“Seriously Hank, you thought chunking lead and plastic with a fly rod was fly fishing… really?”, said Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.

October 2016

It all started in innocence with a quick overnight trip to Memphis last month. Liza and I wanted to swing by the home place in Marked Tree after visiting Bass Pro in Memphis. It was a great weekend. The pyramid Bass Pro is amazing. I wasn’t searching for anything when I wandered into the fly shop.

The savvy salesman asked what trout equipment I was needing. I told him that I was looking for some bass bugs. He encouraged me for a short time and in hushed words said, “Let me show you my secret bait.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this. What was weird was he showed me a bait that I had created 15 years earlier. In fact, I had “tied” my own. There is no “tied” to this bait. I slipped a cone head weight on a small hook and threaded a plastic ¾” crawdad on the hook. A tad of glue and I was done. I made a couple of dozen and forgot about them. He showed me a package of “Trout Slayer” 1” crawdads with some weighted lead hooks. Feeling more curious than confident, I bought them. Again, I forgot about them until this last weekend.

I put myself in this predicament. I always whine about how I’m not a good fly fisherman. Spin fishing comes to me so easily and naturally. Many of my friends are poetry in motion with a flyrod. Their technique is flawless and beautiful. I became so frustrated that I swore off my spinning reel from August 15 until the end of this year. I have been loyal to what I knew would be a self-imposed mental and physical prison. I had caught a few dinks in previous weeks, but it was hard, very hard. From previous experience, I knew the bigguns were stuffing themselves for the winter and I was missing out.

I was fishing my favorite Crooked Creek hole (the D and D Hole) and it was nearing sundown when I switched to one of these “Trout Slayer” rigs. It had been the same old story; lots of pumpkinseed brim, goggleye and a few dinks. Ten nice size fish and 45 minutes later I left to go back to the cabin. Hmmmm, what just happened I pondered. The very next day my friend Jerry and I hiked into Ben’s Hole at near midday. This usually isn’t optimum fishing conditions. The water was crystal clear, wind blowing hard, and the sun was high. I dead drifted my “Trout Slayer” through the same 30 yards for two hours. I caught fish after fish. Several were 12 to 13 inches. Then it happened. I hooked Walter or at least his cousin.

I instantly knew I was out classed. He was in charge and I just hung on begging my adversary for mercy. “Oh my, oh my, Jerry get the camera!” “I will let you go, I promise.” After lipping the monster, my concern immediate turned to Walter’s health. Jerry had a tape, he said 17”, I said “no way”. Hands shaking, we quickly stretched it again. I proclaimed 19”. I don’t know what I was worried about. A fifteen-year-old fish is fifteen for a reason. He is strong, fierce and smart. He swam off confidently to fight another battle and become a 20” treasure. Oh, and I caught 25 fish in four hours that day; all on a “Trout Slayer”.

It was about this time that my conscience overcame me. How can this be legal? It felt a little bit like tight line brim fishing without a bobber. I had these horrible thoughts that I had broken some fancy stuck-up fly-fishing rule. I quizzed one of the best fly fisherman friends I know. “Fly fishing is just another delivery mechanism.”, Richard consoled. However, he did say something about my technic looked like I was worm fishing. I think he was upset that I caught two nice fish while floating my “Trout Slayer” under his bug in the D and D Hole the night before!

Sunday, after catching another 6 or so, I decided to do some research. I just knew I could find a “Trout Slayer” like bait in an official fly shop thus legitimizing my activity. Jerry and I toured two very nice shops in Gassville and Cotter. Nothing resembled my “Trout Slayer”. It was all deer hair and feathers, barely a rubber leg in either shop! On a hunch, we stopped at the Flippin Walmart. There they were in the section of cheap trout lures that no real fly fisherman buys. They only keep them in stock for us gullible goofs that know nothing about fly fishing. This was NOT helping my crisis of conscience.

I decided to take inventory of the “experience". Did I leave the creek, habitat and wildlife the same for others to enjoy? Did I learn something to pass on to others? Was I enjoying myself? Yes, yes and yes. In fact, by the end of the three days, I had learned where to cast, how to recognize an almost imperceptible strike, and how to release a BIG fish. I am a better fly fisherman. Hopefully, I will have many years on Crooked Creek to contemplate my response to Saint Peter.

“May you be blessed with our shared earthly father’s intense, sincere love of family and friends 
May you be graced with his respect for Gods kingdom
May you walk as quietly and humbly through life’s turmoil
May you laugh often and cry deeply
May we all cast such an influential shadow 
God bless.” 

I’m going to share way too much information about this spectacular fishing hole. I’ve never understood why grouchy old fishermen lie about or hide these transformative waters. The beauty alone will make your heart sing Amazing Grace! Please put em back and leave it better than when you arrived. Enjoy.

Fishing the “Million-Dollar Water” always made me feel like I snuck into someone’s house and stole something. The trip north of Lake City on 149 to Sapinero Canyon (County Road 64) is beautiful but uneventful. You pass several great public fishing spots that seem to frustrate all but the best fly fishermen.

Shortly after the Lake Fork of the Gunnison crosses under highway 149, you reach the turnoff to a road that goes to Red Bridge campground and follows the river to its end in Blue Mesa Reservoir. It is marked as “Gateview” buy my family has always called this “Sap Canyon”. I believe this is also the “scenic shortcut” to highway 50 called the Blue Mesa Cutoff.

The larceny begins shortly after turning off highway 149. You hide in the open by parking your truck near the private fence on the west side of the road. You can see the highway from here or more importantly, the law or landowners can see you. We brazenly park in the clear and nonchalantly put on our waders. After looking both directions, we then throw our rods over the fence and stealthy slip through the fence to a well-worn trail to the river. Of course, there is an easier path to take that is well marked and doesn’t trespass but what’s the fun of that?

In later years, they have fixed this, so you don’t have to keep your head low and hide in the willows.

When I think of these waters, I think of my Uncle Jay and my good friend Phil Bibbs. Both OWN this stretch of the Lake Fork in my mind. I have personally fished behind Phil and watch him play and sometimes land many epic fish. This mile or two stretch was created by building weirs with huge trucked in boulders to control erosion and create habitat for trout. It is stunning to look at and even more spectacular to fish. It reluctantly gives up legendary trout to the most talented of us, my uncle Jay and Phil.

I have frequently seen and occasionally hooked 20” or better fish in this stretch. I’ve never landed one, but the lure is always there for me when I get the urge to scratch my big fish itch. A key to enjoyable hobbies is to know your swim lane. Mostly, I’m comfortable with listening to Phil’s success stories every year. I figure I will claim these victories as my own as the details of my memories slip away. I guess I should apologize now.

Share G-Bar Rod Co

“That nail gun changed my life”, said Nicole Ross. I’m not sure this was the target transformation that most of the leadership team wanted to achieve. However, it was an indicator of a great life skill that all the college campers of the 2019 Ozark Mission Project (OMP)/Wesley Winter Mission Trip achieved in one short week. Teaching young adults new life skills has always been a secondary objective of all mission opportunities.

This year we went to Port Arthur, Texas for Hurricane Harvey relief. The theme for the week was EMPOWERMENT. When I think of my 20+ year involvement with OMP, empowerment of youth and young leaders would be near the top of my list of this ministry’s goals. The theme is critical to the experience and is weaved throughout the week into every quiet reflection moment; morning, noon and night. It is important and critical to a successful mission experience. Nothing empowers youth more than the simple act of serving others in need. I was looking forward to the week.

True Empowerment has many necessary components. Some of those components were clearly demonstrated this week. I organized them into a mathematical equation for me to process this mountain top experience and share in this missive.

Empowerment = Focus + Courage + Transformation

Focus

Ms. Jenkins of Beaumont, Texas had two feet of water in her neighborhood as Hurricane Harvey began. It was rising quickly, and she was focused on one thing, get her mother to safety! Her husband left work to get as close as he could to her house. He walked two blocks to his home in the toxic rising water. Together, they waded another six blocks to her mother’s house. The focus turned to HOW. How could they safely get an elderly woman to high ground. They emptied her mother’s freezer and took the door off to fabricate a makeshift boat. They waded through the driving rain keeping their new boat a float with mom in it. They kept her safe for many more blocks to a fellow church member’s house above the rising water. Her husband had to then return to work.

The work we did for seven neighbors was very different from most flood relief. Usually, we are doing the nasty muck work of ripping sheetrock off the walls and clearing damaged family heirlooms to the street. It is depressing on some levels and sometimes the neighbor experience is missing. Port Arthur was different. Our projects were in the finish stage; door installation, flooring, and trim. This requires focus to do it right. Unlike the deconstruction work, this work was the final product for our neighbors. It had to be done to the highest standards by unskilled labor. In five working days, 48 college students installed 44 doors and 2000 square feet of vinyl plank flooring. They also painted three complete houses, nearly 40 gallons of paint and did a plethora of other finish tasks. The neighbors were highly engaged with the campers. The excitement of moving back in was palatable to everyone involved.

Texas Recovers and Shepherds Inn were our partners for this trip. It was obvious that they were focused on more than just the mundane work of providing projects and shelter. They went above and beyond to make sure our experience was meaningful. Jessica and Josh from Texas Recovers were prepared, flexible and adaptive to our needs and the needs of the neighbors we served. Patsy at Shepherds Inn loved on us and attended to our every need. This focus contributed greatly to the success and enjoyment of our trip.

Courage

Imagine the courage to face your day when one morning you swing your feet out of bed, and they meet 14” of water in your home. Your wife is beside you in bed and she is fighting cancer. I don’t think I’ve been tested in my life to find enough courage to gather my wits to survive. Our neighbor, Mr. Aldaz, did. He shared that he thought he could take care of his wife forever by himself. With God’s help, he now knows he has always needed help. He worked side by side with our family group, sharing his witness, and inspiring everyone he encountered.

We worked five full days for Ms. McCurley who was air lifted to safety with her two sons after four feet of water destroyed their home. The courage to ride in a harness and pulled by a thin line to a hovering machine several hundred feet above the polluted water is unfathomable to me. Where did they get this courage?

I’m overwhelmed with respect of the young people that attend these mission opportunities. They make time in their busy lives to go to an unfamiliar place to provide skills they seldom have to people they have never met! They ignore their debilitating shyness, anxieties, apprehensions, and fears. They pour out their hearts to people they just met to hopefully give them some joy and healing. The light emitted from this courage is inspirational and much needed in our world. The young leaders representing Wesley Foundations from U of A, ASU, HSU, SAU, and AR Tech fearlessly ran to an obvious need this week. I’m confident they will show this courage many times in their lives.

Transformation

I was able to reflect on larger societal subjects in the shadow of the largest oil refinery in the United States. The juxtaposition of wealth and poverty was disturbing. The Port Arthur downtown was a ghost town. I kept asking myself, “Where are the people and businesses?” and “Where are the school kids?” The city was clean, but it was obvious the people have not returned in the last 18 months.

Percy, son of our neighbor Ms. Blake, helped me with my questions. Many of his neighbors had fled Katrina and have now experienced two floods in Port Arthur. “Enough was enough”, he said. We then had an honest and disturbing conversation about speaking truth to power and how poverty has no voice. It rained the first two days of our mission and all of us walked through ankle deep water to enter the houses we served. Why isn’t there better drainage in these communities? Why can’t there be lasting transformation in these communities? Percy and I talked about solutions in his neighborhood. His positive outlook and forward strategy gave me some hope.

Noon devotionals with our neighbors are an important part of the college mission ministry. I try to structure my workday to attend a different family group each day during the noon break. I’m always impressed by the maturity of the conversation which usually crescendos during the week as each of the campers gain comfort and trust with each other. This is only one of the layers of transformation experienced during the week.

During one of these noon devotionals, we discussed “slow and deliberate” verses “mountain top event” spiritual transformations. Is one more lasting? Is one more important? I’m so please to be part of a denomination that embraces this type of critical thinking. I’m proud to be a part of a ministry that facilitates spiritual transformation. All ministries of OMP and Wesley are a nurturing and safe environment to let these transformations explode into being or slowly mature. I have seen youth, adults, neighbors and organizers experience spiritual change in my tenure. In fact, transformation may be the most important parameter of the Empowerment equation. We were transforming lives through serving others in Port Arthur, Texas. We will do the same many more times for we are commanded and commissioned by Christ to do so.

“For every tree we knock down we promise to plant something new. For every smallmouth we catch we promise to release it. And for every animal that seeks shelter on our land we promise to give it. We are guests here.”

From the “Burning of Green Corn Blessing” by John Godwin

When my son and daughter in law acquired land near our family cabin, I was honored to participate in a ceremony to christen the land. We did this before the inevitable and unavoidable changes that must be done to occupy as humans. John’s word infinitely resonated with me that evening.

As fishermen, most of us are observant of our surroundings primarily to seek an advantage. We are tuned into nature and over time, we have formed many superstitious sayings and Farmer’s Almanac type clues to wrap around our pastime. When I say some of these sayings out loud, a picture of Si Robertson or Yogi Berra pops into my head. However, these signs are sacred to me. My heart will start racing when I see a box turtle crossing the county road. That is a certain indicator that the fish are biting. Conversely, my mood changes if the cattle are lying down in the pasture, a certain indicator to not bother.

John’s words sent me down a path of introspection of a lifelong witness of nature’s signs for fishermen. I’ve yet to bend over and touch deer poop to check its warmth but I’m up for nearly any Daniel Boone tactic if it enhances my chance to catch fish. I realize now that I instinctively watch and listen to nature starting at my first step onto the gravel bar.

I nearly stepped on a copperhead snake one time traversing a shady streamside. Since then, my eyes are always down in front watching my every foot placement. This is how I started my extensive collection of “Holy Rocks”. Most Arkansas gravel bars are full of stones with holes in them formed a millennium ago when marine animals called crinoid were trapped in the mud bed of the ancient ocean predecessor. I’m fascinated by my insignificance on our earthly timeline when I pick one up and slide it into my pocket.

I’ve rationalized that today’s fishermen are not the first to fish these waters. We aren’t even the first humans. It is easy for me to picture the early Shawnee casting their nets or spearing a large carp in the Ozark waters I fish for smallies. Every day, I know I have shared the best fishing spots with the animals native to this region that depend on success much more than me.

When I stop walking, my eyes are lifted to the sky and the surroundings. At one time, I wondered why I would see nasty bird feces staining the leaves over certain sections of the creek until I started catching fish under each of these signs. The Blue Heron will roost quietly overlooking prime fishing spots until it is time to leap on the unsuspecting prey below them. Based on the amount of poop, this is also the time when nature calls. Eagle sightings are spectacular and humbling over the moving water. I’ve noticed they frequent the same stretches of the river, and I don’t think this is by accident. I’m happy to share some of my honey holes with them and I’m understanding of their need to “keep” rather than “release”. Vultures are another indicator. They are around to mop up after eagles, otters, and racoons have made a kill. The land mammals leave their own sets of signs (usually poop) to show the way to the best spots.

Carry this “circle of life” observation further now from fauna into the surrounding foliage. Fish are leery of everything that moves including unfamiliar shadows. Wildlife use light or lack of it to their advantage. They are instinctively experts at using these tools. Most land animals hunt at night. Waterfowl must utilize tree cover and their senses to hunt effectively during the day.

While I’m tying on my first bug, I always take notice of the teeming life swimming around beneath the surface. Healthy streams have healthy amounts of bait fish and other species. I’m never agitated by catching a pumpkinseed bream or any of the myriad of bass species that I conveniently call Goggleye for quick classification purposes. Healthy Ozark streams are clear and full of split tail suckers, redhorse, gar, and common carp to name a few.

When you understand natures hunting and fishing preferences, then you can examine the other attributes that make their favorite honey hole special. Are you surrounded by gravel or sand? Is the underwater structure boulders or rubble stone? Even the streamside deer tracks in the wet sand say something about the water you are about to step into.

I’m not one for standing in one spot for long but there are definite advantages to waiting for your wake and ripples to quiet before you make your first cast. Clear low water conditions demand it. It is against my nature, but when I occasionally do hesitate, more signs happen all around me. The airborne minnows frantically fleeing are certainly being chased by something I’m also chasing. Then there is the loud “whoosh” downstream! Do we have a large bass feeding on top worthy of my newly purchased Doodle Bug or hopper?

Dad seldom highlighted these signs as part of his tutoring but I’m confident he was a master of analyzing and exploiting them. He did teach me that we were participants in this holy symphony of nature and not irreverent lords crushing all that is underfoot. He taught me to wear a mantle of stewardship of land and its inhabitants like a favorite comfortable shirt. I’m sometimes surprised by my maturity to embrace the associated responsibilities. Evidently, I’ve somehow passed this reverence of being a humble servant of nature on to my offspring for him to cherish. Thanks Dad.

I was 11, Carroll 10, and we had been home alone. I’m sure it had been my idea, as usual, to pull out our BB guns and do target practice in our bedroom, since I could convince Carroll to do anything that seemed risky or fun to his warped ego. It started with hanging our Punt Pass and Kick awards from the ceiling, awards we had won by beating almost every kid our age in Carson County. The hard copper BBs ripped through them with great precision as we smugly applauded each other with our prideful eyes. Then it was time for a real challenge, something more suited for our obviously masterful skill level.

I’m sure it was my idea and I’m even surer that Carroll pulled the trigger on the now infamous shot heard all over Texas. We could see about a 3-inch square of my mother’s porcelain faced kitchen oven from our bedroom. The shot would have to go from our bedroom, through our hallway, across the corner of the den, into the dining room, under the cabinets with my mother’s good China, and travel about ten feet of kitchen before striking the oven door. There was no discussion. Most of my crazy ideas that I gave my brother went directly from my spoken word into action within seconds.

I felt like we were walking the thirteen steps of the gallows as we eased out of our bedroom, down the hall, through the den and dining room, and into the kitchen to inspect our dirty work. We knew exactly what the outcome was going to be when our Mom got home and spotted the chipped porcelain with the petite dimple on raw metal. We had to have a plan.

Carroll said we needed some padding. That way it wouldn’t hurt as much. Yep, that was our plan. It is unbelievable to me today that I considered this a good plan. After all, it came from Carroll.

We quickly stuffed kitchen towels in our jeans and sat quietly in our room waiting for our parents to come home. I remember the mumbling coming from the kitchen and my father stepping into our room. He always waited to pull his belt off until he got in front of us. I’m pretty sure it was part of the overall punishment experience. We knew there was no turning back once the weapon was drawn through all the loops on his pants. A belt in hand and being mad was not a good combination for Carroll and me.

“Bend over”, the words I hated to hear my dad say. Fifteen seconds and four or five licks into the spanking it was going really well for us. The towels were working great. Our plan should have included some fake screaming and crying because our dad pretty quickly assessed that something was wrong. I remember the sinking feeling as my dad lifted Carroll’s shirt to see the towel sticking out of his pants. He disappeared for a few minutes into the den where I’m positive, I heard laughing. However, creativity would get us nowhere. We had to complete our punishment. We took the next several licks on our bare behinds; raw leather on bare behinds.

We survived as we always did; our bond deeper. Several weeks later on one of our stops walking home from school, we decided to drop in on Mom. We needed two quarters for the soda fountain. We barely entered the lobby of the County Extension office where she worked before the giggles and jabs began to roll out of her co-workers’ mouths, “Have you killed any toasters today?”

We quickly pivoted and headed straight home, neither of us handling the embarrassment very well. Then I realized, thanks to our mom, that we were destined to become fairly famous in a multiple county area of the Texas panhandle. And all from a single incredible shot.

Not long ago, I had an epiphany that I had selfishly handicapped each of my boys with the worst of the worst fishing equipment. Each time they were going to join me on the creek, I scrounged around in my flea market stack of rods and reels and halfheartedly tested the frail line. To my credit, I did realize that this was unacceptable. I ordered them my go to gear, Pflueger President reel with a $30 medium weight spinning rod. Overlooking the missed opportunities for precious father / son fishing outings in their formative years, I smugly felt some vindication from my parental neglect.

Of course, I had taken my children fishing when they were younger. I’m not a monster! There was the occasional bream fishing in Arkansas and brookie fishing in Colorado, but these memories weren’t significant enough to register for any of us. What have I done? How can I pen a book about my dad’s impact on my life through fishing and totally shirk my own responsibilities? As any male ego would do, I looked for my justification in superficial excuses. Yes, I spent most of their fishing formative lives with them on either a soccer pitch or baseball diamond. Both were excellent athletes and played youth sports at a high level of skills and commitment of time. I toiled endlessly to make a living to put them through multiple years of matriculation in schools literally all over the world. Somehow, these excuses didn’t help. I was selfish. I loved fishing more than I loved passing on the pastime to my children. Don’t get me started on the guilt I still wear for not taking them to Disney World. What can I do? This must be fixed.

I called Jason. Both of my sons talk on the phone about as often as a politician admits a mistake. When we do talk it is full of “fine”, “not much”, and “busy”. Long conversations last about two minutes. I asked him if he had any fond memories fishing with me or his grandpa? After the awkward silence, there was the “not really”. I was insistent that we peel this onion back a bit more despite the tears that were most likely coming.

He reminded me that Dad had taken him brookie fishing on Spring Creek. It was my dad’s favorite spot in his waning years. It is also the spot that my brother and I had fished many times together with Dad. Jason didn’t know the name of the creek and after a couple of lack luster descriptive words about the experience, my heart was breaking. I’m realizing that I was totally clueless and selfish during these important years as a fishing father. However, we kept digging through the memories in what was now probably the longest phone call of our adult lives nearing 5 minutes.

I knew he had been fly fishing for the iconic bonefish in some Mexican waters. Surely, some of my youthful tips added to that experience. His memorable takeaway was his monumental battle with clear roly poly parasitic isopods that attached themselves to his ankles while wading. Really? He then reminded me that he has caught barracuda in the Atlantic and halibut in the Pacific oceans. Wow, we are getting somewhere. These are now on my bucket list. I can build a shared fishing memory on this someday.

A few years back, he had scheduled our family cabin for a bachelor party. Typing these words sends a shudder up the back of my spine. They had chartered a guide for the White River to fly fish for trout. He had me at “fly fish”. Surely, this was the event to hook him for life on the sport I dearly love. I was excitedly texting him the whole weekend with marginal results. I then realized that they had to get up at 6 AM to meet at the fly shop and the high temperature that day was going to be near freezing. Ouch, these conditions will turn off even the most diehard fishermen.

Before I slipped into a deep dark “Dad Depression”, I tried to contemplate the deeper meaning of this event in my life. I’ve told many people that the reason I’m still “cool” at my retirement age is that I listened to my children when they were younger. They have taught me many things that have served me well. Thanks to Jason and a book he recommended, I now see spiritual meaning in events in my life that most would classify as coincidence. I don’t. Both sons have taught me that it only takes a little bit more time and effort to make something special and special should always be the goal. We also share a bond for always taking the “road less traveled”. I’m sure this is an environmental trait handed down through multiple generations of Godwins. Dad instilled it in me each time we leapt onto the shallow path up the gorge to the luring high mountain meadow. I knew Jason had it when he stepped off the airplane from Stirling, Scotland during graduate school wearing striped bellbottom pants, paisley shirt, and amber colored sunglasses.

These shared memories will have to suffice. We must stay connected through more than just fishing the rest of our lives. I’m comfortable with that. However, I will forever be troubled by a missed opportunity that might have made all the difference. Maybe, I should have shared with Jason a $500 Sage fly rod to purchase his fickle fishing passion instead of the ragged but indestructible flea market Zebco 33.

This is an update to a previous epiphany I shared long ago on Facebook. It is prompted by a recent monumental event. An event that I didn’t know needed to be on my bucket list.

I experienced my first open mic night of poetry. I shared some original work and heard from amazing people, mostly from Fox, AR. Who knew Fox, AR, population 237, was such a religious enclave for poetry? Gravity BrewWorks of Big Flat, AR hosted “Forces of Gravity” organized by Maegon Mayes and hosted by the owners Bill and Tony. It will forever be a core memory.

This epic brewery is located next to nothing on highway 14. The only descriptive driving instructions are “get ready to turn after the straight away and prior to the next curve”. There are no discernable landmarks. If you get to Fifty-Six, population 205, you went too far outside of Big Flat going east on 14. It is very close to Push Mountain Road which is known by every skilled biker because of its beauty and difficulty. This is a remote part of our beautiful state. You could roll a big boulder downhill from the cornhole game of Gravity BrewWorks and hit the Buffalo National River.

I had so much fun and it reminded me how amazing relationships are key to my blessed life. I felt I needed to remind everyone of a few places and events that have served me well. They fill my soul with joy.

Lake City Colorado

This little town is nestled in the San Juan mountain range of the Rockies. That should be enough of a hook. For me it is a place to immerse myself in memories, all memories. Good or bad, I’ve found them healing to me in the right places. This is that place and I get to stand in several pristine mountain streams full of trout. In 1989, I introduced this part of Hinsdale County to six unskilled fishermen. We and everyone else we could convince have returned for 37 uninterrupted years. Something about Lake City has encouraged three generations and 300 people to attend at least one year.

It is my healing refuge.

Ozark Mission Project

Everyone should try to give unconditionally of their time or money to someone and as John Wesley would say “As often as you can”. It is such an easy thing to do. Christ commands us. It is the secret sauce to transform your life. Ozark Mission Project’s summer Mission Week is what reminds me to be a better me. It is a youth and adult mission opportunity to improve access and do minor home repair for those in need. Lately, we have evolved into building improved access in and out of homes. Wheelchair ramps, safe porches, handrails and steps tend to be the critical need.

The youth are what inspire me. They pay $300 to work in 90-degree Arkansas humidity. I do also love the sound of my impact wrench driving T25 screws into a ramp deck times a thousand. It is the young people that give me hope. I said it was easy to “give unconditionally”. For me, an enneagram two, it is so hard. I want to be thanked and profusely. It shames me that my ego still demands what is unnecessary.

It is my conscience.

Mount Eagle Retreat Center

Arkansas is an extraordinarily beautiful and spiritual place. Mount Eagle, outside of Clinton, AR, is no exception. It is 1000 acres of heaven so remote that you are enticed to “holy listen” like no other place. It has the same effect as a mountain stream for me. Most of the property is on a plateau (Sally Flat) overlooking the Middle Fork of the Little Red River. Picture stunning bluffs, eagles flying below you, and a gentle fog on the river valley each morning with your coffee. It is much more than sounds, smells, and visual cues to remind us of both our significance and our insignificance.

It is my chapel.

Gravity BrewWorks

Gravity BrewWorks is the most eclectic gathering place I’ve ever been in. A rural Cheers vibe, complete with deer sausage and cheese charcuterie trays provided by locals some Thursday nights. It has its own unique Cheers characters. Silent Bob and all his wisdom is their version of beloved Norm. He is possibly the only Floridian in my will. Mary and Sarah behind the bar with one liners and hugs serve and entertain. My good friend Rex is always ready with introductions to make you feel welcome. The conversation cannot be classified except “unencumbered by rules”. Try the round table near the bar if there is an open seat. If you are kind, you are always welcome. They brew only the best, but my favorite is the Kolsch. Tony and Bill have built something special.

It is my place of pure joy.

I’m very publicly announcing this because I want someone that loves me to scatter a thimble of my final ashes at all these locations. Be creative. I have not asked permission. You may have to cut a hole in your pocket like Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption.

It didn’t matter. We were sliding down the slope through the fireweed long before the taillights of the Ford station wagon were out of sight. We had most likely threaded on a nightcrawler in the backseat of the car. My brother and I would always use the technique of “leapfrogging” to avoid conflict on the creek. Trust me, brothers that are only 16 months apart in age engage in plenty of conflict. Conflict on the stream would have been viewed as unproductive and detrimental to us sacking a bunch of brookies.

We would never share creels because at the end of the day, there was going to be a count. We were so competitive. We wanted to beat each other, and we wanted to catch more fish than Dad. I do not remember who won these daily mountain challenges, probably because I lost most of them.

The water here is typical for the area. It falls quickly and is tightly bordered by willows and some pines. As you climb, the rock turns into boulders, the water becomes louder, and the canyon walls narrow. Most of this stretch still has its share of ripples and runs. There are a few slick spots to fish, but my brother and I searched for the deep pools and undercuts of the car size boulders. That is the prime area for worm fishermen. In our later fly-fishing days, we fished all the same water with dry flies.

Carroll and I seldom heard the directions in our excitement, and they were always the same so why bother. Dad should have made an instructional poster and taped it to the back of the front seat. Like all young boys of our age, we never executed those instructions fully. We fished much more impatiently than our father. He knew our pace. He drove just far enough to create adequate distance to give his boys room to be successful and reserved enough water for the much-needed brief solitude for himself. I do not remember a time that we did not catch up with him on the stream. I can still see the back of his quail hunting vest (always repurposing). He is almost embedded in the willows to hide. He is standing in the edge of the stream with his hippers tied tightly to his belt facing a deep run with willows hanging over the best water on both sides. It is a situation that only a fisherman of his skills could be successful. He would tight line a worm or perfectly float a dry fly under the deep cut edges of the bank then move to the edges of the run and finally to the slick spot behind the boulder at the furthest point. My brother and I would stand quietly and watch. Well, as quietly as elementary age children can.

He would signal us to take the trail upstream to the next pocket. He was giving us the next great spot to fish. I felt his eyes on me many times in those days. In 1,123 square miles of wilderness, I never felt disconnected from Dad. I felt safe. I was the picture of confidence. There were so many lessons and gifts in this beautiful classroom that we recreated hundreds of times.

Eight months after my dad’s funeral, my brother’s families invited Debbie and me to accompany them to Lake City. I jumped on this opportunity primarily because I didn’t want to be a pile of emotional goo in front of my Colorado Trout Fishermen Association (CTFA) brothers in September. I wanted to “get it all out.” I also wanted to spend some much-needed time with my sister. She had handled the brunt of the responsibilities during the difficult time. She needed, we needed, the time to process what had happened over the last several years. There was no better way to do this than to share time with family in Lake City, Colorado. It was the healing balm the Godwins have used many times.

It was early July and the water was still at historically high levels, so fishing was almost non-existent. Sandbags were still in town which was surreal to us long timers. Big Blue Road was inaccessible. Jana insisted on seeing a waterfall. This was a monumental decision. I suggested one that I knew we could safely approach. Nellie Creek falls is spectacular any time of the year but with this runoff, it would be unique and epic.

It was a wonderful day of pictures and memories. I had a chance to spend some quality time with my brother’s boys, Aaron and James. My brother died when they were very young, and my dad and stepmom included them on their yearly trips to Lake City afterwards. Consequently, their love of these mountains runs just as deeply as mine. Every step of every road, stream, or trail has a memory attached. It is usually a memorable story.

We were all piled into the Mighty Tundra as we drove towards the Nellie Creek Trailhead. My eyes started welling up as Aaron began telling stories of how Grandpa would drop James and him off on the road to “meet back near the mining equipment in three hours.” This opened a whole new door for me to process and help with the much-needed healing.

The very next day, I knelt at Deer Lakes to clean brookies for the fish fry. I was fully expecting to clean them all for our troop of 16, as I usually do with my CTFA friends. These grown men are clueless when it comes to effectively cleaning fish or they have pulled the Tom Sawyer scam on me for thirty years. My ten-year-old grandniece knelt beside me, pocketknife in hand, and started to help. I asked Claire to describe her technique. I knew what she would say. I just needed to hear it one more time. With the same cadence and confidence in her voice as my dad used more than a half century ago for me, she painted the picture and demonstrated the lesson handed to me and then to her father. Later that night, I cried the healing cry I needed.

I’m immediately immersed in comfortable feelings as I sit in my seat. Everything about this sanctuary is comfortable and welcoming, especially the cross this Easter morning. The massive space formed with extreme geometric shapes and angles comforts this college math major’s most prickly anxieties. I know and anticipate I will see attentive ushers place bulletins in convenient locations for those that enter the sanctuary from the front. My acquaintances, friends and mentors arrive and slide into their own familiar seats, always the same. I know at some point I will hear the booming bass voice of my friend Bruce. It will swallow the massive space with happiness. There will be awkward mic checks by key participants. There will be the prerequisite welcoming text from my friend Scott in the choir loft. There will be an escalating crescendo of laughter from every age until the countdown arrives at zero. Somehow, even the countdown seems normal and comfortable to me.

This Easter Sunday was a bit more special. The handbell choir was performing. I love me some handbells, and the balcony is the only place for serious handbell fans. The artistry, logistical challenges, physicality, and masterful technique are much more obvious looking down on the choir. I once uttered the words, “How hard can it be?” I quickly found out that two years of piano lessons and two more years of junior high band do NOT translate enough to playing a couple of bells in a choir. I’m more than amazed. I’m in awe every time I listen to my favorite choir. Besides, I’ve laughed, cried, and collaborated for many years “Expanding the Light” with these people I dearly love.

On the far left of my viewpoint from the balcony stands my wife Liza and her share of appropriate bells. She meticulously positions the 11 bells in her charge of the entire five octave choir in front of her. Each bell demands a unique place so they can be reached in the most efficient and strategic manner. I have seen her tame two or three bells in each hand on more difficult music. She typically plays bells G₆ through C₈ and appropriate accidentals (sharps and flats). These are the highest treble bells in the choir. For over 40 years of observation, I’ve never heard a timid, dainty, or metallic response much less a clunker. She only knows clear, strong, decisive, and distinct replies (rings). Metaphorically, each of the Lakewood UMC bell choir member’s witness could be described by these terms and many more complimentary phrases.

A quick check of the bulletin, and there is communion. This Easter just keeps getting better. I will get a chance to comfortably kneel on my favorite altar needlepoint cushion. I will give thanks for my family, past and present. The green “Trinity” depiction has special meaning for me much beyond its obvious intention. In the announcements, Pastor Alyssa asked us to Share the “Easter Prayer” with family and friends when we leave. This is so not me and probably won’t happen, but I did reflect on its message and what I personally believe. Again, I’m comfortable doing this in this place.

Lakewood UMC has felt like home for 45 years now. It has given me a safe space to ask difficult questions. It didn’t stop there. Its pastors and staff challenged me. My Sunday school class and fellow congregants challenged me. All along my long faith journey, they all loved me in spite of me. It is my comfortable place to challenge theology or any ideology. I do not feel stupid or judged for asking these important questions. Today’s important question from the balcony was whether or not I believe in the resurrection of Jesus. The balcony is not for the faint of heart. It can be a serious place sometimes. Specifically, do I think the resurrection of Jesus is just a beautiful metaphor or a historically accurate event? I’m somehow comfortable with either answer. I’ve evolved to understand Christ’s message through his actions and parables hold the key to how an individual, family, community, nation, or world should behave. I also find hope in the fact that most reasonable denominations and world religions have cornerstones of Love, Forgiveness, Faith, and Grace. These corollaries frame my eternally optimistic hope for our world.

I for one believe not only in the metaphorical significance of Easter and the joy of resurrection but I also believe it was the most significant event in human history. It is the only answer to our human brokenness. It is as clear and sweet to me as Liza’s highest bell, impeccably delivered for all to hear this Easter Sunday. Like the resurrection, the collection of individual notes from the entire bell choir formed something that not only made sense but became an arrangement of joyous perfection. I pray it fills our needs as it filled the sacred space of our sanctuary.

“We pray that the Easter light of life, hope and joy, will live in each day; and that we will be bearers of that light into the lives of others.” Amen

During the pinnacle of these times, my family and friends would fish the holiest of places, Nellie Creek. It starts at the foot of Umcompahgre in the San Juan Mountains. Umcompahgre is one of 53 fourteeners in Colorado and the sixth tallest of those. Nellie falls quickly off this spectacular peak into Henson Creek (formerly Godwin Creek) after only a few miles. It is home to one of the most iconic and photographed waterfalls in Hinsdale County.

Nellie is a place where legends are forged and exaggerated over time. Most of the locals would not talk of it for fear that some Texan or other less religious person (not likely) would find it and soil its sacredness. It was the second year of the Colorado Trout Fishermen’s Association (fictitious organization formed to just make merch) that a contingent of sinners ignored the warnings and signs to desecrate this purest of fishing experiences. Mark (ironically an ordained minister), Jerry (ironically a shaman), and I pointed Pepe’ the Mule (1989 Mitsubishi Montero) up the steep boulder filled road to the only wide spot to park.

We literally fell into the small creek down a 100’ embankment. We tried to spread out, but the thickness of willows and narrowness of the stream made it hard to find a spot. You could be standing five feet away from a hidden fellow fisherman and only know it because you would see a nightcrawler drift into the same hole you were fishing. Nellie is seldom more than two feet wide, and in places it is hard to find the water. Many times, we were fishing from our knees or crawling on our bellies to present the bait into a pool under a small boulder.

I know how ludicrous this sounds to most experienced fishermen, but the rewards were beyond our transgressing hearts and minds. Every tiny pool held a Colorado Cutthroat (Native) exactly an inch shorter than the pool itself. We were stuffing our creels with 14–16-inch fish when we stumbled onto a large beaver dam. Every mountain fisherman knows that behind every beaver dam is a beaver pond bloated with fish. We quietly stumbled, bruised and bleeding, up the small dam and hill overlooking the pond. I remember a heavenly choir singing the Halleluiah Chorus from Handel’s Messiah as we peered down into the clear pool. There were hundreds of hungry massive Natives who had never seen an Arkansas nightcrawler. The three of us had no skills in those days. We needed none to slay the species below us.

Maybe the saddest part of this depraved outing is that we took my dad back the next day to haul a limit of 20-inch fish up the bank to the car. The immorality did not stop there. The legend of Nellie Creek continued to grow and in fact became the epitome of FNG (if you know you know) hazing. Also, our senior CTFA elder, Warren, mastered the three-foot role cast to somehow fly-fish the creek amongst the willows in later years. He hooked and played a smart cutthroat three times out of the same pool and on the same dry fly. This fish shook his head from side to side violently the last time, signaling it had had quite enough.

Unfortunately, the original three of us documented this unholiest of indiscretions with a picture that has been hidden for three decades until recently showing up on the dark web. I guess part of recovery is owning your sin and asking for forgiveness. We beg now for your grace.

The falling water
Gently calling

Cleansing the rocks
As my soul

Looking for the weir
Changing my focus

Slowing the momentum
The pause I need

Holding the fish
Endless possibilities

The drift of the fly
Flawless execution

The gentle rise
Or giant explosion

Such is life
Either is miraculous

He was an early invitee to join the Colorado Trout Fishermen’s Association (CTFA) on our yearly pilgrimage to Lake City, Colorado. Imagine everyone’s surprise when this athletic country boy from Hot Springs, Arkansas demonstrated no aptitude for fishing. In fact, he had no related acumen around water. He tried my fishing kayak to near disastrous results. He tumped multiple times in eight inches of water. This was an extremely hilarious sight but a problem. Fishing is the overarching point when you drive 1000 miles across five states. We could fellowship at the local pub in Arkansas if that were the purpose and save all that gas money.

We were four days into his first visit to Colorado, and he hadn’t caught a fish. I had promised him, “Any moron can catch trout in Lake City.” He was starting to be more than a boob to mercilessly trash talk. He was in the embarrassment stage. We started leaving him at the cabin when we walked to town for a beer or to call the wives. No one wanted to be seen with him. We had to fix this. He sings in a church choir for heaven’s sake! He is a good person!

This was one of the early years. We were all full of testosterone and ignorant of our limitations. We would plan overnight backpacking trips some years to remote lakes to test our manhood. On a previous year, I had convinced everyone that we could hike from the base of Umcompahgre Mountain to the Big Blue Trailhead.

“It’s all downhill for ten miles and we get to fish our favorite creek all the way.”

I never said I was good at reading a topographical map. We started by climbing a saddle that we now call “The 800 feet from hell.” There is no trail in the Rockies that is “all downhill” and I forgot to add a few bends in the trail, so it was more like thirteen miles. I thought I had killed some of my closest comrades by the time we camped at Slide Lake, eight grueling miles into the backpacking. I swore I would never pick the trail again. I took a lot of grief. It was, however, an epic adventure.

This was the year we were going into the Powderhorn Wilderness and camping at 12,000 feet on the Upper Powderhorn Lake because the Lower Powderhorn lake sounded too easy. Our friend (?) Jerry Doty had chosen the adventure. He was also probably the best in shape of all of us. Knowing him, he had been training for this moment for months. Hell, he probably carbo-loaded that morning at breakfast. He was confident. Me, not so much.

The Powderhorn trail starts about 11,000 feet of elevation but gains steeply and falls multiple times over the 4.5 miles through beautiful aspen groves to the Upper Powderhorn. I remember seriously berating my friend Jerry for his choice of trails for nearly two hours of hypoxia. My vision had narrowed to just the boots in front of me and my legs were stinging with pain. A weird thing happens at this altitude. If you stop for just 30 seconds, you recuperate quickly like nothing happened. However, you can’t do this every 100 yards or you will be pitching a tent in the dark. Then you must factor in the passion to catch your first fish at 12,000 feet and the constant trash talking from the more fit fishermen. You will push beyond your limits every time. I think this was the beginning of the end of my backpacking. I was getting old.

We were met by several hunters packing out on horseback. By that time, I would have given them the keys to my car for a horse to finish this journey. “Boys, you are halfway there.” I cried, and I’m positive I spit blood from a ruptured spleen. However, in just a few hundred yards we burst out of the aspens onto an incredible Calf Creek Plateau wilderness meadow. The colors were indescribable. The thin air seemed much sweeter, and my mind cleared of all pain. I cried again with joy. The rest of the hike seemed manageable with divine inspiration.

We were all in agreement. Marty had to catch a fish, or we were leaving him there for the wolves and bears. He had no redeemable value if he couldn’t catch a stupid starving brookie at 12,000 feet that had probably seen only two fisherman all year. We marched by the Lower Powderhorn Lake for the weak of heart on up to a spectacular campsite on the Upper Powderhorn. We chunked our camping gear, ignoring the pending bad weather, and put our rods together praying our nightcrawlers did not get overheated from the hike.

We fished for hours with no luck. It was only by chance that one of the crew hiked back to the lower Powderhorn and caught a few. Evidently, the journal of visitors at the start of the trailhead is important to read. Later, we found out in our excitement to hit the trail that there was a notice of “Winter Fish Kill” on the upper lake documented several times in the journal. I got the blame for this. My dad’s patience was never passed down to me. We all whimpered a bit, ate our Vienna Sausages, and climbed into our sleeping bags for the cold and fruitless night. Marty was devastated and worried. I think he had gotten wind of our plan.

The next morning, we packed and started early to the lower lake. We were not leaving without a fight. We immediately started slaying the species. In fact, this was the historic place where Dave Mahan was baptized with his iconic nickname, “Barehand Mahan.” The trickle of a stream flowing from the upper lake into the lower narrowed as it entered the lake. Dave’s 6’6” frame and long legs could easily straddle it at that point. The brookies were thick at that confluence. He bent over and scooped brookies out onto the bank with his bare hand. This was epic and motivational for Marty.

We heard a girly scream and fish on for Marty! He played it literally for seconds before it hung on some moss twenty feet from shore. Marty dropped his rod in determination, unbridled his hiking boots, tossed his socks over his shoulder, and waded into the icy water at 11,900 feet. He followed his four pound test line all the way to his first documented Colorado trout. We were stunned and relieved. We didn’t have enough strong twine to strap him to a tree anyway.

Marty has done well since that day he avoided the “Moron Marty” moniker. He is now called “Panther Marty.” He was spin casting a small 1/8 ounce Panther Martin, Black with Yellow dots, in the Lake Fork of the Gunnison and caught a nice 25” brown. No one was more surprised than Marty. He at least landed it with his wading boots on.

I’m not sure if it was the teachers or the student. I blame my dad. When Dad was in our CTFA presence, he happily assumed the mentor mantle. He should have spent more time with Marty for his safety. I’m sure Dad didn’t understand the hurdle he had to jump. Shortly after he caught his first fish, Marty joined a group on one of our regular trips to Cebolla Creek. Every fisherman knows you go with what brung ya, especially in the wilderness of the Rockies. Fishing logistics and truisms are important. You should know where you were dropped into the creek, where you takeout, and when you are to meet back at the truck. Streams flow downhill. Moss on the north side of trees. Simple stuff for most fishermen, except Marty.

I guess all the hullabaloo about leaving him tied to a tree in the Powderhorn Wilderness Area eroded his confidence in his tutors. All but Marty arrived at the truck a little before takeout time, and we decide to pick up others to save time instead of waiting. A short time later we came back to the takeout and NO Marty. We waited and waited and waited. We searched and searched and searched. NO Marty. His side of this same story was a tad different.

Marty got back to the takeout and discovered the truck was gone so he started walking. At this exact time, a Hinsdale County Road Maintenance truck happened by as he was walking down the road. It was only 30 miles back to the cabin in Lake City. Who thinks like this? The bearded driver told him to “Hop in.” For some reason, Marty believed his friends of twenty years decided to leave him, so “sure.” He got in a truck with a total stranger leaving his friends to think the worst: bear mauling, beaver bite, buried in a landslide, fallen asleep.

He rode all the way back to town with this stranger discussing Bill Clinton running for President, no thought to his buddies tirelessly searching a thousand square miles of wilderness. Marty’s new best friend drops him off at the Alpine Village cabins in Lake City never to be seen again. Fortunately, my sister Debbie was sitting in a lawn chair drinking a toddy when he arrived. Marty quickly spins his sad story to which my sister says, “Dumb ass, get in the car.” My non-fishermen sister had connected the dots. My friend Marty, still clueless.

Gaining confidence and status each year, Marty somehow became the “leader” of a hiking trip. Hinsdale County, Colorado is home to six fourteeners (peaks over 14,000 feet in elevation). Marty convinced two other fishermen (not adventurers) to climb two fourteeners in one day. Red Cloud and Sunshine peaks are joined by a common saddle. Easy Peazy. Climb Red Cloud, look south, and walk towards the largest thing you see. There are no obnoxious trees to block your view at 14,000 feet. This would have been a monumental feat if “Wrong Way” Marty had not taken an infamous turn at 13,000 feet. It is extremely hard to recover from such a mistake. It is also hard to picture losing a well-worn trail used by thousands each season.

I can’t picture my dad making any of these life threatening mistakes. His attention to detail and logistics were monumental. We never left the campground until Dad had pictured the road to travel, gear to take, almost every step and cast in his mind. I wish Dad had spent more time with Marty to pass on some of his vision. Marty and Dad do share one characteristic. They seem to have a God in Heaven watching over them, protecting them. Marty, for obvious reasons documented here. Dad experienced sixty years of holy love wrapped in God’s creation of the San Juan Mountains.

Marty now answers to just about anything, especially “come and get it” and “hold my beer.” Sometimes, we slip and call him “Wrong Way” or an occasional “Dumb Ass” but usually we honor him with the name he is most proud of, “Panther Marty.” We must be kind. He sings in a church choir for heaven’s sake! He is a good person!

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It is the rare athlete that doesn’t do it. What happened to the image of the All American, student of the game, role model athlete? These spoiled rotten kids should respect the game and each other much more… or so it would seem.

While fishing for smallmouth on my favorite Arkansas creek, the hypocrisy of my thoughts suddenly occurred to me. Through my reflection, I realized that “trash talking” was actually conceived by fishermen.

These young, impressionable athletes have in fact learned this behavior from us, the fishermen. It is rampant in our sport, in all facets…weekend outing to TV professional.

How many times have you dished out or received something similar to the following?

** The morning pickup of your buddy who, as usual, is late…

“Hey Vern, fifteen extra minutes of beauty sleep is not going to help your face!”

“So much for catching the first sight of the sun hitting the water, guess we’ll get em at lunch.”

** The fishing attire…

“Your mama dress ya? You look like a chartreuse spinner bait!”

“Where’d ya get that hat? Its gonna scare the fish.”

“Hey Phil, you look like a Cabella’s catalog.”

** The presentation of the bait…

“Could you pound that line on the water a little louder? I’m trying to scare off a beaver that’s bothering me.”

“I’m pretty sure it is easier to catch one when the bait is actually in the water and not the willows.”

“You’d get an extra three feet on your cast if ya’d get rid of all those knots in your leader.”

** The catch…

“You couldn’t catch a big one if it jumped in your waders with ya.”

“Are you sure? From where I’m standing, its closer to seven than seventeen inches.”

“Hey Warren, I forgot my camera. Could you follow me today to document my seventeen incher? It will give you something to do.”

I have been the subject of many barbs from almost all my fishing pals. Almost without exception this “trash talking” is second nature to fishermen. However, I have a friend who would never participate. It was almost like he felt it was too juvenile or something.

Rex is a student of the sport, always trying to take his “game” to the next level. He is quiet, reflective, cerebral, and considerate of his surroundings and fellow fishermen. In other words, he is an easy target for a quick-witted barb basher like me.

One morning on the aforementioned favorite creek, we were rigging up and I started the usual round of jabs.

“You want me to tie on a grub for ya? That way you know you’ll get one on correctly.”

“I’ll give you first shot at the honey hole. You need all the help you can get to keep up with me.”

Then it happened. The usually smiling, mild mannered, sportsman had had enough. “I seem to remember catching more than you did last time.”, he said. This was an obvious breach of “trash talking” etiquette. It is unfair to use real facts and figures. Reality is never important. I was so stunned by his outburst; I failed to correct him. Instead, I went on the offensive. It was like two hyenas in a feeding frenzy for ten minutes. We traded several really good ones, and I ended the foray with an emotional “If you hadn’t hogged all the pink rooster tails, I might have had some luck!”. He had won…this time.

It was amazing, a near religious experience! This incident totally changed my theory. I now believe this behavior is genetic, passed on through generations of fishermen. With Rex, it was a repressed or hidden gene. So, the next time you are watching spoiled rotten millionaire kids “trash talking”, remember they just might be having good natured fun.

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The elder Godwin brothers, Drew, Bill (my dad) and Jay were the original brushstrokes of the Lake City tapestry inadequately described in this journal. Uncle Drew found it first in the early 1960’s and the brothers and their families were close behind. Long before the ripple effect of the Colorado Trout Fishermen’s Association (CTFA), there was the Godwin family tsunami of countless aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Then the next pesky generation started tagging along to Big Blue. It got crowded quickly.

Note: The CTFA was formed in 1986 to bind a group of Arkansas fisherman together into a community. Their nearly forty years of exploits are documented in journals. It is a loose organization with no by-laws but massive amounts of merchandise.

This hike was eerily a deja vu times 1000 moment and strangely comfortable. It was our second year in a row to try Brush as our yearly father-son Lake City fishing experience. Some of our adventures were failed first attempts usually involving bushwhacking and always a serious elevation gain. This was a tame hike in comparison. There was no moose stalking us like some years on Brush. However, I was about to blackout from the altitude. I tried to focus on the back of my dad’s vest as it was getting further away. Quiet reflection ensued.

I partition my Lake City years into three amazing seamlessly dovetailed pieces; childhood which extended through college (1964-1976), starting my own immediate family adventures (1977-1988) and my CTFA years (1989 to present). My dad spent my early years dragging my brother Carroll and me up some ravine where the deafening water was falling so fast, we couldn’t hear each other’s complaints and moaning. He had promised us another mysterious and mythical meadow full of 12” brookies. It was always over the next house-sized boulder. I liken this activity to the alpha wolf genetically passing on his survival skills to his cubs. We quickly obliged and were off on our own very early in our Lake City life. Together, my brother and I were wading all the streams of the San Juan mountains with our dad’s fearless attitude. There were no barriers other than exhausting our worms which we usually dug near the chimney on North Henson. Memories for me are as thick as grasshoppers on Big Blue in these mountains.

My immediate family started our own new memories in the middle years. We white water rafted the Arkansas River. It is one of my favorite family memories. Jason won blackout bingo one night at the Lake City community center. The very next day he took the $100 prize money to the Silver Spur to buy every version of the Bear Wiz tees in stock. I checked John out of school in the 6^th grade to share an epic back packing trip to Crystal Lake. Of course, I shared many of my favorite fishing and picnicking areas with them. I do have some regrets of this stage. I was always pulled into the vortex of repeating what was comfortable to me in Lake City usually climbing up a hill to fish instead of maximizing time with family. Liza and the boys were stuck back at the Alpine Village with Mom and the other women to do laundry and prepare the evening meal. Neither were much fun for Liza.

During these times, Dad had plenty of fishing partners, but he always saved some trips for me when my family arrived. We would seek brookies on dries on Cebolla (almost every mile of it) and of course Big Blue. We would go high up the Henson and North Henson for more brookies. We fished for rainbows and brookies in the Lake Fork from Lake San Cristóbal to above American Basin. The Lake Fork below the lake was reserved for hikes into the Ryan water for big fish - especially browns.

Dad looked forward to my arrival with my CTFA brothers. He was only slightly slowing down. Dad was hauling a fifth wheel up there by then, staying five months of the year. He would keep a count of fish and one year he was closing in on 1000 trout since May by the time we got there in September. When he started slowing down, Spring Creek and Big Blue were more my dad’s speed. This is where he taught his grandkids to fish or fill his creel to bail out the lack of fish for the CTFA fish fry.

He still saved something new and challenging for our trips together. In some years, I wasn’t sure if it was me or my Mighty 4x4 Tundra he wanted to fish beside. Many years, we climbed serious grades and road boulders in search of fish. The Tundra was needed for the rough road over Los Pinos Pass to one of my favorite fishing spots he discovered for me. Pauline Creek and the expansive “parks” on the way should be experienced by every serious fisherman.

There was only one year of the CTFA years (year two) where he followed me to a fishing hole. I coaxed him up to Nellie and we both fell down the hill above a 12’ x 12’ beaver pond to haul 20” cutthroats up the embankment. I’ve always looked forward to our father-son trips. It was Brush Creek this year and I was both anxious and excited. I think he may have been making the statement, “I still got it, so keep up!”

We both enjoy dry flies, small weight rods, and brookies. We both share impatience, stubbornness, and a few other attributes that don’t serve us well. Dad’s quiet wit makes him a great fishing trash talker, although his skills pale in comparison to mine in this area. He has chosen to be much more nurturing of his friends and family than I have. I hope to evolve into this stage of life one day. I also hope to understand fishing as well as he does. He has taught me that the only thing that matters in fly fishing is the few seconds the fly floats naturally above the fish. It isn’t your gear and it isn’t your poetic false casting. You must be quiet enough to not spook the target fish while being lucky enough to drop a fly naturally onto the water to float into the strike zone. Dad’s presentation above the water is ugly but he finishes flawlessly at the right time.

It occurs to me that Dad has always been there. He would quietly maximize every moment together with me, my family, and my friends. It also recently occurred to me that the earliest shared adventures were preparation for my life or maybe just one moment in my life. In 1987, Dad sat on the side of the bed near the door of Cabin 7 and delivered the hardest message of his life to our family. Except for Carroll, our whole family was together in Lake City that year. We had just returned to the Alpine Village from an evening fishing trip when Dad called us all together.

Carroll was so full of pain and addiction. Dad searched for the words that night to tell us Carroll’s struggle was over. I have now concluded that all the seemingly insurmountable obstacles my brother and I conquered in these mountains prepared me for this one horrific moment sitting on that nasty couch in cabin 7. It wasn’t the pain I endured following Dad to find the Alpine meadow full of historic brookies. It was the pure and precious, forged like steel, memories we shared. The initial pain of Dad’s message did not last. Lake City memories of my brother quickly replaced the pain. Cabin 7 is just another healing memory for me. Each time I step into a stream, I experience the healing waters and life lessons Dad shared with us. I’ve used this therapy many times in my life and plan to pass it on to anyone open to the whispers of the aspens and murmer of the clear streams around Lake City, Colorado.

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Fishing vessel used by overweight beer drinking Cro-Magnons.

Backing, line, leader, tippet, and fly

The knee bone connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone connected to the backbone, the backbone connected to the neck bone, the neck bone connected to the head bone, oh, hear the word of the Lord!

Bobber

A float, usually plastic or cork, used to identify when a fish has taken the live bait. Widely scoffed at by pretentious fly fisherman even though a strike indicator has the same function.

Brookie

Salvelinus fontinalis or Brooke Trout is the most prominent species of trout found in western mountain waters. Any moron can catch a brookie. They are thick as Arkansas mosquitoes above 10,000 feet of elevation in Colorado.

Crankbait

Hard plastic artificial bait mindlessly retrieved by some spin and baitcasting fisherman. These individuals have very low skills and are lucky to find the water with these lures.

CTFA

Colorado Trout Fishermen Association is a fictitious organization of ne’er-do-wells and liars absent of true leadership. Sadly, the moral backbone of the author’s fishing community.

Cutthroat (Native)

Oncorhynchus clarkia or Rocky Mountain Cutthroat are the native species highly sought after because of their fight and shyness.

Dropper

A technique used by hanging a nymph from a dry fly attractor. For most fly fisherman, this doubles your likelihood to hang up in the willows behind you.

Elevation

Replacement for population to describe Colorado towns. This is a better descriptor because the towns are populated by pesky Texans most of the year skewing the statistics and morality.

False Casting

Incessantly, whipping the air above you. A waste of time. More opportunity to snag your fly in the willows behind you or spook the brookies.

Farm Pond

The holy grail of flatlander bank and bobber fishermen. Absolutely no skills required to catch fish. Fish are a captive audience.

Fish

God’s most elusive and precious object put on this earth to heal men and women.

Fisherman

The subset of the human species known to always exaggerate and pontificate profusely about any subject. They endlessly spend money they hide from their spouse on the pastime they love, fishing. For this book, it is a not a gender specific term.

Fish Fry

The holiest of events of loving fellowship. Massive quantities of fried fish, hushpuppies and beer are consumed to celebrate the sport of fishing. A group picture must be taken at the end to prove humans can herd cats.

Flies

Artificial bait used by fly fishermen. Mostly made of deer hair, feathers, foam, cork, and rubber to represent flying insect life stages and terrestrials. Each individual fly is a work of art. They take hours of focused tedious work to craft and seconds to leave on the stream because of lack of casting skills.

Fly Fisherman

A cut above normal fisherman. Their best redeeming value is that they frequently return fish to the water once caught. They typically dress like they have money but lie and cheat like they stole it.

Fly Shop

The place you go to buy fly backing, line, leaders, tippet, and flies. If the internet is down, you can buy overpriced rods, reels, boots, and waders. There are many experts to assist but be leery of any advice. They are all fly fishermen and thus prone to lying for financial gain and self-aggrandizement. However, they are a necessary evil because most fishermen are lazy. Please support locally.

Guide

The worst type of fly fisherman. They come in two sizes. The old gnarly ones who are only in it for the money and the young ones who are pretentious twits. Again, they are in it for the money and to make fun of their clients clothing, gear, knots, and casts.

Habitat

The precious water and surroundings of fish to be managed and treasured. Most fishermen are religious about this thankfully and teach its stewardship along with many life lessons to posterity.

Hatch

The steam event of an insect evolving from egg to larvae to adult in front of you and your fish adversary’s eyes. It is a holy event. The fish go insane for a few moments and are more easily enticed to take YOUR fly. Don’t panic, enjoy.

Honey Hole

The place on the stream you step into first after driving 1000 miles. The fish are happy to see an old friend and reward your lack of skills often.

Journal

Documentation to be passed down to future sportsmen to prayerfully inspire stewardship of fish and their habitat. It is acceptable to embellish certain critical pieces of the text to humble others.

Knot

Fly fishing has been made overly complicated because years ago some Boy Scout decided the sport needed 20 different knots to learn and execute flawlessly to catch one fish. While fly fishing, there are no less than six knots between your low skills and the conquest of a 20 inch Cutthroat or Smallmouth. Knots are to be cursed.

Live Bait

Minnows, crickets, red wigglers, and the king of live baits, the Arkansas Nightcrawler. If you can’t catch fish with a nightcrawler, you should take up knitting instead.

Long Poling

The technique of fishing that ignores other fishermen’s space by making long casts into the best spots directly under their nose. This was elevated as an artform by Dad.

Mighty Tundra (The)

A 2012 Toyota Tundra able to leap over house sized boulders to reach high elevation fishing areas except when it has a flat tire because of neglect. Famously known for taking TWO trips in one day around the Alpine Loop.

Mountain Meadow

Sometimes called a “Park”. These areas of the mountains are the sanctuaries of the meandering high mountain stream full of 12-inch brookies. Count your many blessings if you drove to one instead of bushwhacking a dim trail for half a day.

Rainbow Trout

Oncorhynchus mykiss is the politician of the trout species. When you peel back their characteristics, they are shallow (gene pool) representatives of an amazing species of sport fish. They are mostly bred in stock ponds and can be caught on corn, dog food and spit. However, they look good in front of a camera.

Smallmouth Bass

Micropterus dolomieu is the only fish worthy of comparison to a Rocky Mountain trout. They fight harder and sometimes as picky taking a bait. The adage, “Don’t let em see your shadow” is just as appropriate. They are a worthy opponent to be revered.

Spinning Rod

Mastering this rod is like getting your BA in Anthropology. You need to go to school a few more years to study a fly rod before you are worth anything in the world.

Strike Indicator

Just a stinking bobber with a fancy pretentious name.

Superstition

Quirky irrational actions with no scientific or common-sense basis to enhance fishing (catching) success. Every fisherman is superstitious. If they say they are not, check their dirty socks. They likely haven’t been changed in a week.

Texas panhandle

This is where they filmed all the bogus moon landings in the 1960s. The only people on earth that believe this government conspiracy theory (and many others) live in this region. Known for great 180-degree sunrises/sunsets, smelly air, and foul-tasting water.

Trash talk

The required language between all fishermen. It is a romance language with delicate nuances and a multitude of dialects depending on the home region of the country they reside.

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Through life’s clutter and obsession with youth sports, I had missed meaningful interactions with some family members. Many were close but some were branches of the family tree that I’d forgotten, only to be recognized at family funerals from across the sanctuary. Either scenario needed attention. I have no excuses to not correct this in my retirement except the price of gasoline. I’ll rant on that in another missive.

I needed a little pomp and circumstance for motivation, so I formally named these excursions, “Family Pilgrimages”. I expect that I will have a logo, hats, and tees soon. There are NO rules for a pilgrimage, just a process. The first step is to arrange for an audience with a loved one and hopefully a bed/couch. Then you get in a car and pseudo randomly drive somewhere near a family member. Stopping at interesting places along the way are creative bonus points but not required. Note: Buc-cees is NOT interesting anymore. With this captive audience, you swap stories, embellish events, share some photos, while basking in all things family. The most important of which is unconditional love and laughter. I’ve trained myself to expect nothing of these events. That way when the surprises occur, I’m open to tears and transformation.

A theme evolved as I pondered my most recent Family Pilgrimages in March 2026.

Matriarch

A female leader who acts as the head, ruler, or dominant figure of a family, tribe, or organization. A revered woman who holds significant authority, guiding family unity, heritage, and decision-making. Characteristics include strength, wisdom, and nurturing.

I Googled this. It fits my family experiences. In fact, it fits a long list of strong women in my community including the wonderful examples I met with in March.

I pray these stories honor those matriarchs of my family who supported my craziness.

Chapter 1 - Volleyball with Cuz

“We’re headed to Arkansas in a few weeks for volleyball. We’re going to Springdale. Probably not very close to you guys.”, Mollie Godwin

Mollie

Nurturing

Cousin Ty Godwin was an early Family Pilgrimage several years ago. I remember the reason for this inaugural pilgrimage was Ty trash talking Arkansas barbeque. This probably isn’t accurate. We spent the weekend eating Oklahoma barbeque including some of his own making. I got an orange tee out of the deal from Oklahoma Joe’s. I got some refrigerator art from Allie and my Uncle Jay for illustrations in my book of poetry. Huge success. It was a wonderful weekend, but I still think Arkansas pork barbeque rules. Nothing like a well-prepared pork butt.

My uncle Jay became ill shortly after Mollie’s text and Ty attended to this emergency in Amarillo. Mollie and I decided to meander forward without him. The event was a U12 club volleyball tournament for Allie in Northwest Arkansas. I couldn’t miss this. I remember those days with my own children. In many ways, Ty’s absence gave Mollie and me a chance to connect on a different level.

The chaotic scene in the hotel lobby was gold for me. Teammates and their parents randomly arriving to screams and yelps brought a big smile. I also met some nice grandparents from North Little Rock, first of my serendipitous surprises. I could feel Mollie’s approach to connecting with me was going to be another surprise. I was not going to sit and cluelessly watch Allie’s games like most senior citizens. I was going to participate in the high five celebrations and girly chants like all the parents. It made the trip special and was a great backdrop of trust and vulnerability for deeper conversations.

Certain words bring an instant connection, a tsunami of emotions with no preparation to avoid. Farming, Colorado, fishing, are just a few word triggers that when used in conversation draw my immediate attention and engagement. The acronym, HR, is one of these. In the mist of catching up and cheering for Allie, Mollie described her current job with Human Resources responsibilities.

There was a time in my work career that I was connected at the hip with some very dedicated and talented Human Resources employees of all levels of the corporate hierarchy. Most of these moments are dark for me. I have “Fox hole syndrome” when it comes to this profession. They are warriors you can count on, therapists, confidants. They always had my back.

When I had my big job, HR protected me from myself during a time I was cynical of our company. They prevented me from going off script which I was arrogantly and selfishly known to do at times. I was the entitled manager protected only by my elevated stature. My importance was certainly no more critical than the unfortunate friends and co-workers sitting in front of us for our most recent RIF (reduction in force). These events seemed endless.

Amid the expansive Springdale Community Center gym, my new best friend and I shared the hypocrisy and raw guttural emotions of our common experiences. Mollie had felt what I felt, real empathy for the families and personal disruption, the blows to their dignity. It never became comfortable. I’m proud of that. I felt her sincere acknowledgement.

In her moment of sharing casually her current professional career, I was plunged deeply into most certainly shared emotions. So deep of a connection can never be broken. The shared community of unspoken feelings. Shared by those in the fox hole together.

“My MIT brother got the brains and I got the looks.”, Mollie laughed.

One phrase, two letters, revealed so much more. This was the greatest serendipity, the surprise that always happens on my journeys. Revealed in this moment was the strength of a mother, a family leader, a matriarch. I could now see in her eyes the ability to bring her A game on demand. In her stories, I saw her empathy. I saw her character to honor and respect those in their most vulnerable time.

I saw Ty and Mollie in Allie. Children reflect their loving mentors. Allie is an athlete and all that encompasses. She is diligent. She appreciates the skills needed and works hard. More importantly, she always had her teammate’s backs, unconditional support, especially for her best friend. Allie obviously loves volleyball. She was still having fun and lasting memories start there.

I also got an epic hot dog at the awesome Springdale Community Center.

Chapter 2 - Food Truck and Dress Shop

It seems insane that I got up at 4 am to drive 610 miles to eat lunch at a food truck in Fritch, Texas. My nephew is a talented and extremely interesting chef. I considered it an appropriate first stop of my next Family Pilgrimage. I met my sister Debbie and cousin Michelle at the food truck. My nephew Brandon did not disappoint. The stated goal of this pilgrimage was for Debbie and me to travel to Follett the next day. We wanted to visit with Tootie Gadberry and possibly put eyes on our great grandmother Long’s dress shop. Everywhere I turned, there was a family matriarch to celebrate.

“Once in a while, you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right.” Grateful Dead

Michelle

Heritage

“A good friend will help you move. A best friend will help you move the body.” — Unknown

The wind was howling of course. We were in the heart and soul of the Texas panhandle, Fritch, Texas. Well, that may be another exaggeration. I hadn’t stopped in a long bit on my journey but was afraid to step into the porta-potty for relief when I arrived. I was certain it was about to take flight and most certainly would deposit me in Lake Meridith. Michelle was late per script, her script, not Debbie’s or mine. We finally braved the wind to hunker down near the order window.

Outdoor seating was not an option, so we decided to trash Debbie’s fancy car with all the Pilipino juices and sauces. The meal was epic. The vision and business case seem solid. I can’t wait for the next steps, especially a door to keep the wind out and a table that won’t fly away.

Michelle, Debbie and I are close as cousins go. It took little time to catch up on all except the most recent family experiences. Michelle owes the mischievous twinkle in her beautiful eyes and her quick wit to her incomparable father and family icon, Drew. I knew Michelle would not miss this family interaction. Family is important to her. No way she was missing her part of the pilgrimage. She is also the “Godwin Gabfest Agitator”. The Gabfest is our family replacement for a family reunion. It just happens at random times, mostly thanks to Michelle. She is persistent.

Before we knew it, we were midway into a Gabfest planning meeting. Michelle was not missing a quorum or a chance to dole out assignments. Somehow over the constant howl of the wind, a plan developed. Reflection reveals all along it was Michelle’s passive aggressive gentle nudging

friendship with Debbie that has made every Gabfest happen. This works for me.

Emotionally and geographically, I can’t always be there for my sister. Michelle is that best friend for my sister. “Friend” doesn’t seem big enough to define this relationship. They are there for each other when their pain overflows, needing someone to acknowledge and consult. No judgement. No questions asked. Both matriarchs place all their family woes on their own shoulders and seldom ask for help, except from each other. This is deeper than just friendship.

Michelle has a heart for family history, seeking simple times, farm times. She has genetically and ethically passed that on to her progeny. I proudly share this with her. History is important. Our roots are who we are, and the next generation needs to understand, good and bad.

These peas in a pod carry the family torch as important matriarchs. They hold it high and refuel it when the light dims.

Debbie

Strength

“In family life, love is the oil that eases friction, the cement that binds closer together, and the music that brings harmony.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

Our love language is trash talking. We genetically received this from our mom. She was an expert.

My sister is the best of the best at many things. We share many characteristics, both positive and negative. We are both controlling and try to control things we cannot. We overcommit to worthy projects to the point of breaking. She has ugly feet and I own the Godwin grotesque earlobes. Emotionally, she usually sucks it up and I cry a lot. We are both freaks of nature, physically and emotionally.

I managed a significant piece of a $6 Billion Fortune 500 company when I was working but couldn’t manage my emotions and certainly had little influence on Dad during his end times. Debbie was in total control or at least she gave that illusion. I supported her in very rare moments when she needed me. Possibly my brotherly torment when we were younger was the preparation she needed. I doubt it.

Once a year, I travel with friends through Spearman, Texas on our yearly Colorado fishing pilgrimage (yes, I have many pilgrimages). For forty years, we have enjoyed some much-needed spiritual counseling to each other during this time. Our private session begins with coffee at 4 am and continues until the rest of the lazy fishermen riding in my truck awake. This is priceless and precious time together.

So, I was excited Debbie was going to join me on this pilgrimage to see Tootie in Follett and the dress shop. I knew we would have a 4am spiritual counseling meeting. I needed it this year. Unfortunately, I’ve let current politics bleed into and erode my wellness, certainly mental wellbeing. Debbie had no room for it. Her vessel was full. This epiphany highlighted my own selfishness in our relationship. For far too long, I have dumped my problems and projects on her. She is the person who challenges my own bubble, forcing me to think differently. It is always an inclusive viewpoint. She breaks me down when I want to judge, when I want to exclude.

I’ve often wondered how her emotional vessel is not overflowing like a country spring or some years like a volcano. She shoulders so much for her family and community. Here, let me transfer some of mine! This year’s session was important. This time, it was “lets focus on family”.

Matriarchs have the strength of 10 men (literally males, specifically old fat white guys like me). Family is their thing, not the only thing, but always in the forefront. It nurtures every decision. These decisions are forged like iron in a fire. They are always forward facing. Too many loved ones are tethered to these family leaders to ever turn back. They may seem to be anchored for a while, but this is a temporary respite. When it is time, they will cut those anchors loose.

This is my sister.

Tootie

Wisdom

“Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.”

John Wesley

This pilgrimage started at my uncle Loy Burke’s funeral. He was my mom’s brother and son of Jane Burke. I had not seen Tootie or Shawn Gadberry in a month of Sundays. So long in fact, I couldn’t tell you how we were related. Tootie’s son, Gavin, tried to explain it to me at the funeral and it flew right over this old man’s head. As soon as I found out her roots were in the United Methodist Church, the pilgrimage was on. In my family, Methodists are as rare as hen’s teeth.

Damon made the trip with us because he was afraid my sister, love of his life, wouldn’t be able to find her way through a prairie fire if one broke out. The wind had been unusually high. The panhandle has suffered from many of these disastrous events in recent years dangerously burning over a million acres. Debbie, Damon, and I met Tootie and her daughter Shawn Gadberry Ashpaugh in the front yard of Tootie’s Follett home. Smiles and good feelings all around.

“My real name is Devona, but everyone calls me Tootie,” she joked.

This immediately endured me to her again. I’m a third generation “Willard”. All three generations preferred nicknames. Mom and Dad had a weird sense of humor. Every “Hank” in old westerns is a “bad guy”.

First order of business after hugs and introductions was to define our relationship. Shawn easily put her finger on it. “We share a great grandmother.” It still wasn’t good enough for me and it didn’t define my relationship with Tootie. We pursued further. Our grandmother Jane Burke had two sisters, Edythe (she went by Bill) and Nina Jean. Bill was Shawn’s grandmother. Bill was mother of Shawn’s father, John Gadberry, husband to Tootie. Shawn, Debbie and I share Great Grandmother Long (Martha Ann “Anne”). I believe that makes Shawn my second cousin and Tootie my first cousin once removed.

One of my core memories with the Gadberry family was when we were all children, we played at the dress shop in town owned and operated by my Great Grandmother Long since the 1930’s. Let that sink in for a second. Grandmother Long was a rare lady. I remember loving to be around her. I showed Tootie a cute outfit that Grandmother Long gave us for Jason’s birth. Both of Liza’s and my boys came home from the hospital in that two-piece outfit.

Tootie is a very young 88 years old. She was as funny, gracious, and outgoing as I remembered. She was 18 and John 27 when they got married. They eloped to Clayton, New Mexico. John and Walter (Shawn’s grandfather) were partners in farming and ranching. Tootie remembers it took more than two weeks to harvest all the wheat. It must have been a large spread.

Tootie went back to college because John was worried he wouldn’t live long enough to get all his children raised and he wanted her to have something to fall back on if something did happen to him. John never thought he would make it to 60. He lived to be 93. Tootie graduated with a business degree in 1975, the same year her daughter, Shawn, graduated from high school.

Another core memory was when Shawn played in the district basketball tournament in Amarillo. Our family attended to support her. She played in the days of six on six play (3 defensive guards and 3 offensive forwards for each team). Guards were confined to half of the court and forwards the other. It was a different game but every bit athletic and competitive. Shawn made All State her sophomore year in high school. My mom, Ouida, was also a guard for Mobeetie High School.

This was my pilgrimage surprise. I remembered that event but had no idea it was my second cousin that was excelling on the court until this moment 50 years later.

Tootie reminds me of all the interesting and meaningful influences in my long life. These matriarchs have helped sculpt me into the person I have become. The list is long. My grandmothers on both sides, Mom and mother-in-law Liz Thorn, Cousin Linda, Aunt Tria, and my best friend and wife of 50 years, Liza, are the list that comes to mind as I write this. Of course, there are others that are related only through shared life experiences, especially serving others. It is overwhelming emotionally to think of these influential figures in my life. With Tootie, this list expands. I’m so glad I drove to the farthest reaches of Texas to get acquainted with my Gadberry matriarch.

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Walter is an idiom in our family, like the words Coke (at least in the south) or Kleenex. These products have evolved as a standard bearer covering all their competition. They are the yardstick all others are measured. Walter does not have a species. He lives in every stream, river, lake, or ocean. He is the biggest, strongest, and smartest fish to be revered and pursued endlessly. It is enough to just engage in battle with Walter. There are no expectations of victory. I don’t have an earliest memory of Walter’s mention. He was family and always there. He entered fishing conversations naturally and as easily as discussing rods and reels with Dad. When Walter was mentioned by Dad, all eyes and ears turned, hanging on his every word.

I’m sure Dad thought my mom had hooked Walter when she fought the 9-pound New Mexico Walleye she caught at Conchas Dam on June 19, 1983. This beast is now hanging in our families’ Ozark cabin. It is an old school mount in the original skin. Over the years, his prominent eyes have bulged out more and have developed milky cataracts like all old things. It is quite creepy, but I can’t dispose of it. It isn’t Walter. Walter would never succumb to even the best of anglers like my mom. No Godwin could live with the fact that they killed Walter. That would be murdering a family member.

Dad must have been confident of success the day his waterwagon was hauled all over Lake Ray Roberts in Texas, hanging on to a monster that had latched onto his chartreuse spinner bait. This was only an 80-pound catfish, not Walter. Walter isn’t a stinking bottom feeder. He has too much royal blood for that. His domain is wherever he damn well pleases. He usually hangs out in the best and most secure real estate just off the bait fish superhighway, location, location, location. His home is the equivalent of a mansion in a gated community. He lumbers out to feed whenever he wants and eats only the most tempting best.

I’ve seen Walter in many rivers. I happened to be standing in the Lake Fork of the Gunnison River late one evening when a hatch started coming off all around me. The largest trout I have ever seen came completely out of the water and almost landed in my hippers. This scared me so badly, I immediately went back to the cabin to calm my nerves.

Also hanging in our Arkansas cabin is a 19 ½” Smallmouth replica art done by Duane Hada. He painted it from a picture of the largest smallmouth I caught on my flyrod and gently released to fight again. If you were anywhere on the creek during that battle, you would have thought I had hooked Walter. I was pleading to all the gods for help each time he breached the surface.

If you fish for smallmouth long enough in the crystal-clear waters of the Ozarks, you will be lucky enough to hook a large fish. Occasionally, several larger fish will be nipping at your hooked bass during the battle. I’ve pleaded many times for my conquest to “spit it out, let Walter have it!” Walter is just there for the exercise or like most good fishermen, there to agitate and torture the weak; the equivalent to trash talking.

In the well documented Nellie Creek incident, Walter swam unconcerned below us and rolled his eyes each time one of his stupid brothers and sisters latched on to our Arkansas nightcrawler. He might as well have been sitting on the bank with us watching the drama play out.

So, my ears perked up on this call. Dad had hooked a big fish in the Ryan water north of Lake City. He knew I was preparing for my September trip with the CTFA and was expected to give a fishing report to all our members. He understood I had no expectations that he had landed Walter. He also understood that I wanted to hear every detail of the epic fight because it would give me enjoyment and further bind us together.

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It was my birthday weekend of our Golden Wedding Anniversary year, and I was pumped about being in Kansas City. It started Thursday morning in North Little Rock with a nice gift of a cocktail recipe book, honoring my latest retirement hobby. It was nice and unexpected. Typically, just remembering the date is gift enough at my age.

We had decided to spend Thursday night of our adventure at the cabin, thus avoiding long hours of night driving. Old people don’t like to travel at night. Our mission was to have cocktails and a decent dinner. In Harrison, Arkansas this means finding a bartender that knows rye whiskey is the spirit of choice in a Manhattan and a restaurant that offers something that is NOT fried. TallGrass Bar and Grill survived our Google searches.

We avoided sitting near “Trivia Night” in the bar and found a quiet place in an eclectic, well-lit dining area. The vibe matched us. Again, in Harrison, Arkansas, that means there wasn’t a hint of a MAGA hat in sight. Our young server, Aaliyah, made us feel like we were the only customers in the building. Old people deserve to feel special. Those employees with a knack for engaging on a real level are priceless and Aaliyah gave us both tremendous joy that night. TallGrass is our new cocktail bar. They got everything right.

The next morning, we got away early from the cabin, hoping to make Kansas City by early afternoon. To save time, we decided to eat in the car along the way. Gas station sandwiches are always ill-advised, but these choices were on another level of bad and bland. Old people still make poor choices despite our longevity.

We somehow avoided food poisoning and arrived at our weekend agenda cornerstone, the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. Liza had attended previously and it was very high on my bucket list. We had a further serendipitous mission. Jason told us that his friend Kim’s great grandfather, Grady Orange, had played. Old people love a purpose and a mission. Liza and I set off to visit all the displays, listen to the movies, and read all the fine print in hopes to find his name somewhere in the massive building. We weren’t optimistic.

I was squinting to read the fine print on a random display when I realized I was staring into the eyes of a life size display of Grady Diploma “Dip” Orange! He had played from 1925 to 1931, playing with the Birmingham Black Barons, Kansas City Monarchs, Cleveland Tigers, and Detroit Stars. There he was standing in front of us in his Detroit Stars uniform.

He was a talented ball player and a great man like so many legends honored in this fabulous museum. Orange played baseball to pay his way through Meharry Medical College. He practiced medicine in Terrell, Texas before moving his practice to Alexandria, Louisiana where he died at his home of a heart attack in 1946.

We checked into our hotel and proceeded to the inaugural “nap” portion of the weekend agenda. Old people find joy in naps. Our plan was to eat at the Jerusalem Café, a favorite from John’s college days. But first, I had to break up a fight between Liza and a young thirtyish professional in the parking garage. Certainly, not on my bingo card for the weekend.

We had just walked into the hotel parking garage to a chorus of metal and plastic screaming for forgiveness! The white Ford Focus company car was pulling into the spot next to our truck entirely too fast and casually. This sent Liza into a rage warranting a WTF response! Instead of cursing, Liza chose to lay her body on the right rear quarter panel and simultaneously scream at the poor unsuspecting perp. I thought Liza was going to pop an aneurysm when the lady said, “I’ll be right back.” Liza was not going to have an injustice on her watch.

I leaned on my car mechanic expertise by spitting on my thumb and rubbing the damaged plastic to proclaim, “That will buff out.” The metal front right wheel rim had some nasty scratches. The young lady did return to the scene of the crime and Liza had calmed down. She worked for a Kansas community college and was displaying her company insurance card in both hands like this was a Japanese business convention. Old people find it hard to not connect with everyone, even the person who just sideswiped your car. “Your nails are beautiful.”, charmed Liza.

I’m finding it hard to retain my composure by this time. There is something about seeing Liza in high anxiety situations that makes me laugh uncontrollably. This reminded me of the delivery room incident 46 years ago. I found it amusing that Liza was sweating, screaming, pushing, and loudly breathing in pain. That laughter didn’t work out so well for me.

We finally pulled into the WRONG Jerusalem Café. Who knew it was a local franchise? We ordered way too much food because we had no clue. I love lamb and Liza loves anything but lamb. We had to have some middle eastern bread! It looked more like a large pizza. All was very good.

We were still laughing about the parking garage exchange, when a large group of middle eastern men made their way confidently into the restaurant. I don’t know why they drew my attention other than I was thinking that every one of those young men’s mamas could cook better lamb and Falafel than this chain. Certainly, the homemade Baklava would be to die for. Why were they here?

They all took their places, leaving an end seat at the long table. I always joke that you should never sit there unless you want to pick up the tab. Soon a “Saudia Prince” like charismatic young man comes in and takes his place at the honorary head of the table. At this point, I’m tapping down my urge to connect with someone in their party with an obvious great story to tell. You know old people love to connect.

We pay and are leaving the restaurant when I spot a gaunt and highly athletic young middle eastern with sunglasses on standing at attention near the door. Hands folded, stern professional look. His head turned and followed me out. He never changed his stoic demeanor. In my mind he was Massad or one of their counterparts. Old people enjoy a little drama, but not too much.

Next were cocktails back at the hotel and hopefully early to bed after a very full and adventurous day. The day was not ready to give up. Shortly before midnight:

Phones go off!

Kansas City sirens go off!

My Spidey senses go off!

The weather goes off! Horizontal rain and wind. Hail.

The pajamas go off and clothes back on!

We go off to the lobby at midnight!

The only other folks worried about the tornado were a very tall junior high basketball travel team. Of course, Liza struck up a relationship with the coaches. It solidified at breakfast the next morning. “Such a fine group of polite young men.” Old people really like to connect even at 1am in life threatening situations.

It was a stock Hilton franchise breakfast. The one with the Barbie Doll size perfectly folded omelets with nothing in them. They had sausage(?) gravy, crunchy biscuits, yogurt, and fruit. It was a breakfast.

We successfully confused our GPS again and after reloading found the River Market area for our reconnaissance run. Old people like to do a dry run of planned events to ensure success when the time comes. Saturday morning at 8am is a great time for low traffic scouting. We recalled a few places we had been to before and were extremely confident we were going to have a cocktail as soon as it was 11am somewhere in the world.

It was souvenir tee shirt time, and we were off to GEHA field at Arrowhead stadium gift shop. They had a cheap shirt on the clearance rack. I found out later it was for the super bowl they lost. Again, connecting to willing old ladies behind the counter, we discussed the move of the stadium to Kansas. They were sad and it made me sad.

John had recommended Bloody Mary’s at Harry’s Country Club. Not only did this place give me chills because of the amazing vibe, but it also had the best bartender of our entire trip. The old country motif had Patsy Cline on the wall. The music matched the ambiance. A free shot of an interesting rye from my now favorite bartender solidified this experience as epic. We will be back.

We then made our way to an old favorite, the Westport Flea Market Diner. We watched the basketball Hogs against Mizzou there while I sipped a “Joe’s Old Fashion” and split one of the best burgers I’ve ever eaten with Liza. The cook noticed my beautiful date and insisted I give her a flat of French fries on the house. Old people connect without even trying.

Liza had to drive me back to hotel for a well-needed nap. Afterall, we needed to prep for the other cornerstone event, Joe’s KC BBQ. Sooooo much excitement for 72 years. I reloaded naproxen sodium.

Text to family later that evening:

“I just waited an hour in line for BBQ at a GAS STATION. That violates one of Jason’s rules for eating out. I got my burnt ends. They disgusted mom but I enjoyed them. Best thing I ate was banana pudding. Overall, another amazing KC Day. Day drinking and BBQ doesn’t get much better.”

Sunday morning Liza had to say goodbye to “Nancy Breakfast” as we checked out. Last name “Breakfast” is how she wanted to be referenced on the survey if Liza filled one out. Of course she would. Nancy was one of those engaging hosts that are so easy to connect. Afterall, we survived an EF0 tornado together.

That Progressive Insurance commercial about turning into our parents is so correct. Old people try to connect with everyone. For Liza, I think she is just tired of talking to me. For me, life is too short to waste on awkward silence.

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Dad was staying in Lake City five months out of the year in those days. He would pull his fifth wheel up Slumgullion pass in May and back down in late September. About August one year, he called and said, “Hank, I’m closing in on 1000 fish this year.” Stop and contemplate that for a moment. Measure it to your best day. He knew these mountains like the back of his hand and fished them hard each day.

So, when I heard that my uncle Jay and Dad had found a new spot, I was suspect. I had visions of climbing over boulders the size of Volkswagens at 10,000 feet of elevation praying that “meadow” was around the next bend. However, I was up to a new challenge.

My dad is an amazing fisherman, but he speaks in tongues when it comes time to give directions, especially to a new fishing spot. After receiving some somewhat cryptic directions from my father, I talked my friend Phil into what I’m sure I portrayed as an “epic journey.” We had several epic journeys in the early years. Now we just fly direct or drive like hell to get there. Phil and I were to meet his brother-in-law Wade and his friend EC in Canon City and then off to the Pauline to camp. The directions I remember from my dad were, “Start in Gunnison, the southeast side of town, and pick a highway that goes south. How can you miss the Pauline?” Of course, my fishing party and I got lost and never found it on the first attempt.

Not all was lost. We trespassed onto some beautiful land and found a cool dugout to take some pictures. We fished a bit and eventually tried to find a campsite. These were the days before GPS devices. It is a wonder we didn’t get shot or eaten by a bear. We ended up camping on the side of the road. We did have a picnic table. The next morning as we were packing up, a caravan of antique cars on their annual tour of the Rockies drove by to take the edge off our disappointment. We were driving 1000 miles from Arkansas and thought it would be a great idea to drive straight to a spot high in the Rockies that none of us had seen. We had directions from Dad that seemed closer to hieroglyphics. Writing it now, it seems both crazy and typical of our young stupid selves at that time.

That same year I begged Dad to take me to Pauline Creek, the new spot. The start of the journey to Pauline from Lake City is familiar. You turn north at the top of Slumgullion Pass and follow Cathedral Road along the amazing Cebolla Creek, through the Powderhorn Valley until you get to the sign for Los Pinos Pass. This was where the “no pain, no gain” started. The road was extremely rugged and tough on normal sized vehicles. At least we weren’t climbing over these road boulders with hand and foot.

We turned right somewhere near the top of the pass and followed more bad road. My heart sored as I saw the sign for “Big Meadow.” I was still riding in the marginal comfort of a truck! I had somehow avoided turning an ankle on rocky, slippery terrain and lacerations from willows whipping my face to get to this glorious meadow. September in Colorado has a hue of gold. Yellows and browns dominate the landscape. I almost cried, and I hadn’t seen a stream yet!

After a short distance, we pulled into a turnout near a fence with a winding high mountain meadow stream singing our song. The thing I remember the most about this first of many visits to the Pauline was the silence. The gentle wind over the meadow grass was all you could hear. It had that spiritual feel of Big Blue but looked more like Soldier Creek. Most of the Pauline is a narrow 24 inches wide, but it had that familiar serpentine layout. Fishing was great.

The type of fishing on the Pauline is what I was taught from Dad. “Don’t let them see your shadow,” he would advise. This water demands strict attention to this adage. There are no trees and very few willows to hide behind. The creek has narrow loops and bends. In 100 yards, you may encounter twelve prime spots consisting of undercut banks, small pools, tiny, short ripple runs, and all laden with brookies. However, it only takes one unfamiliar movement to send them deep to cover. Fly fishing from your knees, floating the dry fly long runs, and bouncing or dragging the fly into the pool off the bank are tricks we all learned for productive results. It is highly technical dry fly fishing.

Many of the CTFA have returned to the Pauline. The road has improved ironically due to the beetle infestation. The dead timber is being logged, and the loggers have improved the roads significantly. The signage has also improved. If you follow the signs to the Stewart Creek Trailhead, you will come to a series of fishable creeks. The Pauline is first, but you will pass Perfecto, Chavez, and Nutras on the way to the trailhead. The road ends here. We have not spent serious time on Stewart Creek, but Nutras Creek has been very productive for many of us. Others found the beaver pond on Nutras first. We have all fished it now and pray it comes back every year. I stood there one year and caught 20 fish in a row on a dry fly. On all these creeks, I seldom fish more than a few yards from the tailgate of my truck where I put on my boots.

In later years while exploring up the mountain to Stewart Creek Trailhead, we discovered we were near some iconic waters that mirror the Colorado Trail for a bit. The Cochetopa Creek is the “meadow of dreams” for high mountain fly fishermen. It meanders through an alpine meadow mostly sans willows and trees. The Continental Divide spectacularly looms over you. It is likely you will not see another human boot print. You will see lots of wildlife tracts. It is special. Most fishermen fly by the Pauline to Cochetopa. This is a welcome mistake.

Thanks to county maps and more robust GPS resources, the trip passing the Pauline and on to the Cochetopa is not as much of a mystery now. It is nestled in expansive La Garita Wilderness Area. At the Stewart trailhead, you are almost standing on the Continental Divide. As the crow flies, it is only about 12 miles north of the town of Creede. It is a long but beautiful trip to Gunnison from this area.

The Pauline is one of those places I feel closest to Dad because I now approach the water the same as he did. My mind and senses shift into overdrive as I creep up on the stream. The silence is still the thing I look forward to on these trips. When the wind lies down, it is as quiet as an empty cathedral and as holy. Your presence in this space will quiet your physical nature and heighten your spiritual senses. I always spend a bit of time in silence on the Pauline to listen to the whispers of the wind and those CTFA members that have passed. It is just another gift my dad gave to me to cherish and share with others.

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