January 03 '04
Volume 396
Bamboo Fly Rod Driggs River Taper
On a
warm, "That's got to be Tony," I remember thinking and subsequently stopped for a brief visit. Both Tony and his wife, Jo Ellen, were home at the time, as was Tony's sister, Pat Abel. Pat has retired from a career in nursing to care for Miss Audie. Miss Audie is still mobile and mentally sharp at age ninety-something, but her voice is giving out, and she is battling a numbness in the fingers of one hand that threaten to idle her sewing projects. Tony Austin and I were the best of friends during our pre-teen through college years and were each other's best man at our respective weddings. Yet, career choices separated us. Tony and Jo Ellen, both pharmacy majors, have spent the last thirty or so years working for the University of Arkansas Medical Center in Little Rock, AR, while I've remained in Pontotoc. We see one another from time to time. Tony and Jo Ellen can be found in Pontotoc perhaps a handful of times each year. There's a family birthday celebration held "at the farm" near the Buckhorn community in October each year that draws Tony back to his roots, and of course the Christmas season is another time I can usually count on finding Tony in Pontotoc. Tony and I spent many an hour on the banks of a small lake near Miss Eaton, a small furniture factory, on Reynolds Street in Pontotoc, which, for lack of a better name, we call Miss Eaton Reservoir. In those years, the lake was almost inaccessible due to the shrubs and trees that surrounded the lake. We didn't have a boat so we made do as bank-fishermen, and it seemed the best fishing spots were those just beyond our reach. Though slightly younger, Tony was always a good influence on me, and I like to think the same might be said of me with respect to him. As "hunters," Tony and I worked our way from B.B. guns through a bow and arrow phase and into rifles and shotguns. Most of our hunts were of the target-practice type, but we did shoot our share of doves in September and an occasional squirrel in October. We were not big game hunters and never bagged a white-tailed deer in our youth, though our friend Powell Prewett, Jr. became something of a local celebrity almost from his first deer hunt. Powell killed a buck each year for his first twelve years of hunting, and most of the deer were within a few hundred yards of the site of his first kill. As fishermen, we explored various forms of fishing, trot lines and set lines for catfish, bream fishing, and my favorite bass fishing. We developed an expertise in the use of bait-casting fishing reels such as the Garcia Ambassador Model 5000, as well as both the open-faced variety such as a Mitchell Garcia 300 and closed-face type including the Johnson Century and Shakespeare spinning reels. The latter proliferated the market upon the development of monofilament fishing line. We even learned how to wield a fly rod, but few of our fishing holes afforded us enough openness to accommodate a swirling back-cast required to reach any sort of respectable distance from the shoreline. After moving to Little Rock, Tony continued to find both gratification and relaxation in his fishing hobby. At some point, he became interested in fly-fishing, since that area abounds in rivers and streams laden with trout. Whenever Tony comes to Pontotoc, he more often than not finds time to fish along the banks of the lake beside Miss Eaton and typically catches several fish in the half-hour or so spent there. He usually catches bream that were enticed to bite one of his own homemade, hand-tied flies, but he seldom keeps any of his catch. Tony has long had a talent for working with his hands. In our youth, he became something of a leather craftsman, and using scraps of leather his mother brought home from the factory, where she labored to earn a living, Tony turned the scraps into billfolds, selling some of them for $2.00 each. He even purchased a set of leather working tools for carving designs into the leather. Though he no longer remembers it, I recall his purchasing a crystal radio set which he put together and it worked, if only with an earpiece, and it entertained us one at a time. His interest in fly-fishing led him to fashion his own fly rod. Starting with a blank shaft, he added the cork handle, line guides, ferrules, and lacquered finish. And, of course, he learned to tie his own flies. With a worm or a cricket most anyone can catch a bream almost any time of the year. Catfish are bottom feeders, and if you can find something with a horrible smell to use as bait a catfish will bite it. Crappie are finicky regarding depth, and they are found mostly in reservoirs and the rivers that feed them. Bass will strike about anything if the notion strikes them, but they too are finicky and are often hard to catch. In southern states, trout are usually found in cold, moving water. They are elusive and finicky, but once hooked they tend to have more fight in them than any of the other fish mentioned above. There's an elitism among inland fisherman. Those of us who fish from a boat and cast artificial lures using our expensive rods and reels tend to disparage the use of cane poles and fishing with minnows and worms along the bank. It's difficult to rank elitism among fishermen from lowest to highest, but a cane-pole-bank-fisherman has to be at the bottom with bass and crappie fishermen a rung or two higher up the ladder. And, ever how high up the ladder goes, fly-fishermen imagine themselves at the top. In fact, fly-fishermen have a different name to describe themselves. Instead of "fly-fishermen," they are anglers. Actually, angler applies to all forms of fishing where a hook is employed but is only used by fly-fishermen. Most fishermen that I know are sport fishermen in that they fish for the sport of it. While keeping and eating some of what one catches may be a part of the sport, the motivation for fishing is in the fun of it more than in the harvesting of food. If gear such as boats, trailers, and trucks to pull them are removed from the fishing equation, bank fishermen have the least invested. Bass fishermen can easily have a few hundred dollars in rods and reels and lines and lures, but an angler may have several hundred dollars in a fly rod alone. One might say I was amazed that afternoon last summer when Tony starting bringing bamboo fly rods from the trunk of his car to show me. However, I was more amazed to learn he had made each of them and that the shaft of each of the halves of the fly rod consisted of six tapered strips of bamboo all glued together. Tony explained that the strips of bamboo are shaped and tapered using special metal forms, forms that I will need to see before trying to describe. When Barbara and I were in New Mexico a few years ago, I learned my cousin, Ken Gaillard had begun a business in his semi-retirement, custom made fly rods. Kenneth told me that most of his fly rods were in the six hundred-dollar range but could easily run higher. Kenneth has a website where one can order a custom made fly rod on the Internet. If you are interested or just curious, Kenneth's website is www.chaparralflyrods.com. I had a favorite fishing rod for bass that desperately needed a new line guide on the rod's tip. Figuring Tony had the expertise to replace the damaged guide, I asked him to repair it sometime prior to September but made it clear I could get by without it until he could return it. As things turned out, I really didn't need the repaired rod for the planned fishing trip in September, due to Supervalu's decision to send me to Wisconsin. While home for the October family gathering, Tony phoned to apologize for forgetting to bring my favorite fishing rod. "I'll find something to mail it in and send it to you," he explained. I convinced him I could easily make do without it and probably wouldn't go fishing until spring arrived, so he decided to wait and try to remember to bring it during the Christmas Season. Then, on Sunday night after Christmas Tony called to say he was in Tupelo and would be in Pontotoc on Monday night. He mentioned something about replacing an exterior door at his mom's house and said he'd call me Monday night. Both Tony and Jo Ellen stopped by Monday evening and Tony handed me my favorite fishing rod with its brand new tip. I admired the workmanship and thanked him, as I flexed the rod while holding it by the handle, and I imagined myself casting a lure with it. By the time I missed him, Tony had slipped outside and was coming in again with a big grin and holding something like a long wooden box in his hand. "This is something to assuage my guilt for taking so long to return your rod," he commented, handing the box to me. I wasn't buying the "assuage" part, but allowed him the opportunity to express himself with words I don't ordinarily use, plus in his so doing I learn a new word every once in a while. I knew exactly what was in the box because I had seen similar ones he had fashioned to hold his handmade fly rods. So, I spent a moment admiring the oaken hexagonal box whose dimensions are roughly forty inches by three inches. "What kind of wood is this?" I asked, "Is it oak?" "Spalted oak." There was a word I didn't know, so I asked about it, "What's spalted?" Jo Ellen spelled the word as spaulted, but I could not find either spelling in any dictionary at my disposal. However, on the Internet the usage of "spalted" eclipses "spaulted" around thirty to one. "It describes a state of decay," Tony elaborated. "See the worm holes." As beautiful as the container was, it was its contents that captivated me and rendered me speechless. Never, in my wildest dreams did I imagine such a gift. Okay, I lie. The first time I saw Tony's homemade fly rods, I dreamed of owning one but considered the chances of him giving me one as slim to nothing while the odds of my purchasing one were even slimmer. I must not have been moving fast enough, so Tony grabbed the box, opened it, pulled out the canvas bag (sewn by Miss Audie), and gingerly removed the two sections of the fly rod and handed the lower section to me. I rolled it gently in my hands inspecting the cork handle, the metal rings of the reel seat and savored the color, shape, and workmanship of the fly rod. Inscribed near the handle I read:
Seven Ft. 2 In. with each line of text on a separate section of bamboo. For a moment I imagined myself an angler. I stood on the riverbank of a mountain stream as sunlight played gently where small ripples of water danced quietly over the rocky riverbed. A large rainbow trout lurked near the fly, as I twitched the line to further entice him. I was, in that moment, at the top of the fisherman's ladder. "But you need some flies, fly line, and leaders," I heard myself in silence saying. "The Wal Marts in Mississippi don't have such things." Tony would later explain that he would round up some 4 wt. line for me, along with some of his hand-tied flies and send everything to me. I have a fly reel that he gave me years ago, which I can use on my new fly rod, so when the other materials arrive, I'll be ready to test my casting skills once more at Miss Eaton Reservoir. Once I've convinced myself that I'm as good as ever and can handle sixty-five foot casts, I'll make a trek to Arkansas and take Tony up on his offer to take me fishing. Tony's gift left me at a loss for words to express my thanks. I don't have a craft-hobby, and while I'm pretty proud of this newsletter, I don't have bound copies to distribute at a moment's notice. That which I did have to help express my thanks was a package of country ham left in the refrigerator, a leftover from the several similar packages I gave as Christmas presents. I didn't raise the pig or cure the ham, but I sliced and packaged it, plying a trade I learned as a teenager. Hour for hour, my labor did not match that of Tony's in producing the fly rod, but the workmanship in de-boning and slicing the four country hams and the love poured into packaging the finished product was most surely of the highest order. Years from now, the memory of the ham's taste and flavor will have faded, but chances are I'll still have and treasure the gift of the bamboo fly rod.
Where In The World Help Anna Decide Prior to this year, I could count on one hand, no, less than one hand, the number of my family members who had the opportunity to travel abroad as a teenager. Thus, I was surprised to learn recently that my granddaughter, Anna was given just such an opportunity. Anna's great grandmother, Sue Kenny Whitfield has promised Anna, as a 16th birthday present, to take her anywhere in the world she wants to go. "Where do you think I should go, Daa?" she questioned. While I thought of a number of places that would interest me, I wasn't sure Anna would find them interesting, so I begged off giving a direct answer and suggested she choose someplace steeped in history to which she could relate. Yet, like many teens, history is not Anna's strong suit. The more I thought on the subject, the harder it was for me to think of where I'd personally choose to travel. As I mentioned, a number of places came to mind, but narrowing the several to one wouldn't be easy. However, if one selects Europe, there are a number of options that include visits to multiple countries within a seven to ten-day period. Since it will be a few months before school is out, Anna has plenty of time to decide. I thought it would be interesting to hear from some of you, the readers of this newsletter. So write or call and let us know your suggestion and tell us why you think it would be the perfect tour abroad for a sixteen year old, and I'll throw in a souvenir from Anna's travels if she opts for your suggestion. Notice that I said "a" souvenir, so if more than one reader suggests France and Anna goes to France, there will be a drawing to determine the winner of the souvenir. The deadline for suggestions is February 01, 2004.
Bodock Beau Did You Know New Year has begun by the time readers receive this issue of RRN, but it's not too early to learn something new. Strange Things You Likely Didn't Know
1. A rat can last longer without water than a camel. Submitted by H.P. Prewett, Jr. Share this article with a friend.
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if not hot, afternoon last summer, Barbara
and I noticed a car with Arkansas plates parked in the driveway of Mrs. Audie
Austin's house, as we drove by following a trip to the grocery store.
