him.
These days, I feed my spirit by globetrotting with a fly rod, my dream since childhood. This fall I’m casting for rainbows near my home in Montana and planning trips to Belize and Kamchatka. Whether I’m stalking peacock bass in Brazil or bonefish off some South Pacific atoll, every journey reminds me how lucky I was to be raised by parents who migrate between Montana’s Big Horn River and the Upper Nushagak River in western Alaska.
It’s always hard closing camp in the fall. It’s not so much the physical work. In a day, we can dismantle the shelters, fog the outboards, beach the boats, break down the cook tent and batten down all appliances and other gear in the wooden buildings. What’s hard is the bittersweet feeling that another season on the Nushagak has come and gone. Leaving, I know, is a reality of my migratory life. So is coming back.
When she’s not wetting a line in some foreign river or ocean, Camille Egdorf calls Bozeman, Montana, home. She grew up migrating annually to her family’s fishing camp in western Alaska, a 1940s throwback consisting of framed tents around a repurposed cannery shack. No roads, no cell phones, no people other than a dozen or so anglers. Only moose, grizzlies and a gin-clear river teeming with grayling, dolly varden, rainbow trout and salmon.