Going Fishing My father introduced me to fishing when I was a toddler most likely as respectable excuse to get out of the house for some quiet time.  I have learned over the years there are people that like to “go fishing” and then there are “Fishermen”.  My dad and his dad before him were more the “I am going fishing” type.  I think my mom and grandma had a lot to do with the timing of the fishing trips (enough said about that), but I was often rewarded by these outings.  Dad would take me down the gravel pit and we would casually sit on the bank “fishing” and pull in a bullhead or two and eventually make our way back home for supper.  We would eat, dad would recline and nap and all was well with the world. Later in life I married a “Fisherman”.  Fishing was a command performance, every moment spent on the water or bank had to be meaningful and it was a job.  Two weeks after we were married, I moved with him to Alaska, a fisherman’s paradise.  We spent the summer chasing salmon, King, Red, and Silver.  Long days were spent filling