Photo by Tina Huffman

Brook Trout and Aspens of September

By

Bamboo Bill

The fall equinox is only a few days away. But I have noticed that the lush green growth around the North Fork is fading away leaving the longer grain grasses moving into the longer wave lengths of the light spectrum weeks ago. Orin is back in the sky sitting there over the mountains south of my house. The North Fork takes on the shape of a really nice trout stream this time of year as all the Rocky mountain trout streams do. . Rocks start appearing in the middle of the stream now that the water level has dropped. I imagine them as monoliths left here by some alien space travelers that landed here thousands of years ago. I suppose fly fishermen now and then, let their imagination run wild. It’s some of these natural changes that make me realize that the earth is tilting away from the sun ever so slowly. The shadows are getting longer and the solar panel that I use to power up some intriguing electronic experiments needs to be readjusted and thus tilted more toward the horizon. I have two barometers that I glance at every morning. I’ll keep a steady eye on them from here on out. I have gotten pretty good at estimating when a good size snow storm will move into the area just by consulting the little device that has been around for many years now. Now that I think about it…I started tapping a barometer when I was just a kid and did it every morning.

It is a time where winter could blow up any time. I have two cords of wood ordered that should arrive any day now and I’ll rest a bit easier when it finally comes. Oddly enough most of my wood gets delivered right before a snow storm and I have to be stacking it at a rate that seems hurried. At my age…I can still move fast but prefer the more deliberate rhythms of movement. I guess a fisherman who is into bamboo rods would naturally move a little slower.

The Aspens are beginning to change in the high country and I start thinking about Brook Trout. There is something poetic about driving up on a high mountain pass during the last two weekends of September and looking at the Aspens which have turned into rich yellow and amber colors. I always carry a small cane fly rod with me and fish one of the small creeks in hopes that I catch a few Brookies. They are in their full colors also. I feel better knowing that they are there. These trout are small and fit nicely in the palm of your hand. Most of the people up on the pass could care less about catching them…they are too small. But I fish for them out of personal tradition. They rest against my mind the way the barometer does this time of year where change is possibly right around the next bend. Their beautiful colors with the red and blue spots stand out. In my mind they are happy fish. I hold one of these trout in my hand and then gaze out into the vast space and see the Golden Aspens shimmering and I know that I have been granted another moment in my life that I will savor throughout the winter months that surely lay ahead. Another hedge to fall back onto when I feel the darkness of winter surround me.

In Search Of Starlight Creek

A work of Fiction – Another Rick Jason story

By

Bamboo Bill

It had been a hot August night and Rick sat outside with one of his best friends and old time fishing companion. This took place in a small dieing town in Eastern Colorado and they talked a long while. Rick had made his friend a Bamboo Rod and had spent the better part of a month out at his friends place making the rod. The rod was done and it was time for Rick to travel on. With 500 bucks to his name, thanks to a friend back east who wired him the money Rick was to set out for the East Coast the very next morning.

So the next morning Rick set out with his little popup camper and what rod making tools he owned and some bamboo in search of a new life that would also have Smoky Mountain trout laced in. The West had been kind to Rick but like most people he had taken his my share of punches and felt that a change in geography would be good. You could say he was an Angler at lose ends. In a small envelope on his dash was 100 bucks that his friend had slipped into the truck the night before. As he drove away a tear came to his eye and then a smile wiped across his face.

He was lonely in a way he could not pin down and had been that way most of my life. There was one guy who seemed to touch his heart and soul and that was a writer who wrote a few books that had fly fishing in them. All the loved ones in his life had moved on and he felt alone especially after old man Wong had died. This writer spoke to these issues in a way that made him realize there were others like him. Only his books helped with the pain of life. He and Rick suffered the same malady. They were both addicted to fast mountain streams, mountains and trout. The both loved bamboo fly rods.

So Rick drove out of eastern Colorado and dropped down into Oklahoma and from there he wondered into North Western Arkansas and felt the immediate press of the Boston Mountains. He was in no hurry to make it back East, in fact he was attempting to discover the mystical creek that Harry had written about; its name was Starlight Creek. Perhaps if he found Starlight Creek his pain would be would ease a bit. He wanted to get as close to Harry as he could. He wanted to fish the mystical creek. Maybe his ghost might pay him a visit…anything was possible. Though none of those possibilities seemed likely but there was always hope.

He pulled into Harrison and stopped by a little café for a cup of coffee. He started asking a few questions about Harry and the lady who brought him coffee over to his table came back when she had time and sat down at the table. She brought two pieces of lemon pie over, one for her and one for Rick. She said, “Ain’t nothing like good old fashioned Limon pie for a traveling pilgrim”. She had been to Colorado when she was younger so naturally she wanted to talk about Colorado. She said, “So you want to know about that writer, Middleton and Rick said, “yep I kind of do, you know anything about him?” She said she had a pretty young pretty that was his distant cousin that was a waitress down at a bed and breakfast not to far from the café’. After they had small talk that centered on the little town of Harrison and when they finished their pie she walked behind the counter and called the girl. She came back and said her girl friend would meet Rick at the such and such bar at 10pm that night. The waitress asked Rick if he wanted to pull his truck up in her yard for the night. Rick said, “Sure” and she said, “we will be having spaghetti and Rick was invited for supper. Her husband would love to see one of my fishing poles”.

Rick wondered around town and asked some questions. No one seemed to know who he was asking about and none of them had read any of his books. Around 6pm he wondered into a bar for a beer and had an interesting chat with a real old timer. He was about 80 years old as far as Rick estimated. Seems the old man had read the book. He said that Rick needed to drive down into Marble Falls and poke around down there. He had said he personally new the developer of the theme park down in Marble Falls area back in those days. The old man mentioned his name and said he actually spends his summers in Colorado these days. Had Rick heard of him? Rick said “no”. The old man mentioned in a stoic tone that people don’t want to remember Dog Patch because too many people lost their shirts on that deal. He said you might find the creek and drew a little map that showed some little ponds near the creek, on the property that the theme park had existed on years ago. Rick bought him another round of drinks said thanks to the old man and headed back to the waitress’s house and had dinner with them. Then after a delightful dinner he headed over to the bar to meet the girl who was the cousin of the dead writer.

She was red headed and would be wearing a blue gean skirt with a red blouse. Rick walked through the door and wondered over to the bar and asked the bar tender if she was around. He got a big smile on his face and point over in the back corner of the bar. She was sitting at a table all by herself and she waved and Rick walked over. She stood up and shook his hand. Her hand was warm to the touch and she had a confident grip. She had green eyes and was a good looking lady maybe about 30 he would guess. She was too young for him or was she? She was drinking a scotch so he bought her another and ordered a beer for himself. The story she told was interesting. Seems, she had been at a few family get togethers and Harry had been there. She said he was a quite guy and nobody talked much about his book. “The Earth Was Enough” wasn’t that the title. She said she had it in her purse. She pulled it out and handed it to me. Harry had signed the book for her. Rick thumbed through it hoping to see another clue. She said that Harry’s aunt was at the family get togethers. The aunt mentioned that Harry had given one of his books to his grand father. He had hand written a note that said something like, “Grand dad you would have liked these guys”…That was one of the first major clues Rick had to go on. She said, “There was an older guy, some guide from down near the White river who came up to Harrison with his wife and stayed at the bed and breakfast. She said he had been a guide for Harry and had asked some questions too. Seemed he wanted one of Harry’s books sense he had guided Harry a few times. She rode down to Marble Falls and snipped around. She said people just did not know much so she ended her search. Not being a fisherman she said her interest was possibly to light. She was impressed that I would travel so far. They spent the rest of the evening dancing and they rode down to marble falls the next morning. They ended up sneaking into the old dilapidated Dog Patch theme park and even caught a few trout in a pond there. The creek that ran through the valley was probably the mystical creek. Rick located a spot that was cold enough for trout but not to impressive. They drove back to Harrison and she left Rick a hand written note with instructions not to read it until he was down on the Buffalo River where he had planed to go next. She gave him a big hug and kisses that left Rick a bit dizzy. Her last comments were, “sometimes the truth doesn’t set you free if you won’t make an effort to let it... Perhaps Starlight Creek exist in many places. Therefore it might just be a place that you hold close to your heart even if you never actually go there”

Rick looked in his side mirror and saw an old Chevy pickup following him as he drove out of Harrison. He had seen the same pickup off in the distance when he and the girl were snooping around Dog Patch down at Marble Falls.

When he arrived at the Buffalo River he pulled off the rode and sipped on a cold Root Beer and reached for the envelope containing the note the girl had left for him. It said:

Dear Rick,

I hope this information helps you in your search. I only hope it doesn’t ruin your love for the stories in the book The Earth Is Enough. As far as I know what I’m going to tell you is true. Harry’s grandfathers name was Travis Jones. He was not hunting or fishing type of person and he never owned a ranch. In fact he Harry had spent some summers with him. Travis was a highly religious man and I for one wonder if Harry was a bit sorry that his grand father who he loved so much did not fish or hunt etc. and probably felt a bit of pressure applied to him regarding religion. I could be wrong about this. I think that’s why the grandfather in the story basically saw life without a Personal God and therefore the Earth was enough. Also, Travis Jones out lived Harry. Remember in the book, in the last chapter Harry travels back to see the three old men’s grave. Will, Travis Jones would have been alive if that part of the story happened. Oh yes, I once asked Harry’s father if he had ever read the book The Earth Is Enough and he said “no he hadn’t”. I thought this was strange but actually I don’t think Harry had a good relationship with his father so maybe his father was ashamed of him because he did not enter the military. Who knows? If I find out more I’ll let you know. Take care my pilgrim, I already miss you.

Chapter II

Rick camped at a camp site along the Buffalo River. The next morning he hiked along the river and caught a few small sun fish. They came nicely to his spiders. The small mouth was not there. He was amazed at the beauty of the Bluffs that hung over the river. He wished he had his canoe with him. That day was an interested one and Rick had even seen a small heard of Elk and some wild pigs...

That night he had a small camp fire out side his camper. A couple from Texas came over to join him. They shared stories of Colorado trout fishing and everyone had a great time. The guy’s wife had a smile that reminded him of an old girl friend back in California. Around mid night the couple wondered back to their camp site. Rick sat there with his dog by his side poking at the coals that were still red hot.

The next to morning Rick headed up toward the White River. He had heard that the Harry’s guide was somewhere around there. Maybe just maybe Rick might run into him. If not that was ok he wanted to fish the famous White River down below Bull Shoals. As luck would have it Rick stayed and at a fish camp and the owners let him camp for free. They had great respect for his bamboo rod making skills. So he stayed two nights.

The fishing on the White River was superb in everyway a fly fisherman could ask for. Rick was able to catch a dozen Brown trout 16 inches and up over the two days. He especially enjoyed the fog that rose from the river in the morning. He had mentioned that to the owners of the camp that he was looking for a specific guide and they thought they knew who he was talking about. They said,” that would be Jack and they would call the other fish camp up river from them and ask if he had guided Harry”.

Sure enough Jack was the guide. Jack said he would meet with Rick at a local pub. Rick set off for the pub and happened to look in his side mirror and low and behold that old Chevy pickup was following him. He turned into the Pubs parking lot and noticed the truck drove on by real slow like. Rick could not get a good view of the driver. Now Rick was suspicious and knew he was being followed by someone in the truck. The whole adventure regarding Starlight Creek was beginning to look like something very interesting was going to happen. The girl up in Harrison had left her phone number and outside the bar was a phone both so he gave here a call. They had some small talk that lasted a couple of minutes and they said their goodbyes. He told her he would call her again after he spent some time up Deep Creek.

Rick walked into the bar and quickly noticed Jack the guide. He was wearing a hat with flees all around the hat band. They had a few beers and a couple of shots. When the whiskey hit, Jack told Rick that his wife had called the family when they found out Harry had died. The person that answered the phone said that everything Harry wrote was a lie and that they all hated fly fishing…then hung the phone up. Jack said, in his mind he did not think that Harry died the way everyone said. Rick asked, how do you think he died? Jack in a stoic tone of voice said, Rick leave it alone just leave it alone. Rick then asked him if he thought he knew where Starlight Creek was. Jack said, it’s my guess that it was Mill Creek and that Harry actually had made up the mystical Starlight Creek that it might be a composite of many creeks that he had had fished. Jack then got up and shook Rick’s hand. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a small bone handled bodkin and gave it to Rick as a gift. Rick looked at the small tying tool and said, “Thanks in fact thanks for everything. Jack left out the front door. Rick sat back down and ordered another beer and spent the next half hour listening to the country band that was just starting to play music. He thought to himself, wow this trip is really getting interesting. He looked at the beautiful bone handle bodkin before he put it into his shirt pocket. Rick got up and walked outside the bar and looked sky ward and saw some stars making it through.

The next morning he left the fish camp and headed for the Smoky Mountains. There was no sign of the pickup and he was relieved. He pulled up to the Deep Creek camp ground and got his outback camp permit. The old lady in the booth who gave him the outback pass said to him, you staying up there for 5 days all by your self. Rick said yep if all goes well. She said make sure you hang your food up high the bears have been coming out a lot. He asked her if she had heard of Harry Middleton. She said well yes, he was that writer who wrote such a nice book about the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. She said once she even gave him one of his outback passes. Other than that she did not know anything about him. He seemed like a quite kind of guy.

The first part of the hike was fairly easy but then Rick reached a point on the trail that one had to pull himself up a rope about five feet. Shadow wondered around and found another route, she was good at that. When Rick finally got up the rope he noticed it was tied with a slip knot so he retied it with a safer knot. He realized how lucky he was that the knot hadn’t pulled lose. He thought to himself, “You would think a backpacker or Park ranger would know how to tie a good knot”. .he shook his head and mumbled dumb f…..errs under his breath. Cussing was really one of his bad habits. One that was hard to break. He was no angel.

The second night on Deep creek took him up to about 7 miles in. He had caught some nice brown trout and had released them all. He was fishing the Lost Creek bamboo rod. It was a little 6’6” 4wt and performed perfect on the small stream. Rick was surprised about how much moss and liken existed on the rocks…it was all over the rocks and in so many beautiful colors. There was nothing like it in Colorado.

The evening came fast and Rick pulled his food up high on the cables that were provided at the primitive camp sites. He started a camp fire and heated some dehydrated food. The sound of the insects was unbelievable. The coffee pot was beginning to percolate when a voice called from the shadows. “You mind if I join you for a cup of coffee, I’m camped over there about 100 feet. If you don’t want any company I just leave you alone”. Rick stood up and said “come on in I have another cup for ya”. The older gentleman held his own cup in his hand. They shook hands.

The old man was full blooded Cherokee Indian. He fished bamboo as well and he had a look in his eye like he had some secret he was hiding and yearning to tell Rick. Rick decided to just let the conversation roll along and see where all this was leading. After a second cup of coffee the old man who by the way was in great physical condition said, “I was on your trial way back in Harrison”. One of the locals told me about you, that you had been asking lots of people questions about Harry and Starlight creek. So I thought I might just see what you were up to. I aint got nothing but time on my hands. You see I knew Harry and in fact fished with him now and then. I guess we all enjoyed his books. On the Spine of Time had some truth written into it…a few of the Characters were real people. The girl with the dog was real and the dude from New York was a real person. I fished with the both of them. The money dude was not from New York, he was from the South and had the accent to go with it. Rick now, realized that maybe some of the lose ends might just come together.

The old Indian asked Rick what he knew about Harry and Starlight Creek. Rick told him everything straight up front, thinking if he was in error the old man might take it upon himself to make the corrections. Then again…. perhaps not. Rick had nothing to lose. For all he knew he was on one hell of a Goose chase.

The old Indian went back to his camp and then reappeared with a nice bottle of moonshine. It was really smooth and he confessed that it was of his own making. The old man asked Rick if he could see his bamboo rod and Rick handed him the tube. The Indian slowly twisted the brass cap off and eased the rod out of the tube. His eyes were twinkling as he joined the tip and butt section together. He wiggled it and said, “nice rod pilgrim, the perfect rod for Deep Creek. Harry would of liked this rod. Feels like there are fish in it. Then he said the character named Wonder was real and he fished a three piece bamboo rod that was miss matched. The rod was composed of three sections from different rods. The old man took a long draw off the bottle and said, “that old rod always caught fish”. Harry had the rod in his possession and was gona have some rod maker in the North East revarnish and wrap it with new guides. But I don’t think it ever got revarnished. Harry had a few dreams that just never came true. He sighed and said, “I guess we all do for that matter”.

Rick said, “ what do you know about his personal life?” The old man said, “ not much, Harry was very secretive. Even his close friends were kept somewhat in the dark, if you get my drift. I do know that he had some rough times in his final years. He could not afford the meds he needed for his depression. I heard from the grapevine he had a friend that let him live in a cabin toward the end of his life. His family life was not good. He needed money badly so he sold all his fly rods and if my memory serves me correctly some lawyer got the rods for a steal. His family might have some of his bamboo rods. Back in those days neither of his boys were interested in Fly Fishing. He had a favorite creek that he liked to fish with a lady friend of his. I think they were just good friends not lovers. But the creek they fished together might have been Starlight Creek in Harrys heart. It might not have been a trout stream but then again it might have been. I don’t think Harry ever felt enough love or had enough time on the creeks. There are some people who claim they see his Ghost up on Hazzel creek. He said, “it might be so…but he could not say for sure”. The old man looked at Rick and said, “ perhaps it is all made up and even what I told you tonight is pure smoke and little else”. You know disinfomation can lead a guy away from the truth. Some say the government did the same thing with good honest folks that saw a UFO. He chuckled.

The moonshine might have been the cause of the aura that seemed to surround the old Indians head. But there was a glow that Rick could not help but see. The old Indian stood up and shook Ricks hand and said, “enjoy Deep Creek and keep care”. Then he walked off into the darkness.

The next morning Rick was up early and had made coffee. He walked in the direction of where the old man said he was camping. Only there was no one camping there and the ground did not look like anyone had camped there. No foot prints, no nothing. Rick felt a sense of bewilderment and walked back to his camp fire and hot coffee.

Rick fished and hiked up deep Creek the next two days and made it up to Clingmans Dome. He stuck out his thumb and a lady in a Voltswagon bus stopped and picked Rick and his dog up. She was headed back down the mountain in to Bryson and was more than glad enough to drop Rick off at the trail head to Deep Creek where Rick’s truck was parked. When they pulled to a stop at the trail head she said in a soft tone, “she had a dog once and his name was just plan “dog”. He had died about ten years ago and she missed that dog. They had hiked all over the Smoky Mountains together.

Rick walked around to the driver’s side. He shook her hand and thanked her for the ride. The old women in the volunteer shack saw Rick and hollowed for him to come over. She asked, him if he saw any bears while he was up there on Deep Creek. Rick said “no”. but the creek was beautiful beyond words and the solitude was great. She just smiled and said “come back again”. Rick walked over to his truck, Shadow jumped into the cab and they drove off down the road. He would have years to ponder all the information that he had stumbled into. But one thing was for sure, there is a Starlight Creek waiting for every fisherman and it might be just around the next bend. Such is life…it comes and goes …it comes and goes. END

Photo by Tina Huffman

To Kill or Not to Kill

By

Bamboo Bill

My mother sat me down one day and told me in no uncertain terms, “You are not poor” she said, “You will always have a roof over your head, clothes to wear and food to eat”. Somehow at 8 years of age it kind of made sense. But I still did not have a Red Rider BB gun. Our priorities change as we get older.

There was a time in my life that I was living strictly off the frog green dollars poring in from some franchises I owned and making a bamboo rod now and then. All was fine in paradise. Living the single life with some romance along the way and a lot of camping and fishing to be had seemed Idyllic. Then franchise owners realized that they could stop paying me and I could not afford to hire a lawyer to force them too. The kind of thing that can happen when you place fishing at the top of your list of things to do. So now and then I found myself out on the limb living day by day hoping for the best. I admit in a left handed kind of way it seemed normal.

I was up in the high country camping out waiting for a customer to show up and pay me the final down payment on a rod. Like a fool I had actually sent the rod to him believing he would pay me the final installment and he said meeting him at one of our favorite high country lakes would be the perfect place for him to deliver me the green backs. It seemed like a good idea. Getting paid and fly fishing up in the high country was just alright by me. The type of poetry that a fisherman finds inviting.

I had left Denver with a tank of gas in my truck and $20 in my pocket and no other funds. I drove the six hours to the lake and had to buy more gas leaving me ten bucks to my name. I had already traded some radio gear to a guy I was renting a room from down in Denver. One of the three franchisees had recently closed up in the middle of the night. I never saw that last payment. Such is life…after all I had two others that were solvent, so I wasn’t all that worried. But I should have been.

I had pretty much eaten all my rations that I kept in my camper the past couple of weeks and was down to half a loaf of bread and part of a jar of peanut butter and one can of Dinty More stew.

I arrived at the lake on time with a couple of hours left before night fall so I headed out to the lake for the evening rise. I caught a fair number of cutthroats and released them all. I kept listening for the guy I was suppose to meet…he drove and old GMC four wheel drive pickup that had a bad muffler that you could hear a half a mile off.

The sun dipped below the ridgeline with the typical summer night chill in the air so I headed back to the camper and made a pot of coffee. That night I ate the entire can of dint more stew. The next morning I ate a peanut butter sandwich and hung around the camper a little longer than I wanted. I was waiting for my friend who owed me money. He did not show so I thought I might as well fish some more. I managed to catch half dozen meaty cutthroats that were cruising the shore line. I released them all. I kept an ear out for the old GMC however I was the only one at the lake and it was deadening silent.

That night I finished off the last peanut butter and bread and still felt a little hungry. I still had coffee so not all was lost. Surely his old pickup broke down and he would drag in late in the night. He had always shown up for these outings before.

The next day I woke up and made coffee but the coffee did not fix that gut hungry feeling I had. I fished again but grew weak and headed back to the camper and slept most of the afternoon. I wondered what I was going to do if he did not show…I did not have enough money for gas to get back to Denver. It was not looking good. It is at these times in life you wished you had the companionship of a good old dog.

Late that evening he showed up looking like death worn over. He was one sad looking dude. I was one sad looking guy not to mention a hungry one when he handed me the rod I had made him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill and sheepishly handed it to me. I said, “You got any food?” With a stoic expression on his face he said nope and mentioned he had fed what he had to his dog Charlie. He told me about his girl friend taking the $500 dollars he had saved to pay me with. Seemed she had left with a good friend of his. I made a pot of coffee and we talked late into the night and played cribbage.

The next morning he took off, we shook hands and I wished him luck and told him to blow off the girl friend and not to go looking for the both of them. My friend is the type of mild mannered guy that might just pull out his 44 and blow the both of them away. Anyhow he left and I finished my cup of coffee while listening to the rumble of his truck as he disappeared down the dirt road that led up to the truck. I wondered who was in the worst predicament he or I.

I grabbed up my fly rod, headed to the lake and hooked into another nice cutthroat. Out of reflex I released him and watched him sink into the deep water out of sight. About that time I got one of those hunger pains that bend you right over. When I straightened back up I saw a nice rise about thirty feet off shore so I cast my fly out to the spot. I was into a heavy fish and he fought very hard. It was during that fight that I realized I wanted to catch this fish because I was hungry. In fact I even felt a bit guilty when I broke his neck and carried him back to the camper. It had been a long time sense I had killed an animal for food.

I cooked him in some butter and sure was glad that I had been able to catch him. This served as a reality check. After all catching and releasing trout one hundred percent of the time had removed a portion of the truth, the truth being that fishing is a blood sport. In some way catching and releasing a trout is a bit perverted but becomes a necessary behavior if you want to conserve the trout population especially in a small stream. I admit it actually feels good to watch a trout wiggle away into the dark water….odds are he will live another day. It becomes all most a religion to many fly fishermen to practice catch and release. They often look down upon the fisherman who keeps a trout. Most of them are snobs that probably have never been hungry.

However, I remember that time in my life when I was truly hungry and almost without the means to survive. I never will forget those trout that I ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Today when I see another fisherman with a few trout on a stringer it pains me for a second then I think to myself, he might be broke, just lost his job, living out of his truck and the best thing that God has to offer him at that point in his life is a few fish that will keep alive for another day with hope that things will improve over time. Without hope what else is there?

Photo by Tina Huffman

“Where it begins I can’t begin to know it”

Two Stories About Bamboo Fly Rods

By

Bamboo Bill

Bamboo rod makers know well where a rod begins. It starts somewhere in his mind and then the physical manifestation begins when his fingers touch one of his simple hand tools. He touches this bamboo thousands of times before it is tuned into a fly rod. Of course he takes notes and records information about the rod. I suppose the most intimate nuances are lost in his memory. When I die there is information about my rods that will dissolve into chaos with me. I plan it that way…because there is something about collectors of bamboo rods that I simply dislike. What it is I do not know.

I have made a fair number of rods over the past ten to twelve years. Each rod I have made, I wished was mine. So it is safe to say that these rods are like children to me. I often wonder if the owners take care of them and value them beyond the money they paid me for the rod I crafted for them. I suspect many of them don’t.

Last summer I got two phone calls from Pawn shops. One shop was down in Denver and the other in Idaho. Each call was from the owner of the shop and they wanted to know how much the rod was worth. All I could tell them is how much it would cost them to have me make them a rod. The funny thing is this. Every time I get one of those open ended questions, I think of a rod collector in Denver who owns over 500 cane rods. He would approach me now and then and say, “Bill I want you to make a rod for me”…I would say “are you going to fish it?” he would say, “Probably not, as you know I want to own one rod from every Colorado rod maker”….I would say

“Nope their for fishing”.

I can’t stand Pawn shops because I get a strange felling inside of them. I know lots of people fall on hard times and that’s why their plunder is in there. But, a hand crafted fly rod in a Pawn shop is a pretty sad statement about the realities of life. One I would prefer not to think about.

Here are the two stories, each one different and yet the sad hard realities of life are present in each one. Often some of the best of times are when we are out on the water with our favorite fishing rod.

Idaho:

The owner of the little 6’6” Lost Creek had his wife leave him for a friend. So he shows up at the Pawn shop with everything he owns and pawns the stuff. He spent a couple of hours talking to the owner about how sad he was and then left the shop with the idea that he would come back and renown his stuff again. Only he never came back. The Pawn shop owner calls me and tells me this story. It hurts because I know that this man and he was a good friend of mine, he had a heart of gold. I ask the owner if the man had brought in his Guitar and sure enough he had. I told the pawn shop owner that he was a good song writer and had even spent some time trying to make it in Nashville but left Mecca because of some corruption he had run into.

With the added information about this man the Pawn shop owner told me he would keep the Bamboo rod for himself and stow the wooden guitar away and if my friend ever showed back up he would give him the rod and guitar back. At least I felt better ecause I knew the little rod had found a home. If you go up on my web site www.bamboobillrods.com it is the rod where the moving line moves across the rod.

Denver:

A man had me make him a rod and introduced his son to me. His son was attempting to make a living as a fishing guide. Out of pure kindness I made the son a rod and gave it to him as a gift from my heart. Again it was the 6’6” Lost Creek model….I refer to it as a Guides Choice because it only has one tip and my standard models have two tips.

The owner of the Pawn Shop wanted to know the same information. I told him the same thing I told the Idaho pawn shop owner. I have no information on the young man I gave this rod to, but perhaps his life made some hard turns and his rod ended up as just another material object that was reduced to “Frog green dollars” as the Late Harry Middleton liked to define money. (I have a hand crafted letter from the young man thanking me from the bottom of his heart for the rod.)

I was left with a bad feeling. So I e mailed a friend of mine that the rod was up on E bay and he ended up buying it. I have the little rod in my possession and have revarnished it leaving the kids name on it. The new owner wanted the kids name left on it.

The little rod was fished hard and abused in my opinion but it came back to daddy and daddy has the rod looking good once again. I have decided not to give anymore rods away as gifts. People simply don’t respect what they don’t pay for. Even some of my owners don’t take care of my rods….but I can’t follow them around making sure they treat them right.

I just never know where one of my bamboo rods will end up let alone knew what fabled waters it has fished. It is probably just as well I don’t know.

This one is for : Bruce

Bacon and Eggs and back to Mr. Reliable

By

Bamboo Bill

When it comes to morning time around a camp site there are two things that I really love. One is the smell of bacon and eggs cooking in the skillet. The other is coffee brewing. These two main stays to the camping experience will always be right out front so to speak when campers think back on their mornings around the camp fire..

When I first started fly fishing the Flat Tops and back packing into Little Trappers Lake, I had the great success with a simple elk hair caddis fly. When the sun is setting and is casting a redish - golden glow upon the water the golden caddis fly simply shines like a diamond in the rough. It is lovely beyond understanding.

I enjoy simply working the fly slowly, some times twitching it and also letting it sit still. Trout think it is a caddis or sledge and slash at it which really brings total excitement to the angler. The take is aggressive almost startling and often the trout will take line off the reel when he runs. When I'm fishing, my Hardy Reel it really sings a sweet tune.

I have been fishing soft hackle wet flies pretty steady the past five years or so and therefore kind of forgot about this fly and how much fun it is to fish with. Pine Lake has been fishing pretty slow the past two weeks. Tina and I went fishing yesterday evening and had the lake to our selves a plus when the fishing is slow. I tied up some elk hair caddis patterns like the one you see in the picture and we took them along. Tina got a strike on her first cast and I had two trout on within the first 30 minutes.

The night brought back lots of memories of the time in my life when I fished this fly so often while up in the Flat Tops. Those were the days I was a starving trout bum and would camp out 30 days straight while in those mountains that I so love. Each fly I tied seemed to bring back a nice memory. Memories are all we have in the end. My bank of fishing memories is filled to the brim.

Tina and I will be fishing these caddis flies a lot this summer simply because they are so much fun. Nothing like coming back to Mr. Reliable