As Father’s Day approached, I was reminded of the cautionary voice of my dad, “You spend far too much effort jumping from one activity to another.”

His sage advice rarely took hold, whether because of my “neurodivergent” brain or the large number of recreational opportunities that unfold this time of year. Long days and warm weather tease my reckless spirit. I want to spend every spare moment outside, whether fishing or gathering the bounties of nature.

A recent challenge to my fishing calendar occurred this spring when a bass fishing pal had to undergo radiation treatment for prostate cancer. Six weeks later, he tells me, “Still waiting for the good cells to recover.”

Although I’ve ventured out for bass on my own, a day on the water isn’t the same without him directing me to get the net ready for his catch.

Opportunity for Chinook salmon lurked for most of May. Some mornings I woke up with springers on my mind and couldn’t shake the idea until I drove petal-to-the-metal and settled in beside other anglers on the lower Umatilla River. I can honestly say the addiction does not lessen until the season closes.

Walleye are also available in the springtime mix of angling opportunity.  On one fine day in late May, I hauled my boat to a small reservoir for “eater” size walleye. Following a successful outing, I cajoled two fly fishing pals into trolling for walleye in John Day Reservoir. They soon became bored which led to a side trip for backwater smallmouth bass and reminded me to always have a backup plan when fishing with friends who are not like-minded.

Filling in the blanks between fishing trips were searches for edible mushrooms that began in cottonwood bottomlands near our cabin and culminated with trips in the Blues at 5,000-foot elevation. With gas at $4 a gallon, the economics for driving 100 miles to gather a handful of fresh morels and corals doesn’t pencil out. However, it’s not so much the harvest that draws me to these casual strolls in the woods as the thrill of chance encounters with pileated woodpeckers, newly dropped fawns, and delicate wood orchids.

Fly fishing for early season stream trout is a seminal event I haven’t missed in six decades and hopefully counting. The main Umatilla River ran high and clear on opening day this year, with few holding areas for trout, so I hiked up a nearby tributary creek with my 4-weight fiberglass rod (a.k.a. poor man’s bamboo) and half a dozen flies in a shirt pocket. Mayflies danced over the water’s surface in sunlit openings, as if daring trout to take a chance. The bloom of red osier dogwood and floating cottonwood fluff reminded that summer was on its way.

The shaded corridor to Bear Creek afforded only an occasional peephole to blue sky.  Water from latent snowmelt gurgled and splashed as it ran over smooth stone. I cast a no. 14 Parachute Adams alongside fallen logs, bounced it off wash-tub boulders, and dabbed it between overhanging branches of alder. Working slowly and methodically up the tiny stream, I watched for a flash, a splash, or a quiver in my leader that signaled a strike.

Every cautious step took me deeper into a mindset my older brother, Daran, termed the “unconscious competent,” where learned repetition takes over and every fly is placed exactly where you plan. I couldn’t help wonder: how much longer can I crawl over giant boulders, do the limbo under fallen logs, and squeeze through narrow corridors crowded by the exposed roots of majestic fir trees?

After hooking and releasing a dozen or so trout — none larger than six inches — I came to a bathtub size pool. Chilled from a welcome nature boy dip, I sat on a flat-topped boulder and dried off with my t-shirt. Once again, Dad’s words came back. This time to reinforce my love for small streams, “Focus on activities that provide you the most pleasure.”

No doubt my life was simpler when springtime pursuits were limited solely to stream trout. Before bass, walleye, salmon, and mushroom hunting found a place on my angling docket. Choices won’t be any easier next month. When American shad and sockeye migrate up the Columbia River and summer insect hatches bring more trout the fly. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dennis Dauble is a retired fishery scientist, outdoor writer, presenter and educator who lives in Richland, Washington. He is the author of five award-winning books about fish and fishing. His book, “A Rustic Cabin,” chronicles 19 years of cabin life in the Umatilla River canyon. His website is DennisDaubleBooks.com.