My Dad, through his Daughter's Eyes When my brother and I were younger, my dad loved to plug in an episode of The Waltons as we cozied up in the evenings with a bowl of ice cream and raspberries.  My brother and I used to take turns taking cheap shots at the show however we could – calling it "The Walnuts", making cracks at John-Boy's mole, or mocking the overdone series of good nights as the show wrapped up.  My dad would laugh along with us, though it is so clear to me later in my life as to why he loved the show.  The family morals portrayed in the Waltons are those that resonated deeply with my dad.  And now, I see a deeper connection to the show myself.  The father figure of the show, John Sr., is the pillar of the family and community, who will do anything for his loved ones and whose main purpose is to see them succeed.  John Sr. is fair, has an astute work ethic, and is there for others who need help.  This was my dad. He was my rock and the rock of so many others.

I never had to question whether my dad loved us.  In our younger years we spent time camping in our little camp trailer on the Madison River.  I made mud cookies and watched him fish and sat on his lap when he tied flies in our basement.  We took weekend trips to Bridger Bowl where I learned to ski.  After my parents separated, he routinely drove across three states to spend weekends with us, and later he and Cindy relocated to be closer to my brother and I as we finished high school.  He attended our sports games and helped my brother and I buy our first vehicles (there are some good stories that go with those vehicles).  He taught us to golf, and we spent time on Coeur d'Alene lake tubing and water skiing.

I came to visit my dad during my freshman year of college with a newly pierced nose ring. When he first saw me, a look of shock came across his face and I could tell it took everything he had not to blow a gasket.  I knew very well he would disapprove of me having a nose ring.  He left the room for a few minutes and when he came back, with a great deal of effort on his part, he never said another word about it. When I was in my early 20's, I was involved in an accident in Missoula and totaled my car. I called my dad that afternoon and explained what had happened and I remember how he supported me as we talked through what had happened.  I was mildly injured, but badly rattled.  He was the last person I talked to as I went to bed that night, and the first person I saw the next morning when his truck pulled up to my apartment to help me work through it.

My dad helped me pack up my car several times, as I traveled back and forth from Missoula, West Glacier, Whitefish, Bozeman, and Jackson during college and after.  He was always there to see me off to my next destination, behind me 100% of the way. When I was 24 my dad helped me co-sign on a loan for my first drift boat, after being turned down myself by several banks for the loan.  I would venture that most fathers wouldn't be super excited to see their daughters become fly-fishing guides after watching them complete a four-year college education.  But he knew I had been offered a job guiding and had watched me thrive as a rafting guide through college.  I didn't have to ask him for help signing on a loan, he offered.  It was when I was working as a fishing guide that I met my husband, Will.  We guided fishing trips for the next 10 years and have a host of adventures and stories to show for it.

A favorite story of my dad's is a river trip we took about 10 years ago.  My brother, dad and I decided we would take an overnight float down the South Fork of the Snake River and do some fishing.  Rune flew in from Seattle, fully prepared for the weekend ahead. My dad arrived without a coat or a sleeping bag, and insisted he would be "just fine".  We managed to leave our sandwiches for two days of fishing on the counter at the local grocery market and also forgot our bag of ice.  And off we went without lunch and with a cooler full of warm beer.  The river flows dropped significantly, and the chances of catching fish dropped with it.  We floated to the established "camp" which had not been put away properly into the late season and had evidence of mice, spiders, and other critters everywhere we turned.  The grills at the camp were greasy and the coolers dirty and overturned.  We lay awake that night with the temperature dropping drastically; my dad in a rodent-used sleeping bag left at the camp and myself on the cot between he and my brother… just waiting for the bears to come and get us.  It was a ridiculous trip, and we laughed all the way off the river.

My dad's sense of humor was with him to the end.  He had nurses and family chuckling in his hospital rooms.  He was always ready to pick up the phone and have a conversation. He was there to help his friends, his neighbors, and his family at any turn and to brighten their spirits.  He helped his employees, friends and family get on their feet when they needed a hand up.  He never turned down a request for assistance from anyone who needed it.  He was our weather man for the state of Montana, Washington, Wyoming, and Idaho, watching the roads and always making sure we were all safe.

These stories are just examples of the kind of dad he was, and the kind of man he was. So, to this I say to you Papa Kim: Thank you, dad, for always being there for us.  Thank you for supporting me unconditionally, whether you agreed with my decisions or not. Thank you for showing me what work ethic looks like – you exemplified this in every way. Thank you for showing kindness to those around you without judgement, and without ever needing recognition for your actions.  Thank you for encouraging Rune and I, and for loving our spouses and families.  You will be with us in our memories wherever we turn, just as you have always been there with us.

And to everyone who is here today to celebrate my amazing dad, I hope he will live on in your hearts and memories as well.  Thank you all for being here.

With love, Greta Martinson Frohlich