Where The Pavement Ends

Noise.

Gray noise. White noise. It’s all the same.

It’s the noise that is always present when you step outside in the city, even at 4AM. The Interstate never sleeps. Semi trucks always running. Kid on a motorcycle revving it up on his way home from a party. Sirens wailing. Jet planes circling the city. Neighbor’s dog never stops barking.

It’s the noise you feel in your soul when the alarm rudely jolts you out of a sound sleep at 6AM. It follows you and picks up intensity as you back out of your driveway and pull onto the street, and within the first few minutes, you already have some jerk tailgating you, alwayson your back.

Like a clanging cymbal it continues as you step into the office and your boss is on you like a pit-bull on a cat, barking orders, demanding to know where that report is which was due yesterday. It stalks you even when you go to lunch and try to lose yourself over a burger in the park. The ever-present noise that reminds that your paycheck will never cover all of this month’s bills. Noise that is relentless as you drag yourself into the house at 6PM and turn on the news, only to hear all that’s wrong in the world.

And that damn dog next door will not stop barking.

The noise doesn’t stop until you slip back into sweet unconsciousness after your weary head finally hits the pillow, sometime after 11PM.

Tomorrow morning rises up to meet you, in your face, reminding you again that you need to make more money to pay your monthly obligations. The fence needs repairing. The furnace and air conditioner are twenty-eight years old and will die any day now, and where are you going to get the money for that? You forgot to take the trash out again this morning. Floss your teeth? Did you pay the gas bill that is past due?

The “Check Engine” light is still on.

It never ends.

Living under the weight of everyone else’s expectations can kill a man. Oh, not right away. But slowly, over time, like a cancer, over a period of years. It erodes your confidence. Wears you down. Takes its toll.

Lord, get me out of this town.

You and your best buddy planned this trip to the back country a year ago. And, like Bilbo Baggins in "The Hobbit" secretly, you mean not to return.

Saturday morning, up at 5AM, coffee on, gear loaded, including the fresh batch of size sixteen Elk Hair Caddis flies you stayed up tying till 2AM the night before.

You’re long past due to get out of here—to escape to a place not burdened by the grit and noise of the city, by ringing cell phones, work schedules, demanding bosses, or the constant pounding in your weary brain from the neighbor’s noisy mutt.

Your destination is a pure, quiet and peaceful place, uncluttered by the crush of interstate traffic, where road raging jerks are mercifully absent. Where there are no time clocks, or alarm clocks. Where jet planes fly so high the only evidence of their existence are squiggly vapor trails left at thirty three thousand feet, lit up a bright golden-orange by the morning sunrise. To a land virtually unchanged in a thousand years.

Where the pavement ends.

As you pick up your buddy at first light, grab a hot cup-o-Joe for the road, just point your vehicle due north-east of town. You need no map. You’ve been to this place many times over the years. Your internal compass is always set somewhere north of civilization. Let the car run where it wants to go.

To somewhere far from here.

As you begin to climb, leaving behind the subdivisions and neighborhoods, the last convenience store is finally in your rear-view mirror. There is some redneck in a big red four-wheel drive truck on your tail. But on this beautiful, clear, blue morning, it feels natural to pull over and just let him pass. Let him have the road for once. Don't let him get to you. There is no competition for space and position where you’re going. Just peace.

You enter the river canyon where the highway follows alongside, and just the sight of the blue-green, sparkling river begins to loosen your stiff neck and joints. Like the Tin Man who came back to life when he finally got some fresh oil, this first view of river, mountains and pine trees lets you know you are leaving the rat race behind.

It’s like fresh oil to your soul.

As the morning sun slowly warms the canyon, you roll down your window and that first sweet scent of Ponderosa pine fills your nostrils and senses. The traffic is sparse and the tension that has been clenching the base of your skull for the last six months begins to slowly loosen and unwind like a spring in an old fashioned, wind-up alarm clock.

It won’t be long now. You can almost smell the old dusty road that lies ahead.

You continue to climb.

Higher and higher. Further and further away from the city. The weight is almost completely off your shoulders now. You stretch your back and settle into the comfort of your car seat. Your warm cup of coffee is a soothing old friend, not merely stimulant to give you an early morning buzz so you can win the rat race. It tastes better and smells better than it ever has.

And what a blessing to share your life stories with your best friend. You talk about all the big Cutthroat trout that are going to inhale your Elk Hair Caddis flies. You know just the spot. That first big hole is only a half mile from camp.

 Not much farther now.

You’ve lost all sense of time. Clock watching is not allowed, not part of the drill, here where the pavement ends. You’re not on anyone’s schedule. You’ll get there when you get there.

Soon the stands of Lodgepole pine get thicker and you know the turn off to the River lies just ahead.

There it is! “Ranger Station; 28 Miles.”

And we gratefully make that final left turn onto the last stretch of paved road.

Won’t be long now.

I love this country. There are huge, lush meadows, lined with big green stands of lodge pole pine, with small, sparkling streams flowing throughout. Occasionally, if you’re lucky, you will see herds of elk, especially if you enter the meadows early enough in the day. And this morning was no exception. We counted at least thirty head of elk, just along the edge of the cover of the pine trees.

I never tire of coming to this place. It’s always just as special to me as the previous trip.

 
This was one of my Dad’s favorite places on earth. He felt free and alive here. The uncluttered serenity and purity of these meadows, where big six-point bull elk roam, and Chinook salmon and Cutthroat trout swim in the crystal clear creeks, were an integral part of the wilderness wanderer soul that God gave him. Whenever I think of Dad, the picture of these beautiful meadows, elk, and mountains always first come to mind.

As we wind along the road to our destination, all our conversation and focus lies on what’s ahead—not on what’s behind us.

And therein lies an extremely valuable life lesson. Most of us, in one way or another, are enslaved by our past. By our bad memories and experiences. Still carrying around that full set of Gucci luggage… bound, in chains, from someone else’s poor opinion of us.

Lord, help us to leave that whole set of baggage at the airport.

One of my favorite authors made the following profound observation:

“Spirit-led people cease defining themselves by their reflection in the thousand mirrors of others' expectations.”

As we come over the last hill that descends down the road that leads to our campsite, the last memory of the noise of the city has vanished from sight. And the paved road has long ceased and become gravel road.

We have crossed over... to where the pavement ends.

And there it was.

Our old family camp site. No other cars nearby. Someone left behind a small stack of six or seven pieces of split firewood. Far exceeding our expectations. We pulled in, parked the rig, took a deep breath, cracked open a couple of frosty brews and walked down to look at the river before we set up camp.

It was to be a time of refreshing.

The gin-clear waters of the river of no return looked pure. Unchanged for thousands of years. The same rocks have been in the same spot with crystal clear waters flowing over them continuously for millennia.

Author Norman Maclean, in “A River Runs Through It” gracefully said it this way:

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. —I am haunted by waters.”

In the same year my father passed away, I read the book and saw the movie, “A River Runs Through It.”

It’s interesting how you can read a book and in some of the passages, it’s as if the author is writing your story along with his own. The above passage is one such instance. In ways I can’t fully explain, I am haunted by the crystal-clear waters of this river.

After my father passed, my mother decided to have a memorial stone cut from local quarry rock, bearing, along with his name, date of death and birth, the simple inscription: “Beloved.”

We, his sons, and a small gathering of those who knew him, carried my father’s one hundred and twenty pound memorial stone on our shoulders, lashed to two pieces of Lodgepole pine, several miles down the river trail, to a special spot at the confluence of one of my dad’s favorite creeks, where it empties into the main river. And it was there, that my mother scattered his ashes.

In some ways, that, to this day I still cannot understand, a big part of our family died there, that day we laid Dad to rest along his river.

The remaining part of our family died twelve years later, on the day we laid my Mother to rest at a cemetery here in town. Mom was always the ‘glue’ that held our family together after dad died.

And as a family… we’ve never been the same since her passing.

I’ve never been back to visit the place where we laid my father’s memorial stone. But part of me will always be there with him.

My friend and I walked back to camp, set up our gear, and built a nice fire. We unloaded the stash of firewood that we brought from home. Plenty to get us through the weekend. As my Dad taught me, I brought along a shovel and a big water jug to douse any sparks that might spread and become a potential forest fire hazard. Along with his trusty shovel, dad told me you never leave home without a roll of bailing wire and some duct tape. Thanks Dad.

We popped open the cooler, and my friend who is quite the gourmet cook brought out Portobello mushrooms, cloves of garlic, onion, purple potatoes (which I had never seen before), and some garden-fresh ears of corn. After another frosty brew, we wrapped the mushrooms in tin foil with some olive oil, red wine, and a sprinkle of salt and pepper. The corn on the cob was oiled and also wrapped in foil. After carefully placing the foil-wrapped bundles on glowing orange coals in our camp fire, my buddy sautéed the purple potatoes with garlic and onion in the well-seasoned frying pan I had brought along. And soon we were enjoying a gourmet dinner and a glass of Merlot.

Rough duty.

After dinner, we unpacked our fly rods, rigged them up and tied on some of the Elk Hair Caddis flies I had made just for the occasion. After a while I sat back on some rocks and just enjoyed watching my friend paint pictures in the sky with his fly casting technique.

We didn’t catch many Cutthroat trout on this particular evening, but we were blessed with an early evening thunderstorm. The lightning cracked loudly just overhead, and the thunder rolled down the canyon like a runaway freight train that made the entire hillside shake. We ducked for cover underneath some huge rocks on the hillside until the storm passed. As the intense, golden sunlight slid underneath the iron gray storm clouds, the rain drops were divinely illuminated and looked like clear-white drops of liquid glass falling on our faces. Probably one of the most beautiful storms I have ever seen.

What a priceless gift.

The entire trip. The camaraderie and friendship with my buddy. The great food and campfire. The river, The storm. The sunset. God is truly revealed and glorified in His incredible, amazing creation.

Words cannot properly express.

The next morning after some yogurt and fruit, we made our way down the trail to the confluence of my father’s favorite creek. We did catch a few nice Cutthroat trout. And the only other people we ran into that entire day were two yayhoos who said, “Hey, have you been sore-mouthing our fish?”

We eventually made our way back, broke camp, and continued on our journey to our other favorite places along this incredible mountain range. There were more rivers to wade, and big trout to pursue.

We could not find any available camp sites that night, so we bushwhacked into the woods and drove way up a hillside and camped in a very ‘unauthorized’ spot where, trust me, no car had ever been before. It was one of the best campsites I have ever enjoyed. No cars within a mile or more. It was not legal, but that was many years ago when I was much younger and impetuous. And I’m glad we camped where we did. That night we experienced another amazing thunderstorm after dark.

Memorable times.

At my father’s memorial service that day in 1992, along the river of no return, my Mom read the following passage from the book of Isaiah:

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,” says the Lord. “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts. “For as the rain comes down, and the snow from heaven, and do not return there, but water the earth, and make it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the Sower, and bread to the eater, so shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; it shall not return to Me void, but it shall accomplish what I please, and it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.“For you shall go out with joy, and be led out with peace; the mountains and the hills shall break forth into singing before you, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress tree, and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree; and it shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.”

Life is cyclical.

Borne from a storm, rain and snow falls on mountains, soon melting, flowing down, mingled with tears, forms tiny rivulets and creeks. Creeks become streams, become rivers, become giants; all flowing together on their long journey, back to the ocean from where they began. Ocean water vaporizes, rising into the air to become storms, which fall anew on mountains as rain and snow, and the life cycle repeats itself.

The River of Life.

I am haunted by the waters where my Dad was laid to rest. In the place where part of our family died, where part of me died, I came to life.

We’re all on a journey. We each have a story that is being written, and has been written.

Victor Frankl, whose wife and family were murdered by the Nazis in one of the Holocaust death camps, and who endured indescribable suffering, later wrote:

“What is to give light, must endure burning.”

As I write this, it’s been twenty two years ago since we laid Dad to rest along his river. And in this difficult life, for me there has been much suffering... what Frankl calls burning.

As Maclean wrote, “The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time.”

The trials we go through, are, like a river that flows, a constant in our experience, which, painfully at times, etch out the story of our life. Rivers of living water, cutting canyons, deep, painful, and yet beautiful.

My story is still being written, and has already been written.

No one knows the day of their departure.

But I look forward, to that time, when I will see the fulfillment of my story, where I will be fully known, when I have reached my ultimate destination, where, along the banks of the River of Life, the rain falls softly on my face like illuminated drops of crystal-white, liquid glass. . .


—Where the Pavement Ends.

Fathers In The Field

Each day in our nation there are an average of over 5,400 Suicide attempts by young people grades 7-12.

Many of the young boys who attempt suicide are growing up without a father in the home. 

Crime rate statistics also prove that boys who grow up without their father at home go on to commit violent crimes. Today's over-crowded prisons are full of men who did not have their father in their home, or a father figure or mentor in their life.

37% of this country’s children - over 25 million kids under 18 - are growing up in fatherless homes.

Here are some other startling statistics:

Children from fatherless homes account for:

• 63% of youth suicides
• 71% of pregnant teenagers
• 90% of runaway or homeless kids
• 85% of youth sitting in prisons
• 71% of high school dropouts
• 75% of teens in drug treatment

Research shows that mentored children are:

• 46% less likely to use drugs or alcohol
• 33% less likely to resort to violence
• 59% more likely to get better grades

It's hard for me to personally relate to the sad statistics of fatherlessness, because my Dad was always there for me at home. He was a positive influence and mentor in my life. He taught me to hunt and fish, and took our family camping practically every weekend from the time I was age seven through fifteen.

(My Dad, 1971)

I was at a Men's Wild Game Dinner a couple of nights ago, and a true hero of a man gave a presentation about something we as men can do to take action and help mentor boys who have no dad in their life. When I heard the frightening statistics of how many boys grow up without their fathers at home, I knew that I could not just stand by and do nothing.

For those of you whose lives have been blessed by growing up with your dad at home, or if you had a good man as a mentor in your life, knowing how much you were loved and appreciated, and you had the privilege of being taught to hunt or fish, and were mentored by a dad or caring man who was always there for you; will you please consider taking a kid under your wing and be a mentor for him? 

There are basically two kinds of men; 

1.  Guys who just talk about doing something.

                                or...

2.  Guys who take action and actually walk their talk.

Boys who have been abandoned by their fathers have a broken spirit. But you can help these kids by becoming a mentor and a friend to them.

—At The End of my Line.

Watch Your Back

I heard a story on the news a few years back of a hunter who had been killed by a mountain lion.

Some other hunters found his body. Half his back eaten away. His rifle still slung on his shoulder. The lion had apparently stalked him.

He never saw the attack coming.

I am convinced that had that man been hunting with a buddy, he would still be alive today.

On some of my favorite rivers, I have felt that sixth sense several times, that something was watching me. And I looked around and never saw anything there. 

But I knew there was something.

Have you ever felt that sense? That you were being watched? Even stalked?

I enjoy fishing alone sometimes. I relish the solitude. And on these times I fish alone, I always am extra careful to watch my back. But I enjoy fishing with a close friend as much or more than I do alone. And we always watch each others backs.

Life should be like that.

You gotta watch your back in this world. There are some crazy mixed up people out there. And it is best to have close friends around us who will consistently be in the "foxhole of life" with us; friends who have our six.

I know that if my close friends were at the mall and saw some guy trying to mess with my wife, they would pounce on that situation like stink on you know what, and put an end to that nonsense. They'd send that Loser packing! And I would do the same for them. I would protect their kids just like I know they would protect mine. 

Many guys try to Lone Ranger it, go it alone, be tough guys. But there is great comfort and joy being with a Band of Brothers who you know will always be there for you. 

Even Lone Ranger had a Tonto.

At a men's retreat in the Idaho mountains a few years back, I met a young marine who had just finished a tour in Falluja in the middle east. With tears in his eyes, he told us how he had watched two of his buddies get killed, one by gunshot, and the other by stepping on an I.E.D. He said that he and his Band of Brothers had a super-tight camaraderie with each other. They would literally take a bullet or fall on an I.E.D. for one another. 

And that's how it should be in life.

My close friends know that I would literally take a bullet for them. And they would do the same for me. And my life is enriched and better for having friends like this. Men of real integrity and caliber.

These are true friends who stick closer than a brother.

And these are the men who I like to walk the banks of a favorite river, or hike a ridge or canyon with. These are the friends who will likely one day carry my casket when I step into the next life...

—At The End of My Line.

Bugzilla

Opening Day of trout season, southern Oregon, Saturday morning, 1971.

Dad and I were up at dawn, in the old VW truck, and on our way to River "X", which nonchalantly meanders through lush, green farmlands, near the small town of Klamath Falls, Oregon. 

We had our Smoky Spam sandwiches, barbecued potato chips, and a thermos of coffee neatly packed, and carefully stashed alongside our fishing gear, in the back seat of the truck. 

This particular river is a small meadow stream that gently flows through fenced cow pastures, on mostly private land. But access for fishermen is fairly open, (or at least it was in the early 1970's). When we arrived, it was immediately apparent that we would not have the river to ourselves on this day. 

River "X" is known for its large, resident brown and rainbow trout that run up the river from the upper portion of the lake. The water is gin clear, and the plentiful moss beds and deep undercut banks provide the fish an abundant supply of both food and cover. Most of the time, as you walk along the river bank, all one can hear is the sound of Red-Winged Blackbirds, cows crooning in the distance, and occasionally, the rare, indescribable sound of mating Sandhill Cranes. The river is slow-moving, very quiet, and pastoral.

On this particular morning, we had armed ourselves with plenty of large night crawlers, which I had personally selected from our sprinkler-soaked lawn the night before. Dad had also brought along a good supply of Thomas Buoyant lures, and his all-time favorite; the "Gold Phoebe." This lure was Dad's secret weapon. It's a "wobbler" style of lure, designed to imitate an injured minnow. I have watched him catch big fish with a gold Phoebe, when no one else could catch anything. Dad had a way of thinking like a fish. He intuitively knew where a nice trout would be hiding; under a cut bank, behind a rock, or near an over-hanging branch.

At this time I had not yet learned to fly fish, so I was still a "hardware" guy. And on this opening day, even though I did see Dad catch a few nice fish on his gold Phoebe, I was getting skunked using my fresh batch of night crawlers.

As I sat on the bank feeling pretty dejected, I happened to notice a rather crusty old gentleman coming up the bank carrying a fly rod. It was a beautiful bamboo rod, with a Pfleuger Medalist reel attached, loaded with dark brown sinking line. He had a well-seasoned wicker creel hanging off his shoulder. I asked him, "Having any luck?"  He walked over and opened his creel. I gasped. He had three or four big brown trout, and one hefty rainbow trout inside. That creel was packed! I stammered, "What are you using?!" He showed me a jar of Pautzke's Green Label Salmon eggs. He told me he had been drifting a single salmon egg under the cut banks, on a short leader, using a heavily weighted sinking line. He just gave me a friendly smile, said "good luck" and walked off.

I was still sitting on the bank, thinking about those big trout he had in his creel when I was startled by a huge "Splash!" I quickly turned to look upstream to see what had made the commotion, but all I could see were the eccentric rings moving outward, from the rise of a very large trout. Some of us fly fishermen today call this kind of noisy, violent rise made by a big fish a, "Toilet bowl flush." It makes a very loud "Whoosh" kind of sound, and is unmistakable.

I fixed my gaze on the spot where that big fish had risen just a moment before. A minute later, I saw it, "Whoosh!" It was a very nice fish. What the heck was he eating? I had no clue. And then as I scanned the surface of the water, I saw something 'buzzing' on top of the water. It was some kind of large bug, spinning in circles, making a very noticeable flutter on the water. As I watched it drift downstream, out of nowhere, "Whoosh!" That bug was history! 

So I started looking around. I walked along the river looking for more of those big bugs. It didn't take me long to find one drifting close to the bank. After a couple of attempts, made without falling into the river, I grabbed one. It was huge. I had never seen a bug like this. It looked like it had two stingers on the back end. But it didn't sting me. However the legs were pretty spiny. The belly of the bug was light orange and segmented. There were four translucent wings laying flat across the back, which had lots of dark brown veins going through them. At the end of a fairly large head, were two very long antennae. Behind the head was a bright orange band.

After seeing the fish ferociously devour these bugs, I got this big smile on my face and knew in an instant that I had just found my own "Secret Weapon." I was going to catch lots of big trout and show my Dad up for a change. I got out a big number four Eagle Claw worm hook, and tried my best to run just enough of the hook through the back of the bug to keep it attached, but not so much that it would stop the bug from fluttering, as that commotion the bug made on the surface, was what was enticing these big trout to explode on them.

Well, as you can probably guess, I butchered that bug pretty badly the more I tried to get him hooked. The darn thing would not hold still. Once I finally got it rigged up, and found a way to cast the bug out close to where I had seen the fish rising, the bug was no longer fluttering at all. I guess I would not be moving much if someone had impaled me with a huge iron hook either.

My clumsy attempts at casting scared off every fish in the area. There was no "stealth" whatsoever to my approach. I was really bummed out. I had not caught a single fish. My "Secret Weapon" was a flop. It was Opening Day, and I got skunked. 

I finally did catch up with Dad. As expected, he had a nice catch of plump trout, caught on what else? you guessed it—his old faithful Gold Phoebe. I had caught another one of those huge bugs and stuffed it in my creel. When I pulled it out and showed it to Dad, I asked him, "What the heck is this thing?" He said, "Salmon Fly."

We got back to the truck and soaked up the warmth of the afternoon sun, as we ate our chips and sandwiches and gulped down cups of hot coffee. I could not stop thinking of the way those huge trout were coming up and exploding on the big salmon flies! I had to find a way to fish those bugs, in a way that they floated right and still had some motion. I thought about it the whole way home.

The next morning, I remembered some of the flies I had seen at the local sporting goods store. But I didn't know how to tie flies, nor did I have any fly tying gear. So I found a large enough bait hook in my box and asked my mom is she had any orange sewing thread. She did. I then grabbed some scissors and a couple of Pheasant tail feathers that Dad had in his shop and I set off for my hobby room, which was adjacent to the bedroom I shared with my brother. 

Now, I don't know if any of you who are fly tiers have ever tried to tie a fly while holding the hook in your hand, but if you haven't, trust me. It is not an easy feat to accomplish. But I was a twelve year old kid who loved fishing more than anything in life at that time. And I was bound and determined to tie my first fly; namely, my own salmon fly!

I only wish I had saved that first fly. 

But it is long gone. Probably rotting in a land fill somewhere in Klamath Falls. This fly was just plain ugly. Maybe hideous is a better word to describe it. It could rightly be called the Beast. It certainly could be called an atrocity. But from this point forward, I will forever refer to it as "Bugzilla."

As I held the hook firmly between my left thumb and forefinger, I had to cinch the short end of the piece of orange cotton sewing thread between my thumb and fingers. As I began to cover the hook with it, I was surprised at how much tread it takes to build a fly body. For the tail, I used a piece of the stiff tip of a Pheasant tail, shaped to look what I thought a salmon fly tail should look like. Apparently, I had already forgotten that the tail on the real McCoy was a forked tail. But hey, this was my first fly after all.

After securing my crude excuse for a tail, I began to build up the orange body to the size I remembered the bug being out on the river. For legs, or "hackle" I clipped some of the brown hair off my own head, and very crudely fastened that on to try and imitate some sort of legs. For the wings, I took another one of my Dad's Pheasant tails and clipped the end to be the size and shape of the real salmon fly wings. It seemed like it needed some more hackle to aid in flotation, so I snipped off some more Mark-hair and tied that in.

No description I can give you of this Flyenstein Monster can accurately begin to describe the horror that it was. It was huge, gaudy, ill-proportioned, and crude. It was the Cromagnon Man of trout flies. A fly freak show. 

I eventually covered enough of my mistakes with the orange thread to be somewhat satisfied with it, and tied off what amounted to a bulbous head that even Jimmy Durante would be proud of. A couple of messy drops of my Mom's clear fingernail polish on the head sealed the deal, and I had completed my first fly.

Upon showing it to my Dad, his response was, "Uh.... nice. Good first try there, Mark." I think it scared him.

We went back to the river the next weekend, but there were no salmon flies hatching at that time. There were no fish rising for any kind of bugs that day, as I recall. But I still flogged the water with Bugzilla for a couple of hours. I didn't have any dry fly spray then, so, of course, it sunk like a rock. 

Note to self: cotton sewing thread is not a good body material for dry flies. 

It was about this time that my Grand Dad who lived in Redding, California, sent his old fly tying kit to me over in Oregon. It contained an amazing collection of very old, but somewhat usable, feathers, hackles, hooks and supplies. He made the long, flat, wooden box by hand, and wood burned a design onto the lid that he had copied off an old Field and Stream magazine cover, of a mother bear and her two cubs ransacking a fishermen's camp, while they were in the process of trying to land a trout out in the stream. It was really a work of art. He made individual compartments for each kind of feather, hooks, and tools. He even hand-forged his own advanced design, steel fly tying vise, that I still use to this day. He was a true craftsman.

Even though Bugzilla was like a science project gone horribly wrong, it motivated me even more to learn to tie flies that actually catch fish. And it was the start of a wonderful life of learning to fly fish and tie flies proficiently. 

And I have to say, catching a nice trout on an original fly that you designed is a true thrill.

Now, some forty two years later, whenever I see a giant salmon fly fluttering on the quiet surface of a meandering trout stream, it takes me back to that sunny opening day in southern Oregon, where a young boy saw his first salmon fly and heard his first toilet bowl flush rise, from a huge brown trout also searching for Bugzilla...

—At the End of My Line.

Brown Trout, Instant Breakfast and an Angry Bull

As we drove through the night to get out of the city, I lay in the back of the station wagon, looking upward, watching every street light as we passed underneath. Eventually the lights were fewer and far between, until they were gone, and we were alone in the desert with only the stars to keep us company.

The "high sierras" were what our family affectionately called the eastern high desert valley which includes Bishop California, and from there, our ultimate destination; the Arcularius Ranch, where our prized river awaited us, complete with lunker brown trout and a welcoming guest cabin.

I'll never forget the old guest cabin on the ranch. It was pretty rustic, but comfortable.

I can still remember the smell of the gas stove when my dad lit it every morning. When I finally could drag myself out of bed, and pull on my blue jeans and wrinkled, dark blue madras shirt, I made my way to the kitchen, which was lined with a warm, seasoned knotty pine.

Arcularius Ranch Guest Cabin

The Kitchen in the Guest Cabin

The first time I had ever tried Carnation Instant Breakfast was on our trip to the ranch. To this day, it remains an integral part of my fond memories of fishing with my Dad.

On this particular trip to the ranch, my distinct memory is that my Dad, my Cousin David and me were present. My cousin David insists that my brother Jon was along, but I have absolutely no recollection of that.

The River is a crystal clear stream, which meanders through lush cow pastures, tall grass, and the occasional sage brush or willow. There are deep, dark undercut banks, where monster brown trout hide, waiting for an unsuspecting meal to swim into their lair. Brown trout of over ten pounds have been caught over the years here. Though, few of that size are ever tricked by fishermen. 

They didn't get that big by being dumb trout.

I remember my Dad and Grand Dad catching some really big trout back in the mid-60's, though none that ever went ten pounds. My Grand Dad caught his share of trout on flies. But my Dad, David, and I used night crawlers. "Big trout want a big meal" as my Dad used to say.

My earliest memory of fishing was when I was three years old. Dad tied a long rope around his waist, through the belt loops on his Levis 501's. He tied the opposite end of the rope through the belt loops of my much smaller Levis 501's. Then he rigged up my Zebco kids push button rod and reel with a big night crawler, on a size 4 Eagle Claw bait hook. And he sat me on a rock in the middle of the stream. 

My first fish was a feisty three pound brown trout. And I have been hooked ever since.

On this particular trip with Dad and cousin David, I was probably five or six. After our early morning meal of coffee and Carnation Instant Breakfast (I think I chose strawberry), we set out with our fishing rods rigged up and ready to go. Dad had his old army-green fishing vest on, net hooked to the back, and I carried the worms. And, probably because Dad asked him to, David did his best to keep an eye on me.

Now, if I accurately recall the events that follow, somewhere in our mid-day meandering through cow pastures, searching for prime undercut banks where the biggest browns were hiding, we came across a herd of about a dozen Hereford cows—being closely guarded by one particularly large, extremely aggressive Hereford bull. 

I had been around cows a few times before. We'd run into them along the river. This was a cattle ranch after all. But this bull was no ordinary "cow." He had big, threatening horns that matched his attitude. He was pawing at the dirt and kicking up quite a bit of dust.

I could sense my Dad's alarm at the behavior of this bull. With a sense of urgency in his voice and demeanor, he whispered to David to take me and go back, and go around a stand of willows, and he was going to keep the attention of that bull, and draw it away from David and me, to keep us safe. I was scared to death. Really scared for us, but even more scared for my Dad. I couldn't stop bawling, and making a lot of noise.  

We did as Dad said, and went around the willows, where Dad said he would meet up with us after he got rid of that bull. I kept bawling, "I want my dad!" Understandably, David was getting mad at me and kept telling me to "shut up."

After what seemed like a long time, to my relief, Dad finally showed up and met us on the other side. I don't recall seeing that bull again for the rest of the day. And that was just fine with me. That was probably the most scared I had ever been as a kid.

But even with that scary incident with the bull, this was one of my most memorable childhood experiences. I saw my Dad's true character in action. He risked his own neck to protect me and David. He was an honorable man and he led by example then, and throughout his life. 

He was a hero in my book.

These trips with Dad, to fish the Arcularius Ranch in the 1960's were my initiation into what has become a lifetime of fishing and enjoying and appreciating the outdoors.

Silly things like remembering the fragrance of cow pies (and throwing them at my brothers) are etched into my past. The smell of dry fly spray, Ponderosa pine trees, Cutters insect repellent, and Dinty Moore Beef stew cooking on the old Coleman camp stove, are indelibly stamped into my consciousness.

I hear the fishing on the River is still pretty decent these days. And the old guest cabin still stands on the site of the original Arcularius Ranch, though it is under new ownership, and sadly, is not accessible anymore to most folks. So I'll probably never go back.

No. I know I'll never go back.

This life has taught me that people and places are only in your life for a season. Some of those seasons are long, and some, fairly short.

But you can never go back and re-create what you once had, back in a particular time, or place in the past.

So enjoy them for what they are—memories from another time and another place, which have helped shaped your life and character. 

And I, too, will enjoy my memories from days gone by, of instant breakfast, fishing with Dad, evading an angry bull, and chasing elusive brown trout...

—At the End of My Line.

A Legacy

Donn J. Faulkner (1933-1992)

"While lightning struck near Donn's Crick,

And Sandhill Cranes flew overhead,

He tramped along the grassy banks,

In hopes his lure would do the trick.

He cast to pools where big ones hid,

And played a hunch near a rocky ledge,

'Twas all in vain this cloudy day,

Ol' fighter eluded his every bid."

(M.S. 1971)

My Dad was not a perfect father. But to me, he was a great one. And I never doubted his love for me, and for our family. 

And it is only now, as I reflect on my own many failings at being a dad and a husband, that I can begin to understand my father's strengths, failings, and weaknesses, in the midst of the many trials and tribulations we all face in this difficult world.

As a young husband, trying to make his start as a talented, budding architect in southern California, my Dad helped raise five rambunctious kids, in the crazy and uncertain era of the early 1960's. He saw early on, what was happening in Orange County, and what the future held, and, fortunately for all of us kids, he got us the hell out of there.

We moved north to Redding, California, which at the time, had a population of around 30,000 people. Dad dove right in to exploring the rivers, lakes and back roads of our new surroundings. And it was here, that he introduced the family to tent camping. 

I can recall spending entire weekends in soggy tents, as the rain poured unceasingly, and unmercifully. Funny, how it always seemed to have a way of letting up right before it was time to go home.

Armed with our little Zebco push-button rod-n-reel outfits, us kids went through record numbers of Pautzke's Green Label Salmon Eggs, in search of elusive nine inch hatchery planter rainbow trout. Dad always seemed to find campgrounds suitable for a family of seven, and with a small, trout-stocked creek nearby. I learned to love falling asleep to the sounds of a rushing creek at a very young age. 

Redding was growing way too fast for Dad, and even though it was a far cry from the craziness of Orange County, Dad's heart-strings were being pulled as a wilderness wanderer. And for him, it simply was not happening in California. 

His internal compass was always set on north.

So, in 1971, he and mom pulled up stakes, loaded five snot-nosed kids, our dog Sam, and "Kitty" into our old Volkswagon double-cab pickup, and moved us to Klamath Falls, Oregon.

Dad had plenty of room to roam in the mountains and desert areas of southern Oregon. It was here that I first recall falling in love with the smell of Sage Brush and Juniper trees. And there were plenty of those in southern Oregon. I first learned to shoot a shotgun, hunt ducks, drive a car, tie flies and fly fish in Oregon. And there were no shortages of beautiful places to hunt and fish here. 

As a kid who loved hunting and fishing and the outdoors, for me it was heaven.

My Dad was amazingly meticulous and organized. He always made check lists before a camping or hunting trip. I don't ever recall anything being left at home, since his check lists kept us well prepared. Dad also made the best camps I have ever seen. He built some folding camp tables that fit perfectly in the back of our VW truck. He knew how to build the best campfires, and always brought along his old 12' x 15' canvas tarp, so that when it rained, the cooking area stayed warm and dry. 

Dad taught us to drive, in the old VW pickup. He took us out on the 'safe' back roads of the Oregon high desert. and between moments of road hunting, he would let us take turns learning how to drive a standard transmission. I found it relatively easy to drive a stick. What was not so easy, was being under the tutelage of a stern task master. My Dad was tough. If you messed up, he let you know it.

I remember one incident when I came to a four-way intersection on some back road in the middle of nowhere. There may have been a stop sign. But there were no cars within a hundred miles of us. I asked Dad, "Is it clear?" He said, "clear." I got half-way into the intersection, and, as loud as he could, he yelled, "STOP!" I practically pissed my pants. Dad barked at me, "You NEVER ask someone if it's clear! You ALWAYS look both ways, and make sure it is clear for YOURSELF!" 

This was just one of many training sessions with my Dad. He was very strict, but he instilled good values into me that remain to this day. One of his most memorable statements while teaching me to drive was: "Son, you gotta drive like every other driver on the road is a damn, crazy idiot!" That advice has saved my life more than a few times.

Dad soon opened his own architectural office in Klamath Falls. He eventually hired one young draftsman when business picked up. I think the guy's name was "Gary?" All I remember about Gary was that he loved the band, "Steppenwolf."  He used to sing along to the song "The Pusher" like a crazy man, when my Dad stepped out to meet with a client. I don't know whatever happened to that guy. He wasn't the best influence on us kids.

Eventually, the economy of the early 70's took a nose-dive, and Klamath Falls stopped growing. No one was building new buildings. So, once again, Dad moved us north. After a long exploration of looking for the best place to find a good job opportunity, Dad decided on Boise, Idaho in 1974. 

Dad had built up a pretty good outdoor book collection by the time we settled into life in Boise. But the one book that stands out to me is, "Trails of a Wilderness Wanderer" by Andy Russell. I remember this book being on dad's table more than any other. And this was who my father really was at heart. 

In many ways, I think Dad was born 100 years too late. 

Dad had a Jeep Wagoneer. But that vehicle also went away, and a sturdy, Dodge Power Wagon 4x4 truck was purchased. Dad soon put a camper on the old Dodge, and thus began the many years and miles of exploration of southern and central Idaho. I don't remember how many hundred thousand miles that old truck logged in before Dad's passing, but it was a lot. 

The last piece of exploratory equipment Dad bought was a pair of Honda 90 trail bikes. These were somewhat for exploring. But the primary use Dad had in mind, was for hunting. Specifically, to haul out front and hind elk quarters, which were just too heavy for Dad as he aged and his health began to decline. I think my Dad had more fun on these bikes than anything else I can recall. The trail bikes accompanied him on most of his outings in the mountains of Idaho and Montana.

But what most shaped me as a young man, was witnessing the love my Dad had for my Mom.

(Mom at "Notellum Lake" - Idaho, 1980's)

And even though there were brief moments when Mom was upset that Dad spent more time in the mountains than he did with her, their marriage was solid, and was an inspiration to me. I once asked Mom, "What is the secret to your marriage?" She said, "We are both willing to give more to the the other, than we're willing to get." She said each of them were committed to giving 110% to each other. I told her that someday I wanted to have the kind of marriage that she and Dad had. 

And I eventually did find the wonderful wife I had always longed for. 

My Dad left an amazing legacy—of a man who, imperfect as he was, loved his wife and children with all of his heart. He had a dedicated work ethic. Work hard, study hard, do your best. And he had an incredible respect for nature, for mountains, rivers, and meadows, and for the wildlife that lived there.

And, in spirit and heart, Dad truly was a wilderness wanderer. 

He wanted to be free from the B.S. of politics, overcrowding, and inconsiderate jerks who did not love and respect the mountains and wildlife the way that he did. He did not want to be fenced in, in any way. It was not acceptable to him to be packed in to a pay-per night campground with hordes of other people. 

High on a mountain, where crystal clear streams flow freely, and the deer and elk roam in abundance, is where Dad most felt at home.

(Father's Day, 1972)

My Dad loved me. And he loved our entire family. 

With all of his imperfections, and his shortcomings and mistakes, he loved us. He did the best he could. I know he had some regrets. But so do we all. 

I am extremely thankful for the life I had with my Dad. He taught me well. And even though at the time I was not very happy with how strict he was with me, in retrospect, it probably kept me out of prison, or worse. 

It's been over eleven years since Dad's passing. I still miss him and think of him often. I could always go to him with a problem. He was always willing to be a patient, listening ear and offer a father's wisdom where appropriate. And whether it was sitting around a campfire, or just driving in the truck, I really enjoyed spending time with him. 

So Dad, I thank you, for loving me, and for giving of yourself. You always had my love and respect, even though I did not show it throughout my rebellious years.

Looking forward to the day that I will see you again...

—At The End of My Line.