This was taken the last time I got to go fishing with my grandpa. He was up there in age, and camping in the Eastern Sierra had to be rearranged from tent to trailer with power for his breather at night, but that was second to finding a spot near the water where he could fish with his mobility. This was that spot, a fat bend in a river bordered with fallen trees from the beaver that called it home and right along basecamp. As the light faded and I watched my grandpa like he once watched me methodically casting and hoping the fish would hit at just the right time, it dawned on me I might want a lasting photo to take in the moment before the sun, and life, set on it. I’m grateful I did because that was regretfully the last fishing trip I ever got to spend with Gramps. Since his passing, we’ve yet to go back, but when we do we’ll have a cold one popped in his honor and to my son and the next generation of family fishing trips.