I've scaled the heights of the Tetons in Wyoming, stood at the rim of the Grand Canyon in Arizona, hiked among the wild gardens of Mount Rainier, and stood before mighty glaciers in Montana & Alaska. But to me, none of these places compare to one small stretch of the muddy Colorado River in the heart of the Texas Hill Country. Here's why:

Each summer growing up, my grandfather, father, brothers and I would go back to the birthplace of my grandfather to camp and fish together. I recently had my first son, and I couldn't wait to get him out there to continue the family tradition in Bend, Tx.

However, my grandfather is now in his mid-eighties and was just given the prognosis of less than 6 months to live due to lung cancer. So I wanted to take him back there one last time. With my son. It was going to be Grandad's last time and my son Jackson's first time.

Four generations of Texans, fishing together, for the first and last time.

RIP Grandad | August 27, 1933 - May 21, 2020