Foros, Ukraine - I remember my dad taking me and my siblings fishing at an early age, maybe 6 or 7. Venturing out into the wilderness of Teton Valley, we’d drive for what seemed like forever down winding roads, through valleys, over mountain passes, until the pavement ended. The sound of gravel crunching beneath our tires was an indicator that we were almost there. Soon after, he’d pull over and we’d rush out, running about like feral children.
Following him to the creek, we’d grab the night crawlers that he’d purchased at the gas station, giggling and squirming as we slid the worms onto the hook. Whether or not we caught anything is up for debate, but I'm pretty sure we all had a good time. I don’t think I’ve fished since that age, however I still look back fondly at those times spent sitting in the grass next to a fishing hole, waiting for the bobber to disappear below the surface.
While in Ukraine, I watched this man participate in a similar ritual. There weren’t any bobbers or kids running around, but It seemed to be all the same.