Where the Pavement Ends... Reprise

"A man who has friends must himself be friendly, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother." 

For years I had wanted to take my best friend to my home river ... the place where, as a struggling seventh grader, I learned to cast to wild 'Red band' rainbow trout, using the size 16 bucktail caddis flies I had been taught to tie. The place where I learned to truly love and respect the land. 

The remote, unspoiled high desert country of southern Oregon.

To preserve and protect what wildness and purity remains there, I will refer to this place only as The Creek. 

My father introduced our family to The Creek in 1971. It is far off the beaten path. You will find no twenty-inch brown or rainbow trout here. The average trout is only ten inches long. If we saw two or three other families along the willow-lined, meandering stretches of the creek in those days, it was a busy weekend. But typically, besides a few range cows, we had the place all to ourselves.

 

That's how my Dad, and the rest of us liked it—far from the maddening crowd.

There was rarely ever anyone in our family campsite when we arrived. It was at the end of a long, bumpy and dusty dirt road. By the time we reached our favorite spot we were all tired, nerves shaken and ready to get the heck out of the truck; an old early 70's double cab Volkswagen pickup. Five unruly, quarreling kids and Sam; our beloved black Labrador Retriever piled out of the back seat with all speed.

Dad had made a beautiful pair of nesting folding camp tables out of white pine 1x4's, sizing them to fit perfectly in the back of the truck. Loading the truck with enough gear and food for a family of seven for a long weekend was possible only by my dad's skill of precisely fitting each piece of equipment into the bed of the truck like a jigsaw puzzle.

A large forest green & white Coleman cooler, matching Coleman 4-quart juice jug, 3-burner Coleman white gas stove and double mantle lantern, a five gallon water jug, two large 8'x10' light blue canvas umbrella style tents, seven sleeping bags and air mattresses, a few pillows, several duffel bags with changes of clothes, a porta potty, shovel, a Lyle nylon string guitar in its case, several fishing rods and reels, a tackle box, creels, fishing vests, various boxes of pots, pans, and a large portion of food mom had lovingly prepared, took up the remaining space in the truck bed.

Mom liked to make things like chili beans, spaghetti and beef stew ahead of time and freeze them in large red Folgers coffee cans. When it was time to cook dinner she would simply boil water in large kettles and cook the frozen cans of food on the Coleman gas stove until it was piping hot. Super-soft white Wonder bread spread with margarine was typically the only side dish we had to go with our hearty camp dinners.

Occasionally we would have fried pan-sized rainbow trout, fresh out of the creek, for our meal. On other occasions we'd have juicy hamburger steaks with sumptuous fried potatoes with onions; a personal favorite of mine, cooked in Mom's extra large well-seasoned cast iron skillet. All cooked in bacon grease of course. We never went hungry in our camp.

The moment we pulled the truck into camp, the first thing on my mind was the immediate location of my Shakespeare 8ft fiberglass fly rod, Pflueger Medalist fly reel, and my tan poplin fishing vest, full of fly boxes, Garcia dry fly spray, tapered leaders, and my Cutters insect repellent lotion. I still miss the smell of that lotion. It's funny how the memory of different smells can remain with you. But setting up camp first was my dad's rule. Fishing came second, after the work was done. It's always easier to set up two tents and sleeping bags and blow up all our air mattresses before it gets dark.

    

 

The mesmerizing sounds of the shimmering water of the creek gently bubbling over the rocks, the wind softly singing through the long needles of ponderosa pine trees, the pungent scent of sage brush and juniper, the smell of lush green willows and sweet meadow grass are a song in my soul that is on constant repeat. A reprise. The smoky wisps of burning lodgepole pine in our campfire remain with me forever.

Each member of our family did pretty much their own thing in camp. My twin brother spent untold hours playing my mom's nylon string guitar. And he got real real good at it. A virtuoso. To this day he is one of my guitar heroes. My mom kept pretty busy keeping her eye on my little sister, and making us snacks and such. My youngest brother, I don't recall what he spent most of his time doing, but likely he was learning some guitar too. He's also one of my guitar heroes. My dad, my other younger brother, and me went fishing. As far as I was concerned, unless there was good fishing to be had, there was no point going camping. 

And fishing was what I lived for in those days. Being out in the lush open meadows and pastures, exploring the meandering stretches of The Creek, under the bright blue skies of summer, casting a fly to promising stretches of water where a hungry trout lay in wait, was where I felt alive and free. The only place where I felt that way, truth be told. For me, school was a tortuous prison full of taunting and pain. But out here I was free.

As we all grow up and move away from the big old family house, we go our separate ways, and sometimes we grow apart in the process. But although each of us were unique and did our own thing during those long summer days in camp, at the end of the day, we gathered around the campfire in the evenings and sang songs together after we finished our meal. And though we had our occasional squabbles, I wouldn't trade those family times together for anything, on our many camping trips to The Creek.

Fast-forward 46 years...

My best friend and I had been talking about a camping trip for a few years. The summer of 2018 everything finally came together and he came to Idaho and we loaded up my 2010 Nissan Pathfinder to the gills and set off for the Oregon high desert.

I've always loved road trips. There's something about getting the heck out of town, away from the hustle and bustle, the noise, and the pressures of work and life. Get off the grid with a close friend.

We stopped halfway to our destination in a small town and bought food and ice to load the cooler with and continued on our journey. Even though most people don't appreciate the desert for scenery, I've always loved the wide open spaces. Big sky country. Room to breathe and be alive.

We hit the turn off to the road that heads up the canyon to The Creek. After much exploring and searching for the old turn off that leads to the family camp site the day was getting very late and I was getting very frustrated. Why couldn't I find the right road? I'd been down it untold dozens of times. I was ready to turn around and take a second look at the road we'd already been down when my buddy said, "What about that road?" I wasn't convinced. It didn't look at all familiar. That road turned the wrong direction. It couldn't possibly go to where I wanted to go to get back to my old family camp spot. But I figured at least we could find a nice camp spot for the night, then resume our search for the right place the next day.

We drove for a couple of miles of bumps and twists and turns down a road that continued to look completely unfamiliar.

As we came to the bottom of a hill the road opened up into a huge, beautiful clearing. This looked like a great spot to stay the night. This would certainly do, even if it was not the place.

As we set up camp and walked around a little bit, the country itself looked familiar overall. The large mountain to the east was one I'd seen many times before. That familiar treeline, that unmistakable ridge line. That was the mountain. It was beginning to feel like home...

However, it was not until the next day as I walked the stream banks of The Creek and explored every inch and examined the ridges, the trees, the grassy stream bank, that I began to get a very powerful sense of deja vu... I had indeed been here before, to this exact same spot!

 

As it turned out, after comparing some photos of this spot, old and new, it became crystal clear; this was the spot my Dad had taken me camping to, 46 years previously. The photo above proved it to me for certain. The specific trees in the above photo. The slanted rocks in the far right of the frame. The soft grass in the foreground. The type of water and riffles. Coincidence? Not a chance. However this kind of thing works, I was somehow led back to this exact spot four and a half decades later. I was floored. 

 

Dad at The Creek in 1972.

What a blessing to share this unexpected experience and memory at The Creek with my best friend. We had a great time talking, laughing, fishing and exploring for the next few days. I would definitely like to return here. I hope my friend would like to join me.

 

My buddy laying it out there, June 2018.

 

In Camp, June 2018

 

Fish On! June 2018

Great memories.

The trip was not without its mishaps. My fault, I'm afraid.

But I trust the grace of God and the power of a friendship between two friends who stick closer than a brother will overcome any and all trials. 

Thank God for His forgiveness. 

And please keep bringing me back here...

   

—Where the Pavement Ends.

    

     

A Letter From My Father

My new book, "A Letter From My Father" has been over 45 years in the making.

Writing a book has been a dream of mine since I was a kid. It became a greater desire when I had a creative writing class for summer school in my senior year of high school in 1977.

I loved reading Ernest Hemingway's short stories of Nick Lyons fly fishing for trout in Big Two-Hearted River. My writing teacher had a wonderful gift of seeing the potential in each of her students and carefully encouraging it out of us.

While it has been my life-long dream to write a book someday, I didn't think it would ever actually happen. It just seemed too far out of reach. I think it's that nagging voice from the past that tries to tell you, "You'll never be good enough."

When God led me to start this little blog in 2010 He began to help me find my voice. And though it's evident I'm not an English major, I love to pour my heart for God out in my writing, such as it is.

Several of my friends encouraged me over the years to write a book, even to possibly compile this blog into some sort of a book. I will be eternally grateful to all of you for all of your prayers, patience and encouragement along the way.

My own father wrote me a vignette of personal letters, the last of which was much the inspiration for writing my book.

My passion and desire for the book is that many will come to know God as their Everlasting Father; personally and intimately. I believe God did not give us His Word just so that we can 'know the Bible cover to cover'.

He gave us the Bible so that we can know Him.

Anyway, please read the book for yourself. I'd love to hear your comments and reviews.

Please note; I am in no way lessening the importance of studying the Scriptures. On the contrary, I believe it is exponentially more important to study God's Word as His letter to us, and not as one would study a college textbook. His Letter to us is alive. It's personal. It's intimate. It's powerful. It's prophetic. It's eternal.

My early years of trying to study the Bible like I did a text book never really brought me much closer to a closer relationship with God.

The book is available in paperback on Amazon.com. And in e-book edition in the Kindle Store.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/173437120X/ref=sr_1_6?keywords=a+letter+from+my+father&qid=1581637434&s=books&sr=1-6


To God the Father be all glory!


—God is Love and Love Never Fails.

The Brounion

 

Faulkner Boys "Brounion" 2019

This long awaited reunion—The Brounion—almost didn't happen.

But I'm so thankful it did. 

It started with a deep longing just to be together with all of my brothers again. I don't think we've all been together in the same place like this for maybe twenty years. It's hard to say for sure. 

Bordering on the miraculous, the event that brought us all together began with a text.

One year earlier my friend Craig and I had gone on a camping trip, June, 2018. For me it was a pilgrimage of sorts back to my family's treasured camping spot and favorite little river, high in the lonely Oregon desert. Keepemquiet Creek, or simply the Creek is what it shall always be referred to online.

The last time I had been to the Creek prior to last summer was 45 years ago in 1973. My Dad had taken me on a special camping and fishing trip to the Creek.

 Dad at the Creek, June, 1973

But this was our Faulkner family camping place. We spent many weekends here while we lived in Klamath Falls, in the early 1970's. The sights and smells and memories are forever etched into my heart and mind. This place is rooted in my soul and the times spent with family are precious to me.

The trip my friend and I took here in 2018 was equally memorable.

Most of the time the old saying applies, "You can never go back." But that saying proved to be false in 2018. 

The Creek was just as I remembered it. Pristine and almost completely unspoiled. We saw only a handful of people. The trout were small and few. But the smell of juniper and lodgepole pine trees were just as I'd left them 45 years ago. The sparkle and sound of the creek next to our camp was just as calming and magical as ever. The soothing sounds of the afternoon breeze whispering through the ponderosa pine trees welcomed me back. In many ways it felt like coming home.

On the last day of our 2018 trip as I was taking dozens of pictures to take back home with me I came across a particular spot along the stream bank where the shape and movement of the tall grass blowing in the breeze was extremely familiar. The diamond shaped ripples on the water and flow of the stream brought me back to my trip to the Creek with Dad 45 years ago. I had been here before... to this exact spot.

What's strange about that is this particular camping spot wasn't even the one I was looking for.

The first day Craig and I arrived it was late afternoon and we'd been driving all day. There is a particular camping spot at the end of a little dirt road that led to our favorite family camp site all those years ago. I assumed we could just drive right up that little road and break camp at the old camp site. Problem was, I couldn't find the road. We drove around for hours searching for it. I was getting pretty discouraged and more than a little frustrated. 

We crossed over a small bridge that looked completely unfamiliar. The road I was searching for had to turn and go upstream. But there simply wasn't any such road to be found. I was about ready to turn around and search some more but Craig pointed to a road that cut off to the opposite direction of where I wanted to go. He said, "Let's try that road." I said, "fine, I guess it can't hurt to take a look."

After driving for at least two miles we came down a small hill into a large clearing and there was the Creek. It wasn't the spot I wanted. But it was beautiful and it would have to do since it was getting late in the day. We could continue our search again tomorrow.

This spot turned out to be wonderful. Great views. Spacious camp site right next to the creek. Large pine trees for shade and shelter. Huge meadow just downstream from us and not another human being in sight. We set up camp, cracked open a couple of cold beers and made some turkey sandwiches.

Sitting in our camp chairs I laid my head back and closed my eyes. That familiar song the afternoon wind makes whistling through the pine needles lulled me into daydreams of days gone by. Sweet memories of casting my own hand-tied size 16 bucktail caddis flys, watching them dance along the riffles only to be slurped down by colorful rainbow trout as it crossed behind a small submerged boulder.

 

The Creek June, 2018.

 

Look at the large pine tree and slanted rocks in the middle.

Look at the shape of the mountain in the far distance.

 Look again at the same rocks and tree and mountain in 1973.

Some of these pictures are what I texted to my brothers and sister. You can't miss it. It's the exact same spot!

Some don't believe in Providence. "It's just a coincidence" many will say. But the way it all happened and how it brought me back to the same exact spot 45 years later is not a coincidence. And more importantly, the texts and photos began a conversation with my family again. We were excited to do a family reunion. My hope was that it would be back at the Creek. There was even talk of everyone wearing cowboy hats like Dad.

But it was not to be.

Not all of us were available to go on vacation the same week in June that I wanted to go.

So it was suggested that we go later in the summer, but not back to Oregon. We would meet in McCall, Idaho. There is a beautiful lake there and my brother Paul has a boat!

So after much discussion back and forth we decided on a week in mid July and all of us brothers would be able to go. We didn't want anyone to be excluded. And I am thankful for how it all worked out.

Faulkner Bros on the Lake, July, 2019

We spent an entire day out on the lake in Paul's boat. And for me it was magical. It was completely brotherly. No ideological divisions, tension, or political arguments. Just family. A Brounion. I didn't want it to end. It was like nothing had ever happened in the past to cause any division between us.

We spent evenings in our cabin playing guitars and singing old songs until the wee hours of the morning. Jon and Jeff know a lot of songs!

This will always be one of my favorite memories with my brothers. I hope we can do it again next summer. 

One of the life lessons I learned in this process was to never give up on people. Be patient and be the one to extend the invitation to be together. Never stop loving people even when previous difficult situations may have caused some division.

I love these guys. 

—More than they know.

Fathers and Sons

As a young boy growing up in the wide open spaces of southern Oregon, our family went camping virtually every weekend throughout the summer break. It was simply what we did as a family. Our faithful family dog, Sam, a black Labrador retriever, always tagged along.

I have a very special memory though... of one particular weekend when Dad asked me to go with him…just the two of us.

And it was to our treasured family river; ”Keepemquiet Creek” as it shall discreetly be referred to throughout the remainder of this story. My Dad believed it was akin to heresy to insult your favorite camping and fishing spots by telling every Tom, Dick and Harry how to find them.

Keepemquiet Creek is a small, sparkling river which cascades off the southern slope of a moderately timbered mountain, into the vast Oregon high desert. The country we camped in was thick with lodgepole and ponderosa pine and plenty of fragrant juniper trees in the lower elevations. Pungent sagebrush were everywhere. Along the meandering river, willows lined the banks in some places, and lush green meadows were scattered along its reaches.

In the springtime, as I sat bored stiff in my classes at Ponderosa Junior High School, I constantly day dreamed of Keepemquiet Creek, and the spunky 12 inch rainbow trout which eagerly gobbled up our carefully placed lures and flies. My neighbor, Bob “Granny” Granstrom, a professional fly tier from Klamath Falls, taught me to tie flies. And the first pattern I learned to tie was his “bucktail caddis.” Bob definitely knew which fly to teach me to tie first. The trout couldn’t get enough of it. And they were relatively easy to assemble for a newbie fly tyer. And I had a very good instructor.

Mid to late June was the ideal time to fish Keepemquiet Creek. The fish were much more aggressive and more easily fooled before the dog days of summer settled in with the onset of the sweltering temperatures of July and August. The stream flows were at their prime level and the meadows are still lush and green in June. And it was on a beautiful, clear, late June weekend that Dad and I took our special camping trip to Keepemquiet Creek.

It was to be a rite of passage for an extremely awkward 7th grader…and perhaps for his Dad as well.

In school I was painfully shy. Socially awkward. I suffered from pretty bad acne, which only made my introversion worse. And I didn’t do well in school. The only place I didn’t feel like a ‘loser’ was when I was walking the banks of my beloved river, fly rod in hand, armed with the flies I had tied myself. I was a pretty good fisherman for a dumb kid. But I had a great mentor in my Dad. He was a patient tutor, and he taught and led by example.

My Dad could think like a fish. That’s what he told me you needed to do to be a good fisherman. When he approached a river, he would carefully study every riffle, pocket, boulder, and undercut bank. Dad was not a fly fisherman in those days, so he didn’t pay much attention to what bugs were hatching. But give him a gold "Phoebe" wobbler, or a "Thomas Buoyant" spoon, and he could pick out a nice trout or two in every spot that looked “fishy” in the creek. I could fish a run and not get a single bite. And Dad could come in behind me a few minutes later and sweep the run and pick up fish I missed entirely. He was one of the best fishermen I ever knew.

We always got an early start when leaving town for our camping trips. And this trip was no exception. Whenever I was being the slowpoke and Dad was in a hurry to get going, he would rush me along and say, “Come on boy, you’re burning daylight!” And after giving his meticulous camp list a final check, and double checking the load in the old VW truck, we were on the road at first light.

I’m not sure who was more anxious to get out of town…Dad, or me?

I was a lonely teenager who was painfully struggling for self identity, and just wanted to fit in and be accepted. And he had the unenviable task of helping raise five kids; four unruly boys and one little daughter. He also had a fledgling architectural business to run, in a small town that in those days was not experiencing much growth. And times were pretty tough for us financially. Mom always had to stick very tight to her food budget. We had some interesting meals the last week of each month with whatever money and food we had left over. Mom called it “pantry perfection.” Some of my favorite dishes were some of Mom’s pantry perfection creations.

We packed the big green Coleman cooler with large Folgers’s coffee cans full of Mom’s frozen chili beans, spaghetti, and beef stew. Sometimes the stew was Dinty Moore canned stew. But I liked her homemade food much better. Mom was a great cook. When it was dinner time, Dad fired up the Coleman white gas stove, and put on a large kettle of water. We put the coffee cans of frozen dinner half submerged in the boiling water, and it quickly thawed out and we had piping hot food. We always had white Wonder bread and margarine to go with dinner. Occasionally we would splurge and have hamburger steaks and fried potatoes with onions cooked in a cast iron skillet with bacon grease. But there were no rib eye steaks on our tight budget. I always carried some Rolaids in my pack for those nights we had Dinty Moore stew.

When we finally arrived at our family “spot” on the river at the end of the road, I always wanted to get out my fishing gear and get into the river as quickly as possible. But Dad was disciplined and his rule was you always set up camp first. Since we usually fished till dark, Dad was wise, knowing it’s a lot easier to set up camp in the daylight than when it’s pitch black. However on this particular trip he said we would just make a "spike camp" and we slept in the back of the truck bed together; under the stars. It made it all that much more of an adventure for me.

I was a total nut when it came to fishing. It was what I lived for in those days. To escape the painful existence of feeling like such a loser in school, and not having many friends. But out here, I was in another world—a utopia for me—whenever we left the cold reality of life in town, and got away to the Creek. The truth is, I never wanted to go back.

I can still hear the sound of the wind blowing gently in the tall ponderosa pine trees on those warm afternoons in camp. The sweet smell of pine sap. The pungent smoke of our camp fire. I would lay back in one of the lawn chairs and look up at the big white clouds in the bright blue summer sky and dream of another time and place. A world where there was no school, or fist fights, or being rejected by a girl that I thought was cute, or the embarrassment of bad report cards and skin marked by acne.

After a great day of fishing, and a delicious dinner of Mom’s chili beans and bread, Dad and I sat around a crackling campfire, watching the occasional sparks float up beyond the trees and disappear into the starry night sky.

I think I can finally understand now that it wasn’t just me…We were both at a loss of exactly what to say to each other, struggling to understand one another as people. This was a first for both of us. I had never been a teenage son to a father before. And Dad had never been a father to a teenage son. We were both learning and trying to figure it out as we went along. Trial and error I guess.

Trying to act like a “man” I would loudly clear my throat and hock the occasional ‘lugi’ into the campfire. Dad said, “You’re a pretty fair spitter!” It made me feel tough and good about myself for a change…like my Dad was actually proud of me for something.

In those days it seemed like I received a lot more scolding than I did compliments. I was constantly in hot water for my bad grades. I started more than my share of trouble with my younger brothers and sister. We boys would generally cause all kinds of mayhem in the neighborhood. Throwing rocks at cars. Fun stuff like that. I was almost always in trouble for something. My Dad often seemed displeased with me. I rarely felt like I ever had his approval.

But as a kid I always knew that my Dad loved me. Even though he was a very strict father, (and today I’m very thankful he was), I never once doubted my Dad’s love for me. I think that’s maybe the one thing that helped me keep some semblance of ‘sanity’ during that period of my life. My parents very much loved and respected each other and us, and we had a stable, happy family. That’s my memory of those days anyway. Even though they numbed the pain of their own problems with alcohol, our home felt happy to me in general.

That weekend on Keepemquiet Creek, my Dad and I began to get to know each other a little bit better as people. And we began to communicate with one another...at least we tried. We laughed together and fished our butts off, and the cares of our tense lives back in town faded away. It felt ‘perfect’ for those glorious couple of days. It remains one of my most precious memories from my early life.

Though for me, in that period, I never felt that I was good enough as a person. I had zero self esteem. I desperately wanted my father’s approval. The honor code among men is respect. He was a straight “A” student. Brilliant. He aced calculus, trigonometry, and all his advanced math classes. He was a gifted architect and artist. He was one hell of a good writer too. I admired and respected my Dad a great deal. Once when I was a young boy, my grandfather (his Father) said with admiration, “Your Dad is a pretty bright guy!” I was so proud of him.

My Dad was far from perfect. 

And like I am trying to do now, he was just trying to figure life out, and do his best to be a good husband and father. And in my eyes, in my memory, he was a success. He taught me right from wrong. He taught me respect—for the land, and for those who share it with us. He led by example of what it means to “die to self.” He worked his ass off to provide for a family of seven. And he gave us a good life. We were well provided for.

And he loved my Mom. He taught me through his example that the best way to teach your kids to love, is to love their mother. And my Dad was head over heels in love with my Mom all of their life together…until cancer rocked his mind and body to the point that he could no longer communicate in the eloquent way he once did. But their love is forever. And that love is the legacy my Dad left for me.

As I fondly recall those warm summer days along the grassy banks of Keepemquiet Creek, I can still hear my Dad’s voice whooping it up as he hooked into a feisty rainbow trout. And I can see the warmth in his smile in the old photograph I took of him on our last day together that weekend.

Today I can feel my Dad’s love for me; as an awkward thirteen year old kid; and now, as a man, still just trying to figure life out…

*Authors note: if you know the name and location of this Creek please do not divulge it or publicize it. On my last visit  in 2018 it was still pristine and mostly unspoiled after 45 years since my last time there in 1973. What a gift to our grandchildren if we keep it that way.

-Thank you.


—At the End of My Line. 

Why The Sky?

"The heavens declare the glory of God,

and the sky displays what His hands have made."

(Psalm 19:1)

After looking up for over sixty years, I've been blessed to see many amazing sunsets, sunrises, thunder storms, and amazing cloud formations.

And in light of the words from the psalmist, I begin to see why the sky is there.

To declare God's glory.

So many times when I've been driving out in the wide open spaces, or standing knee deep in a river somewhere, I've had to stop and just look up in awe and see the incredible, vast sky-scapes that God has painted with His divine paint brush. It makes you start to see just how small you are and how infinitely big...how beautiful... how glorious He is.

So much majesty and awesome beauty has been placed in the sky to keep us looking up.

—At The End of My Line