I was 19 when I met James Warren. He was best friends with my stepfather, Jamie, and as long as I have known Jamie I have known of James Warren. Stories of his legendary character were sprinkled into conversations with Jamie for years before we ever met. When our paths finally did cross, it was on a steelheading trip I joined with my mom and Jamie. Only a couple years into my flyfishing journey, I didn’t yet know why but the idea of steelhead and spey casting was alluring to me, as was the invitation. Not many anglers would wish to suffer a rookie on such a trip. While fumbling with the added length and two-handed coordination of the spey rods, I watched in awe as James and Jamie launched beautiful loops across the river. 

With James was his elderly golden retriever, Doc. His new puppy, a wirehaired pointing Griffon named Shep, stayed home with the dog sitter. James wasn’t confident Doc would make it through the week and didn’t want to abandon this responsibility to a sitter. He’d lumber along the snowy banks behind us and, inevitably, as all retrievers seem to do, find something disgusting to eat or roll in. On our last day of fishing, Doc wandered off into the tall grass and did not return when called. After a panicked few minutes from James, certain his beloved dog had wandered off to die, Doc emerged from the brush with a ratty tennis ball in his mouth, tail wagging like a puppy again…

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