With Rod and Line in Colorado Waters

by Lewis B. France

I never flourished my master-piece of mechanical skill over anything save the weeds and the few straggling vegetables that decorated our back yard. The rod was too good to keep. I lost it early, just as the good children die.

I had, and yet have, a friend, whom I’ll call Sam, because that is his name. About a month before the time fixed for our departure to the hills, Sam came over and told me I had a fishing rod, as though I had been the only man in town unacquainted with the fact. He said he wanted to borrow it for a few days, he wanted to go fishing and hoped I’d accommodate him! Think of loaning your watch to a two-year-old for a day or so. He promised, of course, to bring it back in good order; I expected no less—than the promise, I mean, and cheerfully allowed him to walk off with it. I never saw it again, but I am glad to say I saw Sam. He came back in about a week; there was nothing the matter with him, his bones were whole, he hadn’t got drowned, nor been bitten by rattlesnakes, nor chased by bears, nor clawed by mountain lions, nor lost his scalp. The mosquitoes had been a little troublesome; there was some comfort in that, but not enough to speak of. He had come over to see me, he said, about “that fishing rod.”

“Yes, the fact is, I found an old friend on South Boulder, and he took such a fancy to that rod, that I could do no less than make him a present of it. It’s a splendid rod, that’s a fact, and I don’t know exactly how I can replace it, just now; I’m sorry you’re disappointed at my not returning it, but I don’t see—”

We were not a very ceremonious community in those days, though kindly disposed. At the outset I was on the point of telling Sam to say his shortest prayer, if he had more than one, but changed my mind and told him not to say any more about it. It was some time before he would be convinced that I was not mad.

That summer I fished with a clear conscience and a plum bush pole and had a good time.

By the time the season was over Sam came round again. He brought with him a rod; it had four joints and an extra tip; it was of ash and lance wood. Sam had sent to the states for the treasure by ox team, and had ordered a reel in addition. These he informally turned over to me, still doubtful of my condition of mind. I tried to make him understand that from the first I had felt that his love for me had prompted him to treat my property as his own. He finally caught the idea, and the first trout I caught on that rod was twenty inches long.

I have the rod yet, with one of the original tips; I have used it every summer since; if no accident happens it may last forever. A few years since I changed the reel seat, put the whole concern through a whip-wrapping machine, and think I have improved it. I have never weighed it, and I do not intend to say how many pounds of trout it has been fatal to. In accordance with the frontier rule “she” has a name: “the old reliable.”

Since the rod has been put into shape for this summer’s trip I have been made happy—No! it’s not a new baby, but the next thing to it—a split bamboo. I have it in my mind, that an old fellow capable of being made the recipient of a split bamboo, a genuine split bamboo (the donor for my guaranty), with the name of the maker upon it as a warrant to all the world, will be elevated in your estimation. I am that he. With this poem in my hand I yet felt as of the stone age. I have not been educated up to this standard. I don’t know what to do with it. I never felt just exactly the same way but once before, that was a little short of a year after I was married, and I thought I had got used to that sensation, but when my generous friend put into my hands this miracle of grace and artistic skill, the old feeling came back, and I was “two inches taller.” That, I believe, is the orthodox expression for such occasions.

It is said that hope ends in fruition; except in the matter of babies and split bamboos, I believe this to be true.

If you are bored with this effusion, lay it to my split bamboo, upon that hint I spake; for the rod, you know, is an emblem of affliction, save in your own hand.