The Dam

As more and more people flee to Colorado to fish I find myself looking back to my place of origin.  West Paterson, New Jersey is where I learned to fly fish at a private pond.  Isn’t it ironic that I now look back from the gorgeous mountain West where my soul has thrived for decades - to New Jersey?

So here I am in Colorado Springs, a retired educator and a struggling fly-fishing guide, dealing with crowds and traffic all over again. I say “struggling” only because it is difficult now to fish alone anymore.  

Is life really cyclical as some of our philosophers propose?  I am not comfortable with the increased noise, traffic and population - so shall I keep moving?

Strangely and more specifically, I am reminiscing about a dam my brother, I and some friends built on a little creek behind our house.  I was around 10 or 11 years old, my brother 3 years older.  The creek area behind our house was a green belt of sorts.  We believed no one owned it so we considered it our property. 

So one day we just started digging - moving tons of rock and dirt to form a dam. The water backed up and soon we had a pond. The pond that formed was substantial.  The dam was 5 feet wide so we could easily walk across it. The hole in one corner was 5 feet deep.

Ducks flew in. We brought in buckets of fish (most were largemouth bass) that we would feed in the hope that they’d become permanent residents. I rarely fished in the pond - I just liked to watch the fish explore their new home. I loved to throw live worms out to them.

Why was I so fixated on this small pool?

I can tell you why. Because that little pond behind the dam was Ours. We built it. We protected it. We guarded it.

And I would pay more than I care to admit to once again have it or something similar.  

I would walk home from school every day and check on the dam making sure there were no leaks and make sure the fish were still around. However, one day I came home and I felt something was different.

It was gone. The dam and the pond were just - gone.   A bulldozer had come up from the ball field below and with one big push took half of the dam out - releasing the water and the fish.

I would often wonder what exactly happened to the bass (and one giant carp and some catfish) as they went tumbling down the ravine. I could see them cascading and tumbling down in confusion. Their world (and mine) disturbed.  

Such childhood losses are difficult to assess. We found out that a neighbor had called the city and was concerned about our dam. This would be one of my first experiences feeling overpowered by people and agencies stronger than I.

What over weeks my friends and I had built with our hands (and out of the earth itself) – those without eyes to see destroyed in minutes with a machine.

I had to find a way to let it go - but I still cling.

Now when I go to “our” South Platte River it’s difficult for me to think of it as “mine”.  There are so many guides and clients and anglers all over the place.  If given the choice of having that one little section of creek, of having my dam and looking once again for my fish in that pool, I would choose that pool every time over what I see now.

I think of the old Iron John story. The boy is asked by his mythological mentor to stand guard of the pool and not let anything harm it. This task would serve as part of his initiation into manhood. In a very real way he is a type of Adam – stewarding the pool like Adam was to steward the Garden.

But how do we stop a bulldozer?  

 

Cold, Cold, Cold

Someone once said that they would walk 5 miles in a snow storm to have a real conversation. Have we become this desperate for real dialogue in our overly political society?   I guess many would disagree with me on this point. 

In my younger days I might venture out for such a conversation. Or perhaps to make a few ski turns. Or make a few drifts in a stream. Not so much any more. 

I miss those days of being braver.  I also miss those days when politics were not so important and all that mattered was living; skiing and fishing well.

As I have said before I enjoy the realization that the fish are relatively safe in this cold and snow. The storm gives the fish a day of rest. Perhaps.  

Most anglers will stay home today. But not all. I would bet money that if we took a drive to the Dream Stream right now, we would find anglers below the dam and down toward 11 mile looking for big fish. 

Even at minus 7 in Hartsel.

What Knocks?

D.H. Lawrence in a poem titled, “The Song Of a Man Who has Come Through,“ beautifully describes the individual who contemplates what knocks on the door in the night. And because he allows what knocks to enter his life, he breaks through to a new place.

The darkness of December inspires me to also consider what might be knocking on my door. What new mission, thoughts and perspectives might I embrace? What new places might I need to explore and fish? What new people might I need to allow in my life?

In the case of this poem, the narrator at first seems to question if the one doing the knocking is here to cause harm. But then, concludes that it is three strange angels.  He decides to open the door, to admit the angels who knock; “Admit them, admit them.”

However, most often in my life, out of fear, I play it safe. I seal myself off from what knocks and even those individuals who may wish me well.  Of course, there is often a fine line between what wants to help us and who perhaps wants to do harm.

Often if a significant change is going to come to me it can be fearful.  I consider the times in the Bible when God or angel addressed different people and said, ”Do not be afraid.”  Being called by an angel can be frightening.

Around 40 years ago while sleeping in a hotel room in Corvallis, Oregon a knocking came to the door.  It was my father who had flown 6 hours across the country to watch me wrestle in the NCAA wrestling championships.  I had no idea he was coming. I felt afraid.  I felt stressed that he came all the way out only to watch me lose (or at least that was how I felt about it.)  What was strange was that I didn’t even want to be there!  I wanted to quietly, and without a fight slip away.  Of course that was not what was on my father’s mind; he was hoping to see his son compete, maybe even win a few matches, and perhaps, although a long shot, earn a top 8 in the country All American Status.

I would stay in Oregon for 5 days. No other team mates were with me. This was all a strange experience as if time slowed down. I could not rationally understand what was happening.   I had to warm up and drill moves by myself.  I had a lot of alone time. And there was strange weather; rain and hail and I ran in some of those storms as I watched the lightning in the far hills.

In the evening I would walk down the highway to a Baskin and Robbins Ice cream shop and sit inside by myself looking out the window. I loved to reflect, think, and I guess, pray. I had written out some Bible verses on little cards and would read them.  I could not deny that there was a feeling that Something was going to happen but it made no rational sense.   

I do remember realizing that in this competition I really had nothing to lose. I felt as though I was caught in the middle of this event, lost; a nobody, but perhaps I had Something to accomplish.

 I opened a door but I am not certain how.  

Did I admit them? Did I speak with those angels?

I believe in a clumsy manner I did say yes.  And with that decision, perhaps an angel helped me and changed life events.

What was so strange was that if I were in charge of arranging miracles for the purpose of giving certain individuals hope, I would have done it differently. I would rather execute some grand flashy move that wooed the crowds.  But that never happened.  All that seemingly happened was that I was awarded a key penalty point at a key moment, in each match, which gave me the lead. Nothing more, nothing less.  Very subtle; Nothing dramatic.  It would not be too much to say, the points came out of thin air and most folks watching did not even know what happened or what the call was.  And so, I won 2 big matches, on one-point penalties, and became the first All American for Rutgers in over 20 years. 

Deep down I knew something mysterious had happened and the fact that I was the only one who knew, made the events all the more profound.  In thinking back on these events, I recall that when Jesus did something miraculous, he would sometimes say to those involved, “Tell no one”. If I had to take a guess as to why, maybe it was because once we start trying to explain Something miraculous, we become not only increasingly ignorant, but arrogant and inflated. So, It is better to tell no one.

This is why those fish that seemingly find themselves on the end of my line are the most meaningful to me.  I know Something else is at work and I should probably tell no one.