R. Mark Vincent

The Bamboo Fly Rod

Sitting in the shade of a large cottonwood tree on the banks of the Provo River, I’m half lost between Billy’s adventures with his coonhounds in Where the Red Fern Grows and watching Dad fish. Dressed in chest waders and standing in the river’s steady current, he’s busy working his prized bamboo fly rod in the hazy afternoon sun. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the pheasant tail nymph hovers just above the shimmering surface of the rippling river. As a large rainbow trout breaks the surface, I hear a big splash and see dad disappear beneath the cold, clear water, filled waders carrying him downstream. Holding his beloved rod above his head, I hear him sputtering ‘Save the pole, save the pole.’ Laughing, I wonder if he’s even thought about saving himself.

river rocks –
undisturbed beneath
the stream’s steady flow