The Zen of It All by Bamboo Bill

 

For a year I concentrated mainly on my breathing. Did I stumble up against any talisman of knowledge? It all started one evening after meeting a Zen monk some where on the East Coast of this vast country before I was 20 years old. That meeting would change my life forever. ( for more insight read the article “Well Cast” )

After practicing and teaching the Art of Kenpo most of my life, I am left with an empty vessel not felled as much as it was, before I met this monk. I now have fun looking at the illusions of life, much as a child views his first “falling star”. Most poor souls have more of a classical view of life. Perhaps, mine, is simply looking through rose colored glasses.

Though, I take an analytical stand regarding the making of a bamboo fly rod, there is much that floats around in a sea of intuition. My fingers transmit to my mind information that my micrometer does not.

Bamboo rods ask the fly fisherman to listen, to feel its action. Because the action is slower, meaning that it is expressed during a longer time component the caster can gain much kenesetic insight into the cast. Thus accuracy is generally the byproduct of a bamboo rods nature. In time, the caster relaxes more and is less hurried in his motions. This physical manifestation actually offers the practitioner an opportunity to gain insight into the very “moment” and it seeps slowly into and deep into the “marrow” of meaning and understanding.

Consider the “tight focus “that the skillful fly fisherman automatically falls into as soon as his eye is trained on a spot on the water. This focus is so complete in some of us that, it alone frees us from the “illusions of life” that tend to keep us narrow in our thinking regarding: stewardship, love, the entire process of life and death and the highest form of art, simply “life”.

Perhaps everything I have said here is empty with no meaning just another illusion.

 

Like the handcrafted Japanese Sword, it was thought that the makers soul entered the Sword. So it is with my Bamboo Rods. When a Bamboo Rod that I make is given to another person it is the greatist gift I can give. Most Americans cannot understand the meaning of this last statement.

The Press of Mountains

 

It is important that a man finds a place, a piece of wildness that he fits into not unlike that of a soft leather jacket. If it happens to be mountains with cold mountain streams then he is sentenced to a life of total addiction. For almost 30 years I lived in the Shadow of Denver and every chance I got that would allow me to slip into the mountains west of the city and I seized it with a total hunger.

I would find myself going as far into the high country as I could. Solitude and wilderness was what I was seeking. Backbreaking hikes into high mountain alpine lakes and streams and long drives back to Denver was the price paid.   There was one problem, once back in the shadow of the city, within a couple days I longed to leave once again.

I now live in the foothills of the Rockies 40 miles south west of Shadow City. It was not by accident that I moved here. I fell in love with the streams and the mountains surrounding them. The boulders the size of small houses resting in the streams left me breathless. My addiction is just as bad as it was years ago. The thing is, I no longer have to cope with it, deny its hold on me. Everyday, I feel the press of the mountains; the starlight falls gently in the mountains as does the sunlight that dances so lightly upon the rippling cold mountain streams. So most everyday, I take a fly rod in hand with my companion my dog Shadow and spend a little time on a stream only minutes from my house. The young boy in me is liberated by doing so.

The other morning I hiked into a Falcon breeding area and enjoyed the cool mountain air as I gained elevation. The fog danced below the rocky formations that rose 500 feet above me. Shadows fell gently across the trail leaving me in the feeling “of a wonderland” a reality, another form of paradise. There are so many awaiting the mountain wonderer.

When I am alone on a trail or fishing along a cold mountain stream I am alone but never lonely. Loneliness has something to do with being around other humans that I share nothing in common with.   I like the one on one meaningful conversations  where there is focus and emotional content.

The Visit From the Old man ~ The Rick Jason Chronicles

Final Chapter

 

After a nice lunch and a long deserved nap Rick decided to take a short hike into Falcons nest area.  The long silences that are laced into the sport of fly fishing naturally have led many   fishermen to bird watching.  Over the past two days he had spotted over twenty different birds.  The black lab was out in front of Rick being the best guide he could have.  It was a nice hike that climbed about 700 feet in elevation above the North Fork.  This hike was recommended by his student as a  day hike and would be a nice way to kill a little time   while waiting for the evening fishing.  The Rock formation named the Spirals was the benchmark of the area.  There was a spot on the beginning part of the trail that rendered a nice view of the lovely North Fork below.  Rick gazed down at the mountain stream.  He could see it   was sprinkled with boulders the size of VW buses and some were even bigger.  He thought to him self the words,   “bone yard”.  This   would be a nice name for this area of the stream.  He liked to attach names to sections of streams that he fished.  Above and below the bone yard were a couple of nice runs and riffles that provided oxygen and habituate for trout.  In his mind he fished one of those   sections   of the stream. He made a mental note to actually come back to that part of the stream some time  and give it a try.

Back at the cabin Rick tied some soft hackle patterns.  They were designed as   impressionistic flys  that might trick a trout into thinking it was a caddis emerger.   He had set up his vice on the little table out on the front porch.  A black eared Abert Squirrel sat in the pine tree out front and was telling Rick an exciting story of some sort.  The lab was sound asleep beside Rick’s chair.  Occasionally she would whimper and her little feet would move, she was having another sweet dream.  If reincarnation was real, Rick thought he would like to come back as a black lab.  It was then that Rick remembered that he had actually had a dream while taking his nap after eating lunch.  It vaguely came back to him.  The old man that he had met earlier that morning was in the dream.  He was fly fishing with a bamboo rod down in the same area that Rick had fished that morning.  Then the dream stopped or perhaps Rick just could not remember it any longer.  He throat was dry  so made his way back into the cabin to grab a root beer.  He saw a dusty trail beginning from under the bed extending out into the cabin floor about three feet.  It was clear something had been pulled out from under the bed.   Rick walked over , got down on his knees and looked under the bed.  To his surprise there was a small cedar chest with a leather  handle attached to its end.  Rick reached under the bed and pulled the cedar chest out into the open room.  There were finger prints on the top of the cedar chest.  He slowly opened the chest and to his surprise he saw an entire assortment of vintage tackle.  On top of the vast assortment of tackle was a silk fly line in absolutely perfect condition.   There was a Hardy reel, an old leather   fly book that housed dozens of antique wet   flys.  As   Rick mingled through the old fly book he discovered  the old flies   were  snelled  with silk gut.  They had flamboyant wings made from duck feathers.  Most of these flies looked nothing like the natural   insects that made their home on these mountain streams.  Names like Red Ibis, Silver Doctor, and Rio Grande King came jumping out of the old fly book.  Rick had the feeling that he had stepped into a time machine.   There   was a wicker creel and inside of it was a small locked leather dairy    and a   leather  fishing log with wonderful   hand-made drawings of the cabin and near surroundings inside  it.  Each page was signed CTL and dated.  Lovely drawings  of mayflies perched on the shaft of a bamboo rod were sprinkled throughout the fishing log.  There was one page that had been burnt.  Perhaps a hot pipe or cigar had come in contact with it.

Rick spent the next few hours reading the fishing log.  The first entry was  dated  July 2, 1910 and the last entry was September 3, 1935.  There were many details of CTLs   fishing,  that included the time of day, weight of fish and the fly that successfully caught the trout in question.  It was obvious that CTL was an educated man and had a fond love for  fishing bamboo rods.  For he mentioned how his fine Leonard split cane fly rod was bent to the cork when a very large trout was on his line.  It was an important fishing rod no doubt.  Written neatly in the margin of one page were the words, bamboo is an honest material that never gives out… unlike the old fisherman that I am becoming.

Rick  realized that the rod over the door way  was the one mentioned in the old leather fishing log.  He gently removed the rod from above the door and took it outside for a better look  see.  It was a lightly flamed rod with red silk wraps.  Expertly crafted and  there were no glue lines visible along its splines. Located  above the hook keeper  the initials CTL  were written on the shaft.  Yes,  this was the rod in the log book and the tackle was CTLs   as well.  It all was making sense after all.

It was getting late and time had slipped by faster than Rick had been aware of.   If he would hurry he might be able to catch the last hour of sun light before the sun dropped below the western   ridge lines.

He put on his fly fishing shirt that housed all the tackle he would need .  He considered himself a minimalist when it came to his approach to fly fishing.  Grabbing up his cane rod  he and the black lab hurried along the game trail that led down to the stream.  A cotton tail and grouse were flushed out.  The fishing   was good in the twilight of the shallow canyon.  He managed to catch a number of nice brown trout before the sun disappeared and a slight chill rippled down through the small canyon.  Each trout sent vibrations down Ricks small cane rod into his hands and downalong his arms and each one landed in his heart.  After the last trout was caught and released Rick stood quietly and very still in the middle of the stream.  This moment was always dear to him and he felt he was standing right outside heavens gate.  The moment was filled with memories of   old man Wong and his deceased best friend.  He had been fishing for the two of them. 

When Rick got back to the cabin he made a pot of coffee and sat outside on the front porch.  Shadow was on her doggie  bed inside, keeping a watchful eye on the front door.  Rick wiped down his little bamboo fly rod removing any moisture clinging to the varnished shaft.  Rick propped his feet up on the small table and sipped his coffee.  He took in a slow breath and released it just as  slowly thus relaxing his mind.  His mind drifted back   to the bamboo rod and the cedar chest inside the cabin.  Strange that his friend never mentioned the cedar chest and all the antique tackle residing inside of it.  Surely he knew about it or did he?  Humm……

Shadow came out onto the porch and stood attentively beside Rick. She   was focused  on the small dirt road leading away from the cabin.  Rick took a long draw on the coffee cup and looked in the direction that the lab was focused on.  Perhaps a deer would emerge out of the brush and pine trees.  Watching deer was a favorite thing for Shadow to do, she  loved these creatures and so did Rick.  After the war he had stopped hunting deer.

His coffee cup was empty so he went inside to  refill it.  He could hear some one talking outside and when he went to the doorway to see what all the commotion was he was astounded to see the old man in the tweed coat petting Shadow.  The old man looked up and said, “good evening we met near the stream the other day”.  Rick smiled and said, “Sure did but you kind of disappeared into  thin air” the old man smiled a big smile,  like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar  The lab brought the old man over to Rick. Rick asked the gentleman if he wanted a cup of coffee.  He nodded his head in the affirmative and said “sure would sonny”, “nice evening isn’t it” and sat down in the other wooden chair across from Rick.  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pipe and lit it.  Rick went inside to get another cup of  coffee for this guest.

The old man was holding on to Rick’s bamboo rod eyeing it up and down.  He then looked at Rick and said, “mighty fine cane rod, are  you the maker”?  Rick smiled and said “Rick Jason rod maker at your service.”  The old man took the cup of coffee that Rick handed to him saying , “thank you”  then  placing the cup gently down next to the cane rod.

He lifted the corn cob pipe up to his lips and took a couple of long draws on it.  Then he slowly blew out a smoke ring that slowly expanded and rose directly above his head.  Rick   could see a twinkle in his eye as he said, “sonny only three things worth living for and that’s trout fishing with a cane rod, a fine corn cob pipe with fine tobacco and a good dog.  All the rest in life is just extra wrappings.”

The old man talked about fly fishing with a reverence,  like nothing Rick had ever heard or read about before.  He told Rick how he had once owned a fine Leonard fly rod, a three-piece,  9 footer.  He mentioned that he was a blood relative of Hiram Leonard himself.  He had even worked for a couple of years in his uncle’s shop before they moved it from Maine down to New York State.  He said he played a fiddle and that all the workers in the Leonard shop were musicians.  He said the early days were the best and he had fond memories from those years making rods.

The old man said, that it seemed to him that fly fishing had been reduced to a bunch of spoiled brats beating the trout with plastic rods.  That trout were a noble creature and deserved to be fished and caught on nothingbut a artificial fly and a bamboo fly rod.  Anything less just was not acceptable.  He did like the idea of catch and release but mentioned he did like to eat a trout now and then.  They talked for hours,  like long-lost brothers of the angle.  A full moon was rising over the eastern ridge of mountains.  It lit up the front porch and Rick could see the old mans face clear as a day in the moon light.  The wrinkles on his face reminded Rick of  the small streams that flowed with fits and starts  down the snowy mountains in the high country.  Those rings of smoke would just sit over top his head like some type of aura then disappear into thin air.  The aroma that attached itself to the smoke was slightly intoxicating. This gave the old man a mystical sense to his being.

The old man leaned forward in his chair and looked Rick straight in his eyes and said, “Sonny you keep making those canerods and make em with only those hand plans leave the bevellers out of the picture.  That    way your put a little more of  your soul into those rods.  They will   live forever  sonny   with a little soul attached to them.    A good rod todaywill be a good rod fifty to seventy years from now.”  Then he slowly got up from his chair and while leaning against the porch railing he loaded up his pipe and lit it.  Rick rose from his chair  out of gentlemanly respect.  The old fisherman  slowly extended his hand toward Rick and he shook his hand.   He said, “It’s been real nice chatting with another bamboo rod maker such as your self.  See you around sonny.”

The old man started walking slowly down the path, he blew out a large smoke ring and it settled directly over his head.  The moon light passingthrough it gave it had a hazy blue-green cast.  Shadow came and stood by Rick watching the old man walk down the dirt road.  Then out of thin air his image slowly weakened  and finally disappeared.  Only the smell of tobacco and a smoke ring lingered in the cool thin mountain air.

That night Rick dreamed that the old man had come into the cabin and was standing over his bed looking at him, he stared down at Rick and said, “fish the rod now and then Sony,  do it for me, old Charlie Leonard.”

The next morning upon waking Rick remembered   the dream.  He looked up over the door and the rod was gone.  He stood up shaking his head wondering   if he was really awake or was he still dreaming.  He pinched himself just for a reality check.  He walked over to the rod tube which was leaning   in the corner of the   small room.  He unscrewed   the brass cap and to his surprise the bamboo rod was inside the tube.  The cedar chest was pulled out from under the bed and the top was open.  The old fishing log was lying   on top the silk line and opened to the   last page which had been left blank. These words    were   written   on  the page, “sonny  fish the old girl now and then…fish it for Charlie”. 

The Visit from the Old man ~ The Rick Jason Chroicles

Chapter 3

     Slowly as Rick emerged from that grey area of consciousness where one slips in an out of   dreams ,  slowly he became aware of  normal reality.  The squawking   of a Stellar   Blue Jay which was standing   on the window sell near his bed brought him to full consciousness.  The dream he had of an old man fly fishing in a tweed jacket faded away into the canyons of his mind.  Shadow his black lab was sitting up right entranced by this lovely blue bird.  Rick swung his feet over the edge of the bed, his arms supporting his upper body.  The black labs tail was waggling with excitement.  Rick said, “Good morning Shadow” and she put her front paws up on top of  Ricks bent thighs and gave him a gentle kiss on his cheek.  He thought there is isn’t a better way to wake up.  A kiss from his favorite animal and the fresh cool mountain air washing over his bare torso,  he flexed his developed chest muscles and raised his arms   above his head to stretch.  Shadow barked letting him know she wanted to go outside and greet her new day.

Rick fired up the propane stove and placed  a small pot of coffee on the burner.  The sun had not hit his cabin and the wooden floor had a chill to it.  Rick walked over to the corner where the rod tubes stood.  He picked his tube up and walked over to the front door and placed it   just off the dead bolt.

Shadow was barking up a storm so he walked outside and stood on the front porch.  There,   he saw that she had tree’d a baby raccoon.   Rick called to her and she came running over to him and sat on the porch with a watchful eye on the raccoon that was now   slowly climbing down from the tree.

Rick went back into the cabin and poured his first cup of coffee,  the aroma and fresh mountain air coupled with the bird song was a heady indeed.   He cooked up some pancakes, scrambled eggs and cooked scrapple. This  gave his black  lab and him the perfect start of their fishing day together.  They ate their breakfast out on the little porch, the little table was surprisingly stable and Rick thought he would tie some soft hackle flies around noon time.  High noon was not the best time to be fishing.  Trout shy away from direct sunlight.

He gathered up his little split cane bamboo rod.  It was a 7 foot two piece rod made for a number 4 weight line.  This rod was special to Rick. It was the first of three bamboo rods he had made with his own hands.  It remained his favorite small stream rod.  He carried with him his special net, it was a bamboo net made by a noted net maker out on the west coast.  He had on a light brown fly fishing shirt that had two nice large Brest pockets.  He had all his small stream flies in this one box.  It was a Wheatly box made in England and  had been a gift from a past girlfriend who he still loved in a special way and probably always would.  Rick was what many would define as a minimalist when it came to fly fishing.  Carrying a bamboo rod, one box of flies and  no fishing  vest,  just a fishing shirt put him in a pack of his own.  He no longer had to catch-all the fish and certainly had no need to be shoulder to shoulder with his brothers of the angle.  Actually spending a day poking around a small stream casting his drys and small wet flies was all he really desired to do.  An occasional trout on his line was icing on the cake.  Never far from his thoughts while fishing were those  of his adopted father a Chinese man who had escaped the communist take over of mainland China and come to San Francisco.  When he fished;  he fished for two other men,  Wong  and his beloved son also.

Old man Wong was his Sifu San Francisco. He had introduced him to the Chinese Martial Arts and also the fine art of crafting bamboo fly rods.  Wong’s son had served on the same Delta force team with Rick during the Vietnam War.  His friend got it one night on a recon mission.  Once Rick was discharged he met Sifu   Wong. Wong  spiritually adopted Rick as his own son.   Wong son’s last request as he was dieing in Ricks arms was that Rick would go see Wong.  It was one of the best things that had ever happened to Rick meeting  Wong. 

His lab and he walked briskly down the game trail from behind the cabin, it led to the stream.  Within a few   minutes he was standing above the stream.  There was a couple of Boulders the size of houses in the middle of the stream.  Above the boulders   was a nice long riffle maybe 30 yards long.  He could see a large Hawk perched in the top of a Pine tree across from the boulders.    He and Shadow found a place to sit down and they watched the stream.  It was about 9:30am and Rick   could see a small hatch of insects above the riffle.  They continued walking down to the stream and heard a loud noise in a bush to their left. Ricks eyes were wide open and Shadow started whining.  It was big, maybe a Bear or Deer, Rick could hear the branches breaking as the large animal traveled on up  the slope of the mountain.  Then as clear as day   a large female Black bear appeared with two cubs.  Ricks heart rate was elevated and he felt totally alive.   

Rick fished the riffle slowly, fishing close at first then probing with his yellow soft hackled fly out farther with each cast.  The hatch was good enough that Rick thought a trout might start feeding.  He had cast his soft hackle fly up-stream, letting it drift down stream on the far side of the stream.  A trout took the fly with a hard hit as it swung across the current below him.  He could feel the weight of a good trout on his little split cane rod.  An old good time   feeling filled his chest and he took in a big breath and slowly exhaled the mountain air.  He felt more alive that moment thanhe had for a long time.  Within a couple of minutes Rick brought into his streamwalker net a 15 inch brown trout. Thick   in the shoulders with bright red and black spots along his sides.  This trout had that buttery brown belly that was so appealing.  He lifted the trout out of the water and the lab touched it with her nose.  Slowly he submerged the beautiful wild fish into the current the trouts head facing up-stream.  After 30 seconds or so the trout flexed his tail muscles and he swam slowly out of Ricks hands.  The fish disappeared into the dark water and became only a shadow against the light-colored gravel bottom of the stream.  There is a very special feeling that Rick gets down deep in his being when he releases a trout.  Maybe it was his way of giving life back to another creature.  If war was pure hell then fly fishing and releasing a noble trout was pure heaven.

Rick caught another trout,  a nice rainbow.  He then decided to head down to the two large boulders.  A small midge hatch was going on and there were a number of trout feeding in the foam lines created by the boulders.

He positioned him self down stream from these rising trout.  Holding his rod under his right arm he changed his fly to a small #20 Griffiths Gnat.  He put a touch of fly floatant on the little fly.  He then false cast his line away from the feeding trout until he had worked out about the right distance  of line that would be needed to cast the dry-fly above the feeding trout.   He then cast his dry-fly and terminated the cast with a parachute cast thus dropping the fly soft as cotton seed falling  on top of the water.  It drifted down on top of the trout closest to him and he picked him off.  Rick began picking off each trout that was slightly farther up the stream.  There was a large trout feeding at the top of the run and Rick did not want to cast a line over all the other fish to get to him thus scaring them off.

A Red Quill hatch broke out and Rick decided to change his fly to a Red Quill pattern.  The fly had been tied beautifully and had that crisp look to it.  A few false casts  and he put the fly right on top  the feeding lane above the large trout.  The trout took the fly aggressively and dove deep into the pool attempting get under the house size boulder.  Rick put the wood to him, turning his head. The large trout broke out into the main current and headed  down stream past Rick. Trying to capture his line and holding his rod high above his head, he watched the big fish swim down stream. Rick gave him line as the large fish leaped out of the water.  For a moment, time stood still as the great fish threw the water off his flanks. A small rainbow formed around him.   Then the trout  hit the water  the fight was back on.  There were another two runs and each time Rick gave the trout line.   After a good ten minutes Rick brought the fish to his Streamwalker Bamboo net.  It was a large Rainbow with a beautiful rainbow stripe running down his lateral line of his body.  Rick messaged the great fish and watched him slowly swim out of view.  Shadow barked one loud bark.  She only barked if Rick caught a large fish. The small ones  did not merit any reaction other than a nose kiss now and then.

As Rick walked out of the stream upon looking up the game trail that he was intending to take he saw an old man dressed in a tweed jacket and a nice eastern style hat  sitting on a felled Evergreen smoking a pipe.  He must have been watching the passion play unfold on the stream.  He took the pipe from his mouth and said “nice fish sonny, nice looking rod”…Shadow barked at a deer and Rick looked back at her.  When he turned his head back to where the old man had been   sitting, the old man was nowhere to be found. There was only a circular ring of smoke hovering above the tree he had been  sitting on.  Rick wanted to say thanks for the compliment. He listened to see if he could hear any sound of the old man walking away.  But there was only the quite back ground noise of the forest coupled with the energetic sound of the mountain stream down below.  Rick reached into his trouser pockets and pulled out a doggy bone and the lab gobbled it down all the while wagging her tail.  Off down the trail they went.  The sun was getting higher in the sky and the two of them were getting hungry.  Rick kept wondering, where did that old man go to?  He just disappeared into the thin mountain air. To be continued………..

A Visit from the Old Man ~ The Rick Jason Chronicles

Chapter two

It was a warm August night along the front range of the Rockies.  Rick had just finished loading up his jeep with the plunder he would need to take to the cabin up near Foxton.  His devoted friend, Shadow a small female lab sat patently waiting in the passenger side of his jeep.

Shadow was getting tired of waiting for Rick,   so she barked a couple of times, telling Rick to get the lead out.  Rick smiled and then realized he had left the bag of doggy bones in his condo so he turned on a dime and ran back up the three floors to his front door and entered his apartment.  There they were, sitting in the middle of the living room with his fly fishing vest, streamwalker net and his favorite cane rod.  He was so excited to get out of Dodge he almost left his rod behind.  Thank God for devoted dogs he thought to himself.

Within 30 minutes he and Shadow had entered the foothills and the air was cooling off rapidly.  She had her nose high in the air smelling every little molecule that might come her way.  Rick loved that feeling that came over him as he gained attitude.  There was a feeling in his chest as the stress of city life rolled off of him as he drove into the mountains.  Though he loved being a Kenpo teacher he knew deep inside it was the mountains and cold mountain streams and wild trout that pulled constantly on his being.  Someday, he would leave the city, sell his studio and move into the mountains.

It was about 8:15pm when he and Shadow arrived at the chained gate.  Rick got out of the jeep ,stretched his legs and then walked over to the wooden post and felt around behind it, just like his student had said, there was the key. 

The drive down the small dirt road seemed like it lasted for hours.  Yet, the actual time was no less than 15-20 minutes.  They pulled up to the little split log cabin slowly.  A  raccoon scurried off   disappearing behind a large granite boulder not fifty feet away from the Rustic cabin.

The little cabin had a nice wooden deck right off the front door. There was a little wooden table with a rocking chair along side of it.  The two windows in front had little red curtains   hanging in them.  There were deer tracks all around the cabin.  Just the type of friends Rick and Shadow appreciated.

Rick unlocked the wooden door and it swung open on its own.  Shadow followed Rick into the cabin.  A little wood stove sat in the center of the cabin.  There was a window behind the stove on the back wall.  Rick walked by the stove touching the top of the stove with his left hand, he continued to the window before him.   He raised the window in order to get some fresh air into the cabin.  Rick heard the rush of the North Fork of the South Platte.  There was that   redolent   smell from the Evergreens that filled his head.  For Rick,   there was nothing to compare to the sounds of a mountain stream and the wind moving through the Pine trees.  He thought to himself, “This is going be like Heaven or at least a lot of fun.”  It was a  dream  come true, to have his own mountain cabin and a small piece of a trout stream to boot all  to his lonesome.

Shadow barked and Rick turned around to see what she was up to.  He then was facing the front door and sure enough right above the door was a beautiful three-piece bamboo fly rod.  That was the mystical rod that he had been schooled about.  He grabbed a chair and carried it over to the door way.  He positioned the chair so he could step up on it and get a level eye view of this old bamboo rod.  He reached up and gently touched it and to his surprise there was no dust on it.  Thinking out loud he whispered, “Strange “.  It had been fished hard but was still in great condition.  To bad no one fished it any longer.  There was a metal rod tube standing upright in the corner.  Rick walked slowly over to the tube as if it was going to become afraid and run away from him.  There was an inscription on the tube that said   Leonard Rod Company on the tube.  Now Rick understood. This rod was probably worth a small fortune.  Tacked to the walk above the tube was a piece of paper.  It was instructions regarding the cleaning of the rod etc.   The signature was only three letters, J.C.L.  Rick felt a little strange but couldn’t put a finger on just why.  Perhaps it might be because of  all the added excitement of the day.  Night fall was coming so Rick stepped down from the old chair and returned it to its rightful place in the little cabin..

Once the stuff from the jeep was brought into the cabin and everything was put in its place.  Rick and Shadow went outside to gather a little firewood just to knock off the chill that was starting to set in.  After the fire was started and they had eaten dinner, Rick spread out Shadows bed beside his bed and the two of them turned in for the evening.  Tomorrow would be an entire day of fly fishing coupled with some easy-going hiking.

Rick had sat his cane rod in the corner beside the other tube.  His last thoughts before he fell asleep were, I wonder who J.C.L. was. His student had not covered that piece of history.  It was clear this cabin as well as the cabins in the Foxton area  reeked with history.  Many of them were built-in the 1880s.

It was about  midnight that Rick was awoken by a loud noise.  He sat upright in his bed and flashed a small penlight   around the small room.  To his amazement his cane rod tube was laying on its side two or three feet away from where he had put it.   He got up and went over to the rod tube and picked it up wondering how the hell did it get over there?   He just shook his head and put the tube back in the corner where it had been and went back to bed.   To be continued…………….

A Visit from the Old Man ~ The Rick Jason Chronicles

 First Contact

 Chapter 1

It was sometime back in the late eighties that one of Rick Jasons  Kenpo Black belt came into the dojo and asked, “Sifu can I have a word with you, it will only take a few minutes of your time”. Rick was waiting for a student who was already ten minutes late so he said, “sure, do you want to talk here or back in my office.” “Let’s go back into your office”. Rick then knew something was up. His student eased slowly into the chair in front of Ricks desk. Rick took the chair behind his desk. Intuition is one of the major components that a Kenpo instructor develops when he is teaching a war-time art to selected students for 30 or more years. Jim McDonald seemed to be a little uneasy and Rick was intrigued by his body motion and the nature of the dilation of his eyes. Something was up. They were wide open, indication internal excitement.

Sifu, I don’t know how to tell you this so I will just shoot straight from the hip. He said, “I know you were counting on me to open up a Kenpo studio next summer but something has come up.” His face lite up like the fourth of July and yet Rick could tell he was restraining his emotions. I have been accepted into the CIA and will be leaving the Denver area within the next four weeks. I have to tie together a lot of loose ends and telling you,  that I wasn’t able to open up a studio was one of the ends.  I haven’t been looking forward to breaking the news to you Sifu.  You have been like a father to me these past nine  years and I doubt I would have gotten accepted into the Firm without my extensive empty hand skills that you have taught me. Rick   thought to himself that this young man would be a good agent, he spoke five 5 languages and was wizard with radio and electronic circuits. He would be the perfect weapon for our country to combat the bad guys.

As Jim started to comment further he pushed a key across the desk with a the aid of an Arnis stick which he had picked up as he has sat down. “Sifu, I know your secret life is fly fishing which is very  important to you.  It helps you stay balanced, that’s why I want to give you the key to my grandfathers cabin. It’s down on the South Platte near the village Trumble. You always have dreamed of having a trout stream right outside your own back door.” Rick felt a tightening in his chest and smiled, while manipulated the key between his fingers. “Sifu, I recently inherited the little cabin; it’s been in the family for about fifty years. It is real rustic, wood stove and no running water however  it does  have an out house. I only have one rule and that is do not fish the old bamboo fly rod that is perched above the front door. Seems it was the rod of the original owner of the cabin back in the early 1930s and my grand father strongly stated it should not be fished and it should be wiped down and cleaned every so often.” Rick said, no problem, I’ll take good care of her as if it was my own.” Jim said, “I know you will, being the  bamboo rod freak that you are.” He rose from the chair signaling the conversation was over, they bowed to each other in Kenpo manner…left hand over the right fist. To be continued………

Secret Maps and Fishing Places

He walked into the fly shop and said, “good morning” then sat down with his morning coffee mug in his hand.  There was a tinkle in his eyes, so I just sat down in the chair and propped my feet up on the counter and waited for him to let the cat out of the box. The donut he was eating sure looked good.

There was some small talk about how the fishing had been over the weekend, nothing to revealing and we both watched the lone customer wander around the shop collecting some fly tying materials.  Quietly the customer came over to the counter, (fly fishermen are a quite lot) I was standing behind the counter and I collected his dollars and said, “Thankyou now you come back again”, he nodded his head in the affirmative and left the shop.

The senior grey haired gentlemen with the twinkle in his eye stood up and came over to the counter that held hundreds of magical flies.  He adjusted his stance so he could lean against it.  The man was holding a napkin that had some thing scribbled on it.  I said, “Jack you want me to throw that napkin with the chocolate on it in the trash can?”   He responded in kind of a western draw, “Nope you might want to hold on to it.”  He walked toward the counter with a swagger  and handed me the napkin while he craned his head toward  the door so he could pull it back out of sight of  any fishermen that might be walking into the shop.  Those are the kind of jesters that you pickup as being important telegraph messages and when you become aware, you stop talking.  I opened up the napkin and saw a major highway leading out of Denver into the mountains.  At the end of the line was a box that had the name of a mountain town inside of it.  Then to the right of the box directions followed:  when you get to the center of town take a right turn followed by a left then three more right turns.  Hike down 1000 feet….great dry fly fishing. He said, “ go at the end of September”.   He then said remember this and he leaned over and whispered the real name of the town to me.  He was just protecting his secret…figuring I might drop the hand drawn map  on the floor while I was working and some unsuspecting fly fisherman might  pick up the map and his secret would not be a secret any longer.

He said that he had heard of this fishing spot and had wondered around the small town asking questions about rather anyone knew where it was.  The locals all said, “The road was closed and there was no access.”  Then they went on performing the tasks they were involved with before my friend had interrupted them.  Anyway, he has spent years trying to locate this secret fishing spot and one day stumbled upon a leader of a church group who was also a fly fisherman that was familiar with the area.  He gave my friend directions with the one condition, “this is kind of a secret place so best keep it under your hat.”

The other day, I got to thinking about the napkin, the man, the secret fishing place and realized it was October and if I was going to hike into the stream I’d better do it soon.

Winter in the Foothills 7000-9000 feet can come into your life pretty damn fast.  One day you’re splitting wood in a t-shirt and the next day you’re looking out the window at one foot of snow.

So I grabbed my wife Tina and we hiked down into the small canyon.  I carried a small altimeter with me and it read 8200 ft where we parked the Jeep.  When we reached the stream the altimeter said 6800 feet.  I did the math …1400 feet.  We fished for a number of hours and enjoyed catching small brown trout on dry flies with our bamboo rods.   One of the things I enjoy while fishing with her is that she really does cast a bamboo fly rod with grace. I was using my 7 foot 4 wt Stream Walker designed around a Garrison 201E taper with an old Hardy Featherweight that had lots of sentimental shit attached to it.  You see the man who told me about this fishing place sold me the Hardy reel for a steal.  He and his son had fished with each other for years and this reel was one of his favorites. About a year after I left the shop his son who was in his thirties died of a heart attack.  A fishing buddy of mine called me up on the telephone to let me know the sad news.  So as I cast my flies to these rising trout, my mind floated back to imagined moments that my friend must have had with his son.  I did not mention this to Tina, it is best to keep conversation light and lively while fishing.  I thought about the loss of my own son who is still alive but to busy to give his old man a call.  I guess  I was to busy o   when I was his age. What goes around comes around.  No matter how much I fish, I can’t escape karma but fishing does soften the impacts.

It is odd how life unfolds.  Here I was, fishing a secret place that had come to me out of respect from another man, fishing a reel he had used for years and sold it to me saying when I handed him the cash, “I want you to have it, you fish bamboo and know what the little Hardy really means to fly fishing.”  Why he decided to sell me the reel I don’t have a clue.  But I would like to think it came out of some hidden respect of me.  After all he gave me one of his secret fishing spots and sold me the Hardy dirt cheap.  In my mind, he actually gave it to me.  Then on my way up the 1400 climb, my thoughts jumped over to Randy who makes Stream walker nets.  Randy was the one who came up with the name, “Stream Walker” for my seven-foot bamboo rods.  I was looking forward to watching his eyes when he pulled his new Zen and Now 7’6” bamboo rod from its tube.

It makes the climb back out of these little canyons a little easier when you get your head into the grove of   deep sentimental thoughts.  Kind of like a form of meditation where you are transcending the “moment”.  I   can’t say that your muscles are not going to be a bit tight the next day as the result of such mental musing but that’s just the price a middle-aged fly fisherman pays from time to time when he has the Jones to fish a secret spot.

Losing Me

I remember it clear as day

Like the first kiss a girl gives a boy on the play ground

Leaving Denver by car with rod packed tight I was my way

As I walked the broken trail

My thoughts lofty and high

Free from the hubris of being me

When I woke up with blood on my brow

The distance lake three hundred feet below

My bones were intact but little did I know

The journey down the gravity of it all

I struggled to maintain balance like a drunk in the night

At last I sat with pack at my feet

The lake so blue a pure reflection of what is

But what was

Was no more, my name was gone

For a moment I felt the fear

Of not knowing the I

Then trout started rising

Conditioned for such a reality the fisherman in me stood up straight

Reached for the tube

I graced the bamboo rod and jointed its shaft thus completing itself

With a reflexive cast my line did sore

Like an arrow shot from the trusty bow

The fly landed and all the sudden a swirl

A trout of weight begain to pull

Feelings of the past so sweet and fine

It did not bother me any longer I had lost my mind.

All night I fished even into the dark

For the first time I was free

Free of me and no fear I had

That next morning as sun light broke the ridge

I had a dream

An old Indian women on a white pony on top of the ridge

She called a name over and over again

I recalled the one I had lost

And found me again

He Walked On Water

    Fishing with a Grand father can be one of those bench marks in a person’s life. My Grand father was more legend then anything else to me. He had been a real cowboy and had a ranch up in South Dakota. He always had pure white hair since the first time I laid eyes upon him. So in my mind he was always old. I always wanted to ask him if he knew Jessie James the outlaw. But I was afraid that I would be wadding into uncharted territory. He stood a good 6 feet tall in his stocking feet. I was 8 years of age and he was one big man I was looking up at.

     He lived most of his later life in Denver and I lived  my childhood life in Maryland. He had those magical mountains near him and I had the ocean. There had been no cowboys in Maryland and I was the only child that I knew of that even knew a real cowboy. I vaguely remember him coming to see us, but I know he did from time to time. I especially remember  one visitation.  I  was just a little tacker then.

    At one time he was one of the only three surviving men living, that had served in the Spanish-American war. So that dates him pretty clearly. He died at 91 years of age.

    One summer he had come to visit and as usual he and my dad worked together on a farm project. They were rebuilding a large old red barn and I remember watching him work alongside my father. The two of them appeared to me, like they were in some type of competition with each other. Perhaps they were. I would listen to grandpa breath and watch the sweat drip off his brow. As I watched them day after day work on the old barn actually rebuilding it piece by piece, I silently wondered if grandpa would go fishing with me. You see I knew he loved to fish. He would sit under the back porch and tell me fishing stories and adventures. Some of these places were far away. Up into the Rockies of Canada. Deep into Northern Minnesota, Wyoming, Idaho and too many places for me to remember. Mom would fix a large jar of iced tea and some sandwiches for Grandpa and dad and the four of us would eat a hardy lunch. I would go get a large atlas and as he would talk about these far away places , I would locate them with the help of my mom. When he stayed with us I dreamed of fishing in far away places. Each Night I would dream of such wonderful fishing adventures. Often I would wake up in a sweat and realize I had only been dreaming. I was some what let down upon that discovery. But every night the dreams would come. I looked forward to bed time.

    Saturday morning came early as every morning did with Grandpa. He was always awake before dawn and would make big commotions in the kitchen, so loud that everyone would wake up. Mom said that was his way of getting everybody up, to start another day’s work. Anyway, this one particular Saturday morning after breakfast Grandpa looked at me and said, “Bill go get that tube standing in my bed room.” I did and when I brought it to him, he opened it up and it had two bamboo poles each one a two piece fishing pole. I had actually fished with a pole like that a couple of years ago in fact I caught my first fish on one.

    He looked at me and said, “Bill lets go fishing”. I almost blew apart with joy. Mom said she would take Grandpa and me to local sand and gravel pit near by. She dropped us off. Our gear was limited to his cane pole and my Bamboo bait casting rod and a canvas creel, three thermos and a brown bagged lunch. Two of the silver thermos were filled with iced tea and one with ice coffee for Grandpa.

     I led him down a game trail that ended at the ponds edge. I felt so proud to be grandpa’s fishing guide. This was where I fished often. I knew it well. The smell of the morning air was redolent with Pine. There was a cool dampness that clung to the morning air. Due hung on the grass. The pond was glassy and looked like a perfect mirror with a white mist hanging around its edges.

    Grandpa rigged up both bamboo poles and each line had a red and white bobber and a small brass hook at the end of the line. Now, it all made sense to me. Grandpa had been out in the garden that morning digging worms and he had put them in a red can that had holes in the top.

     He showed me how to put a worm on the hook cowboy style and explained how to watch the bobber and how to set the hook.  I already knew all that but I did not say a word. Just hearing his voice was as though angels were singing to me.

    We caught probably 100 little fish that day and released them all because they were too small to eat said Grandpa. Every little fish that tugged on his line caused him to chuckle or laugh out loud.  I liked that.  Right before dusk Grandpa had a big hit and his bobber went completely under the water. I knew it was a big fish. When the bobber went down Grandpa let out a yell, “what a strike, Bill you see that?” I replied, “yes sir”. Well Grandpa had a fight on his hands and I could see that the fish was headed down into a bunch of tires that some teenagers had thrown into the pond. The fish got down in there and grandpa said, “He has me tied up real good”. Mom showed up and came down to where we were fishing and did not say a word. Grandpa said, “Bill this is a big fish and we have to sit him out now don’t you make a sound”. He asked me quietly if there were any Bass in the pond and I said I don’t think so, never caught a Bass here. “Well …well now, he will come out sooner or later when he don’t think he is hooked to the line”. Sure enough after about a 20 minute wait the old fish came out from the tires and Grandpa horsed him in after another good fight. Grandpa held a three-pound Bass  in his hands and said, “This is dinner tonight young man”, I could not even speak, and I did not think such a big fish lived in this little pond. I remember how Grandpa held the Bass  by the lower jaw and he called him “ole bucket mouth”. He put him in a canvas creel that he first submerged in the water.

    The three of us walked back up to the car and I was in the lead. I stopped to look back at Grandpa and mom as they worked their way up the steep slope. His white hair glowing in the moon light, the creel around his shoulder and his bamboo pole in his hand left me breathless. Something changed in me that moment. I knew life would never be the same again. Grandpa had a halo around his white head of hair and from that moment on, he walked on water.

The Chronicles of Bamboo Bill

Wondering Through Spiritualism

                                                                    “The Beginning Days”

These are the experiences of a wonderer, a truth seeker if you may, walking through a labyrinth of spiritualism. They maybe illusions perhaps mere tricks of the imagination or a glimpse into another reality. I share these experiences with you and until now have never been made public.

It was a spring day many flowers were in bloom. Buds were poking out on every bush and tree. Bird song adrift on the warm breeze. The date is circa 1958 and the place a small farm on the east coast of the United States. As I walk on the uneven ground, struggling to maintain my balance against gravity which was attempting to topple me? I was walking along the upslope of a small ditch that ran along a fence line. I was fast into a peanut butter sandwich which tasted great. My senses were alive and I had a heady feeling and stumbled and squeezed the peanut butter sandwich tightly in my little hands. Jelly oozed out from under the two slices of bread.  It felt sticky and I wiped it on my little red coveralls.

There were lots of small sparrows in the bushes which I was slowly approaching. They were in group conversations and speaking in foreign tongues and singing songs with no titles. Then all of the sudden two birds flew down in front of me and were in a whirlwind with each other. Small grey fuzzy feathers mixed with the grass and the imedate atmosphere drifting away with the warm breeze. Then they flew off together far across the yard to another tree or bush disappearing from my sight.

It was then that I felt a feeling, a memory being etched in my little growing brain perhaps more of a ripple in a great pond of consciousness. I remembered these same birds landing on the ground before me it was as if it had happened before. I was left in an undesirable state of mind. I dropped my peanut butter sandwich. My little bird dog came gingerly over and ate it.

I walked slowly over to a tree stump and sat on it. This experience was beyond my ability to understand it let alone communicate it to another. So I kept it tight, close to my heart. I never talked about it to my parents, Sunday school teachers or my little friends. Not unlike the arrow heads that I would find later in my childhood. While alone, I would touch the arrow heads, feeling their contours and sharp edges and again feelings before time would flood over my total being. These sensations were fleeting and much to short in duration to cling deeply to them. Déjà Vu came into my life and as a result I would become be interested in glimpses into other realities.