I don’t know how old grandpa was then, but I was 13. We were camped on a Big Piney gravel bar below the mouth of Hog Creek. Grandpa Dablemont taught me so much on those river trips. He was the best outdoorsman I ever knew, descended from a Frenchman who stowed away on a ship when he was about 15 years old and came to Canada because his mother insisted he become a Catholic priest. He thought it was a good reason to leave his home in the French Alps.
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