This one is going to be a little different. This isn’t Jason, and this isn’t Zach. If we haven’t met before, I’m John, and I’m Jason’s son. I’m a senior at Helena High School and my days spent in Helena and on the Missouri River are officially limited. If all goes according to plan, at this time next year I’ll be preparing to move to Missoula to pursue a journalism degree at U of M.

I don’t know why it’s taken over four years for my dad to ask me to contribute to Running Line. Probably because I wasn’t set in my journalism mindset until just the last few months (and also probably because I never offered). When he asked me to write a blog I got excited because writing is a passion of mine and something that I personally think I’m pretty good at. At most this is a reflection of the time I spent here and at least it’s a break for my dad.

When my parents bought this shop in December 2013, I was twelve years old. If you met me then, you might remember me as the kid who ran around the property with sticks or his BB gun and had to be reined in by his dad because it looked weird to have a little kid running around with weapons, however fake they were. For the first couple years, I wasn’t the most helpful person around. I would spend my days climbing the mountain behind the shop, exploring the creek across the street, or just sitting in our camper with my Legos.

This is a coming of age story with one of the most influential settings being a small fly shop in a town of 400 people, fewer than half of which actually live in the town proper.

Of course, my entire life wasn’t spent here. During the school year, I was up here at 7:00 a.m. on Saturdays and during the summer I’d show up for two or three random days out of the week. Wolf Creek by no means became home. But as I grew up Wolf Creek Angler remained a constant in my life.

It is important to note that fishing has never really been my thing. My dad tried from my early years to get me interested, but I never developed a love for it like he or the other people that frequent this shop had. So to me, this was never a passion like it was for dad, Fred, Zach, or the countless regulars who are here at the same time in the same room every summer.

No matter how little I cared for fishing, this shop was a part of my life and part of me tried to make the most of it and the other part of me was forced to make the most of it by my parents. My early days in the American workforce were spent working for $5 an hour, doing random odd jobs any thirteen year old kid could handle. My salary grew with my responsibilities and eventually morphed into my steadiest source of income in my first couple years of senior high (although it’s become a secondary job now, behind a local grocery store) and my spending turned from Legos to clothes and gasoline.

So one might ask, why am I writing for the job that gets the scraps of my schedule? Because this place means more than money. It’s been about spending time with my dad, which becomes increasingly more difficult as I get older. It’s been about forging relationships with the regular guests from across the country who show up year after year.

As I started being more involved in the shop, I noticed the daily meeting of guides and clients at 7:00 or 7:30 in the morning. I was fascinated with the guide culture even though I didn’t like fishing. Every time my dad told me I should be a guide, I thought about those 15 minutes that the guides spent at the shop before I thought about the fishing. He’s stopped telling me I should pursue it because he realizes I’m set in what I want to do. Call me a poser, but that early morning bustle of guides and clients intrigued me enough to want to be up here. But not enough to make me want to fish.

To wrap it up, this place was my first job but it was more than a job for me. It was a social experience that I loved but didn’t belong in. I made some real friends from other states, people that I look forward to seeing every summer. I probably annoyed a lot of the guides I talked to every morning because I couldn’t talk fishing so either didn’t or spewed nonsense. It was a way for me to hang out with my dad. I didn’t treasure it when I saw him every night, but I probably will when I’m living in a different city than him.

I’ll write a few more of these throughout this next year, until I hopefully leave for college.

Until next time,
John Orzechowski