Days with Grand Father

The Arrival

By

Bamboo Bill

It was a hot Florida day and I being the ripe old age of 8 was waiting for the teacher to call on me to read my essay about my favorite person. All the other kids talked about their grand parents or their parents and what they had to say was becoming redundant. Seemed like they all lived some where along the Eastern part of the country, where reality was some where between the mosquito and the soft shell crab. And humid to boot. I was bored and as I began rereading to myself my own little essay the sounds of the classroom became fainter and fainter until I was no longer there.

It was a summer day deep into August and my ears had not popped as of yet. But I didn’t care one bit. The mountain air smelled fresh, redolent with Spruce trees. A few small goose bumps began to pop up on my tan but skinny arms. There was an excitement that was creeping slowly up my spine. Grandma was driving her green Jeep and she had driven out to the airport, “almost to Kansas” as she put it, to pick me up. We talked as she drove... But no matter what subject she brought up to talk to me about I really could only think of one thing.

We reached the little town called Pine Junction and grandma pulled her Jeep into the left lane, we came to a stop light that moved slightly in the cool mountain breeze. The light turned green and off we went, down Pine Valley road. Pine valley road was my favorite road of all time. It twisted and curved like a snake and dropped fast in elevation. I could feel my ears pop and a funny little quiver occurred in my stomach. As we came around a turn, there in the middle of the road were three deer and grandma slowed to a stopped while they slowly crossed the road and then ran up the side of the mountain. They looked back toward us as we continued to drive on down into the valley. The wildness of the mountains touched me deeper each time I came out to visit my Grand Parents.

I loved going to Grandpa and grandmas house in Colorado. To me it was a different reality all together different than what I was used to in Florida. I loved where I lived but these summer vacations out West were special. As we dropped into the valley my thoughts went to trout fishing and hiking the mountain trails with my Grand father.

When we entered the little rustic village of Pine, I kept a steely eye out for 5^th street because I knew that it would take us up to grandpas house. It was a little house that was first built in 1886. I liked the little wood stove in the kitchen and often imagined grandpa and grandma playing cribbage by the wood burner during a snow storm. I could see the camper on the truck in the front yard and there he was, sitting in his canvas lawn chair with old Shadow the family dog laying beside his feet. He had on his green fishing hat and was dressed in Blue jeans and had on leather hiking boots. His mustache was the shape of a horse shoe, white as could be. He had that Western look, that cowboy look and I loved it. It was a pleasant difference from the way we all dressed in Florida, shorts, t shirts and tennis shoes. We all looked alike but grandpa looked like himself. His shirt always had two big pockets and most of the time they were used to house fly boxes that contained artificial flies he used to catch trout with.

He got up slowly and Shadow followed suite standing as well. They came over to the jeep to meet me. Shadows tail wagging out of excitement to see me. He always extended his hand and said “Howdy partner good to see another trout fisherman”. It was the same greeting that I remember him always using. Then he would pick me up and hold me over his head examing how big I had gotten. I could feel the strength in his hands. Grandma said that came from making those bamboo fishing rods. But I knew his strength came from some other place, some place deep inside of him.

That night we all took a walk along the North Fork, grand dad’s favorite trout stream. He said, it wasn’t much of a trout a stream to write home about but I know he loved it just the same. He always said “a man has to I plant his soul right in the middle of the land he loved.” I got to hold onto Shadows leash as the three of us walked along the trail that the old narrow gage train used to travel back in the 1880s. It was short walk but one that I always looked forward to. My legs got stretched during the walk and most of all I got to look at the trout stream. It held a kind of magic that at 8 years of age I could not fully describe even to myself, let alone to my classmates or even my parents. From the day that I felt that first tug on my line as a trout took my fly and then was off, I knew my life had changed. I stirred off into the distance somewhere before time itself. I had felt my first trout and my life was changed inexorably forever.

When we got home we set up the camper for a good nights sleep. Grandpa and I would be camping out in it for the week while I was staying with them. I looked forward to the evenings in the camper. Gramps would always read a book to me. They did not watch TV…he called it a Boob Tube and told me it would soften a good mind. "Better to have hobbies, interest that a boy could sink his teeth into" is what he told me. This summer he would teach me to tie my own flies.

Now and then a mountain lion would come down into the village after the deer that came into the area at night fall and grandpa would wake me up. We would lie there together listening to the drama occurring only yards from our camper. It was exciting beyond words. I could hear my own heart beating , I was alive and felt it. Life was good at 8 years of age. After all, with the sound of The North Fork tumbling down though the valley and the cool mountain air flowing though the camper how could it not be .

Note: Fictional but maybe come true someday.......

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