There’s a picture that hangs up in my house. It’s the only photo of another person that hangs on the walls that isn’t a family member.

It’s a man in a red canoe on a perfectly calm winter day on Lake McDonald. There’s not a hint of  breeze and the lake is glass. It’s the sort of day you get maybe two, three times on the lake in a typical winter.

The man was fishing for lake trout. I know this because that’s what this man did in the winter on Lake McDonald — he fished for lake trout. You can’t even take that sort of picture anymore. The Park Service has banned watercraft on the lake in the winter.

But he usually fished on the ice. I once took his picture out there on a miserable day, standing on the ice, dead lake trout next to his feet and a big grin on his face.

He was a master fisherman. They say that 5% of the fishermen catch 95% of the fish and that is most certainly true.

He knew how to catch them. Big ones. Once in awhile he’s bring one by the office, massive fish, usually more than 3 feet long, their bellies sagging with cutthroat trout.

He almost died trying to catch big fish. Was out there one winter day on questionable ice and the ice cracked into a big chunk, and tipped him into the lake.

He went for a swim, but managed to haul himself back out onto the ice and got back to shore in one piece. After something like, you might think a fisherman would hang it up after that. He was no spring chicken when it happened.

But once the ice firmed up, he was right back out there.

When there wasn’t ice on lakes another favorite pastime was to drive the Sun Road, set up a spotting scope on a favorite turn out and look for grizzlies above (and below) the road.

He was good at spotting them and on more than a few occasions he’d regal me with tales of the number of grizzlies he spotted.

Most of this was back in the old days, when we’d have a cold front blow through in September and drop some snow in the high country. That would clear out the tourists and then we’d get a few weeks of Indian summer and the Glacier Park was pretty much empty, save for a few regulars.

You could drive the Sun Road back then and actually run into people you knew.

And lastly, you could count on him in the balcony at Wildcat basketball games, both girls and boys, his white hat on.

He always had a smile, particularly if the game was going our way.

His name, was Mel Flansaas. He died Jan. 3 at the age of 82.

So when I look over Lake McDonald from now into the future, the view will always be beautiful, but I must admit, it will never be the same.