Bamboo Perversion A convoy of shiny vehicles bounced slowly down the dirt road amidst clumps of hemlock and rhododendron. In a clearing, several deer stood agaze, ears swiveling, before springing into the shrubbery. At last the cars reached a parking lot and pulled in, one by one. My red Ford pickup, at the end of the row, looked like a draft horse tethered in a line of thoroughbreds. At least it was nicely polished; what I love, I love. Eight women gathered around a rustic picnic table, eating lunch and discussing tactics. I savoured my sharp cheddar cheese; no faddish foreign cheeses for me. A simple taste, like my pickup truck. I joined the discussion, asking to be in the group going to the most remote stretch of stream. Lunch finished, three of us left for the farthest parking area. Once there, the others eagerly geared up, alternately teasing me for my characteristic slowness and urging me to move faster. I would not be rushed through my methodical routine: First the mat to protect my stocking-foot waders from abrasion; The socks, meticulously smoothed; The waders themselves, then the careful donning of the wading shoes, assuring the bulky neoprene feet were smooth inside them. The gravel guards hooked and velcroed in place, then standing to adjust the shoulder straps and put on the wading belt, after distributing the various lanyards, pouches, and D-rings around its circumference. Rummaging through a pouch to find three types of sunscreen and a bug repellant, all applied with great care. By now my companions were dancing with impatience. 'I'll catch you up,' I said, and they were off down the trail like dogs let off the leash I shrugged into my vest, and pulled a reel case out of the bottom of my tote bag: An old Hardy Perfect, which emitted a well-bred purr as I stripped out the leader and ran it through my rubber straightener. Furtively I glanced around to make sure no one saw me pull a rod tube from behind the truck seats. Unscrewing the cap, I slid out two sections and laid them gently on the seat: Faceted like six-sided jewels, the color of topaz. From an inner vest pocket I pulled a ziplock bag, extracting Q-tips and a clean rag to wipe the already-immaculate metal ferrules, applied a special lubricant, then I fitted them together with all the care of a watchmaker. No one saw me caress the golden cane surface before I seated the Hardy, then ritualistically strung the line through the guides, admiring each inch of my bamboo jewel as I did so. What fly? A little puff of deer hair and dubbing designed to dance the water's surface. I acknowledged the greetings of my fellows as I walked past on the trail, but didn't linger long. They didn't notice my bamboo sweetheart held behind me, out of casual danger, out of their sight. At last, far from prying eyes, I found a lovely ledgerock pool, the perfect setting for my jewel. A few false casts washed away the muscle-memory of graphite, and my arm muscles remembered the slow firm stroke that brings life to a split cane rod. Golden highlights flashed in the sunlight, the little dry fly wafted through the air and settled to the water with the grace of dandelion fluff, shyly offering itself to the trout like a teenage girl hoping for a kiss on her first date. Perhaps it's just my imagination that a bamboo rod presents a dry fly more delicately than any other. If so, remember that in fly-fishing, confidence is the key. I believe it, so for me, it happens. And, there I was, just me and my sweetie, sharing the passion and poetry of fly-fishing. Not for me the no-nonsense bottom-dredging that was working for the others. I shudder at the thought of flinging weight with my darling cane. That's not the job it was crafted for. Gossamer dry flies and tiny wet flies, fur and feather creations as natural and lovingly made as that bamboo rod. An organic connection, from me through the living cane, down the line and leader to the fly, hackles breathing in the sparkling current. Sometimes I wonder what it was like two decades before my time: Did silk lines and gut leaders complete that connection, have a feel that modern synthetics don't? I caught a couple of fish that afternoon, bright and lively streambred browns with a subtle beauty matching the rod that subdued them. The important thing, though, was the poetry of the experience: the hand-crafted golden beauty of split cane, delicately wafting a dry fly onto water as clean and clear as when the world was new; the subtle rise of a native brook trout or stream bred brown, then the primeval struggle of prey and predator; the prey lovingly released, like the kiss after passion's satisfaction. And that's just what it is, my grand passion. Why do I love bamboo? My graphite rods throw a tighter loop, are more durable, take more abuse. They are production-line tools easily replaced if I damage them or wear them out. Heaven knows they're cheaper than cane. And I don't hesitate to use them to fling huge poppers or Woolly Buggers, stalk big bass in complex cover, or fish urban streams with surfaces swirling with unknown chemicals. Why do I love bamboo? Is it that I'm such an individualist I relate to a rod that is hand-crafted, from selection of wood to varnishing the guide wraps? Is it a symbol of a simpler time, a link to a past as golden as the cane itself? Is it the same atavism that draws me to acoustic music, old books, archaeology, and a lifestyle more suited to 1940 than 2002? I'm not an investor; None of my cane rods have names that command five-figure prices. It's how they felt when I first handled them, cast them, that whispered "Buy me". I'm obviously not out to impress people. In fact, I'm almost fanatical in seeking remote, lonely places to share with my lovely six-sided darlings. And there is the clue. Why do I love bamboo? I'm a pervert. I want it all to myself, from the first topaz gleam when I open the rod tube, to the final loving caress as I wipe moisture from the satiny cane before sacking it at the end of the day. No prying questions or jealous glances. Above all, I don't want to feel obligated to tell someone, 'Here, try a few casts.' This is MINE. I'm as possessive as a two-year-old, as greedy as a miser, as compulsive as an addict. Addicted to a timeless beauty I can feel as well as see. But I'm a happy
pervert, possibly even a well-adjusted one. The only change I plan to make
is to acquire more bamboo rods to cherish. To quote Diana Ross: "If
there's a cure for this, I don't want it." |