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Art and I pulled up to the Musconetcong River deep in the heart of New Jersey’s farm country much the way we had for the past several decades. It was a sunny June morning, nothing out of the ordinary, but something did feel different. As I stepped out of the car my sense of time seemed suspended and I was acutely aware of both my mortality and the special nature of a relationship that has spanned most of my adult life. An aging Boomer and his 82 year old father-in-law repeating history yet again. We had been fishing together for close to 35 years -  he a young man in his late 40's and me the eager disciple hoping to emulate the master. Is it really possible that all those many colorful streams, exotic places, and elusive and unpredictable trout have passed behind us? Clearly, at some point in the journey we had lost control of time. It happens!  I watched as Art cautiously elevated his slim 6'6" frame from the car, measuring how to position himself on the irregular surface of terra firma. He and I then repeated a scene played out hundreds of times. I was half-dressed, waders on, shoes laced and rod selected by the time he had stretched his legs, peered into the misty morning sunlight and begun to process activity on the stream's surface. The Zen master in contemplation while "action man" raced line and leader through often reluctant rod guides. For me, the race was still part of the excitement to capture every precious minute of stream time. For Art, it was more about the judicious use of his considerable stream knowledge and the careful presentation of his body into a swiftly moving current. The trout would wait! Our collective behavior, in some amusing way. was a metaphor for how we had each been living our lives - Me a person of action and risk taking and Art a man of knowledge and quiet charisma.  Suspended in thought, I took mental notes as this proud and skilled angler moved cautiously into a stream where he had beguiled many a wary trout with his patience and casting accuracy. Never one with the latest equipment, he still fished with his 30 year old glass rod and Pfleuger Medallist reel, accompanied by a weathered fly line attached to a slightly rusty blue winged olive, whose hook reflected years of "catch and release." Staff in hand, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose, he had the look of a great blue heron peering into the current surveying his prey. My Zen master was back at work, meditating on nature's magic with a hunter's eye. The perfect sport for a man of understated strength and dignity who relished the journey and often seemed indifferent to the outcome. He fished at 82 the way he had at 43!  As he waded downstream, ceding me the most productive rock ledge pool, I wondered whether I had truly taken him in over all these years. Had I been too transfixed by the hunt, the outcome, the development of my skills or was I there with him because we both shared the essence of this transforming, but arguably, trivial pursuit? I believe actually that we were really just sharing simple joys in what has been "a long and winding road" (to quote the Beatles). We had traveled from Maryville, Tennessee to King Salmon Alaska, eaten gourmet meals in island lodges, floated through deserted canyons and watched helplessly as we were unable to unravel a particular trout's eating pattern. Usually side by side, sharing information and always bringing our distinctive styles to each unique setting. Could it get any better? A voice startled my ruminations. I could faintly hear Art calling me downstream to what appeared to be a series of sporadic rises under a canopy of trees. He wanted me to fish his pool while he switched from a sinking line to a floater. A generous gesture and  one further punctuated by his disappearance and re-emergence upstream. He wanted me in that pool. How well he knew me!  As I stood in what might have been his long shadow, I took a slow deep breath, caught the silhouette of a mallard racing downstream and focused on the gentle swirls in the pool at my front. I was indeed his disciple and I felt lucky to be sharing another memory in our travels together, I cherished our time as partners knowing that someday we would no longer fish the same stream.  Happy 85", Arthur.  Craig Written on Father's Day 6/19/05