The Making of a Fisherman

Gently meandering through a mountain meadow, a gurgling brook sings its lullaby of promises to the sleeping babe. Barely three months old, he's on his first fishing trip. Later that summer, pudgy fingers poke at the curiously slippery glistening thing at the end of Dad's line. Interesting... very interesting.But there are so many other things that vie for the attention of a sixmonth-old explorer, who crawls around the picnic blanket in ever-widening circles, so intent on small wonders: a ladybug, a feathery thistle blossom, a shiny rock, a butterfly.

Restricted by an ever-watchful mother, excursions to the water's edge are all too brief. Yet the soothing impact of cool water on hot feet is a summer treat to be shared.

A few moments of wading gives way to an innocent splash in the pond. Amazement! More splashes bubbles! Bubbles everywhere... catch them if you can!

A flurry of splashes, squeals of delight, and he's lost in a puddle of giggles. It's begun his wet and wonderful love affair with water.

Toted along in a carrier on Dad's back, the toddler gains a different perspective of Arizona's lakes, ponds, and streams. Too little to do anything else, he looks and listens as his father fishes. Shouts of joy, an excited yell the thrill of catching that first fish etches memories that will last forever.

Bright blue eyes peer over broad shoulders watching for that tell-tale splash. From a limited vocabulary, he plucks the word "fish" and claps with excitement.

Nearing two years old, he struggles for independence on weekend outings. Digging for worms, trying to catch minnows in a tin can, and throwing pebbles into the water are newly discovered pastimes that will remain favorites for years.

To be allowed to rummage through Dad's tackle box is a special treat. More valued than a pirate's treasure chest, it contains a fascinating mixture of metal, cork, feathers, plastic, and "do-dads" all lumped together as "fishin' stuff."

Small tennis shoes pad back and forth from tackle box to fishing father, as their "helpful" owner offers more sinkers, lures, fishing line, and bait. As each item is dutifully returned to the tackle box, its correct name is learned.

Watching from the corner of his eye, the stetsoned father heaves a sigh of tested patience, followed by the hint of a grin. He knows it's time.

From somewhere out of the depths of the shed appear an old fishing rod and battered tackle box. The small boy doesn't notice the nicks and scratches he's got his own fishing pole!

Now two tackle boxes sit side by side on the grassy bank. The ponderous business of selecting just the proper hook, bobber, and bait is completed with some help from Dad... and a lot of talk about patience.

Then the towheaded lad trots confidently down to the lake's edge, plops his line in the water, and watches the bobber expectantly.

History is made that afternoon at Peck's Lake near Cottonwood. There's a tug... a splash a brief struggle. The tennis shoes are wet, but the grin is wide; at two and a half he's just nabbed his first fish a small bluegill squirming in a grubby fist. Within the hour that scene is repeated twice more. A whiskered jaw drops in amazement as memories are etched forever in the father's mind. Shouts of joy, an excited yell for aid a small face aglow with success. The thrill of it is equal to that of capturing the largest fish in the world.

The boy's prizes are proudly shown to others. Bubbling forth freely as a brook, his joy encompasses all in its path. But why the looks of surprise? Fishing is obviously quite simple!

Success achieved so easily inspires hope that sustains the youngster dur-ing less exciting expeditions. Patience comes in small spurts. Sometimes the fishing rod, set up so carefully, is left unattended while its owner chases toads or romps with his flop-eared, tail-wagging friend.

Slowly, tidbits of knowledge are gleaned from weekend excursions and summer vacations. He learns that loud noises, splashing, sudden movements, and shadows on the water scare the fish away.

As always, the father fishes nearby close enough to provide emergency help, but distant enough to keep from lecturing. He believes that nature is the best teacher. "Besides," he philosophizes, "Why bother telling a guy something he's going to find out for himself pretty soon, anyway?"

Yet his calloused hands are always there to help small fingers untangle knotted nylon line, replace lost hooks, apply a Band-Aid, and brush away a tear.

The boy's strides grow longer each summer. His laughter ripples across the sparkling waters of Granite and Lynx lakes near Prescott, where he catches crappie and trout. Cactus-clad desert lakes yield bass and catfish; the placid lakes and rushing streams of the Mogollon Rim country tantalize him with dazzling trout.

Later, a life jacket is donned, as he learns the ways of rowboat and canoe. There are days when nothing is biting, and small muscles yearn to run along the shore. Yet he remains still for another five minutes . . . an eternity! His Dad coaxes the five year old into another ten minutes. They compromise with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Each spring a haunting instinct stirs within the father. In the pre-dawn hours he packs his fishing gear and heads for the mountains, alone. The boy is wistful, but he waits at home in hopes of a fish dinner.

Brakes complain as the Jeep's tires stop in the driveway that evening. Eyes bright with excitement, the eight year old rushes out to greet his Dad. "Any luck?" he asks. "Nope. Had a few nibbles though. Guess it's a bit early yet," says the sunburned fisherman. But his blue eyes have a look of quiet satisfaction, and the boy knows it has been a good day. They share a knowing hug, and the bond between them deepens.

The boy learns from the land. During chill morning hours, sunlit afternoons, and crimson-laced moments at dusk, he watches nature at work and recognizes the importance of seemingly insignificant things. Birds, deer, squirrels, and spiders all teach him lessons.

The waters whisper their secrets . . . of hidey holes where trout will play . . . of promising placid pools beneath a bridge, and magical ponds created by a beaver dam.

He sees the beauty in Arizona places that may appear rather desolate to others. The boy has learned more than how to bait a hook, play a line, and clean a fish.

Mysteries of life have been unraveled beside a rushing stream and illuminated by embers of a campfire glowing in the darkness. There's been time to talk and think . . . to develop a deep respect for all living things, a love of the land, and a sense of disdain toward litterbugs and vandals.

He's learned of safety and survival in rugged terrain, the true meaning of teamwork, the value of earned independence, and self-respect.

Somewhere among the high mountain lakes and rambling streams, he's discovered how to accept defeat gently. Yesterday's disaster has become today's humorous tale.

When he was ten years old, he switched to fly casting because it seemed "more sporting." Finally, he understands why his father savors only the thrill of the catch itself, and often throws the small fish back.

Surfacing from the shoals of the boy's memory is the vision of that big one that got away last summer, now bursting forth as this year's challenge. It's still out there somewhere . . . a quest to be anticipated with relish. He's twelve now . . . and his fishing rod stands in a closet cluttered with records, a baseball bat, soccer ball, and skateboard. Yet each year when the first warm breeze of spring teases the chill winter air, an instinct stirs deep within his soul, and he asks, "Dad, when can we go fishing?"

Bookshelf

by Mary Lu Moore Inquiries about any of these titles should be directed to the book publisher not ARIZONA HIGHWAYS. Book prices listed do not include postage.

Watch for Me on the Mountain. By Forrest Carter. Delacorte Press/Eleanor Friede, 1 Dag Hammerskjold Plaza, New York, New York 10017. 1978. 305 p. $9.95, hardcover.

Part Cherokee, novelist Carter has studied the Apaches for many years. His current work, subtitled A Novel of Geronimo and the Apache Nation, reflects basic knowledge of Southwestern history and ethnology as well as his own creativity. Within a fastpaced narrative he has placed Apache lore, touches of Indian humor, good characterizations and manifestations of the supernatural. Beginning near the end of Geronimo's elusive guerilla warfare, Carter uses the flashback device rather skillfully. It's all there: Geronimo's youth, his genius for creating illusions to befuddle the military, and gruesome atrocities of war. While several long digressions add to our comprehension of Geronimo's times, they do tend to distract from a good plot. Otherwise, this is a well-told tale, although the pungent language and blood and guts may not be for the fainthearted. Much in this novel's favor, however, are the author's inherent respect for Indian people and his willingness to depart from the same old tired themes.

Bola Tie: New Symbol of the West. By William J. "Bola Bill" Kramer. Northland Press, P. O. Box N, Flagstaff, Arizona 86002. 1978. 57 р. $4.95, paper.

The bola (with an "a", folks) tie is the official neckwear of Arizona, backed by law, no less. Invented in the late 1940's by Vic Cedarstaff of Wickenburg, its popularity has burgeoned until it has become a prominent badge of the West along with the Stetson. It even has its own state organization which is quite a bit more sophisticated than a "necktie party." The long campaign to have the Arizona legislature pass a bill giving the bola tie official recognition almost rivals that of Arizona's own long struggle for statehood. "Bola Bill" Kramer has written a good humored history of the bola tie, its South American relatives and its place among other Southwestern arts and crafts. He digresses to add a brief discussion of Southwestern Indian jewelry making, which helps to clarify where craftsmanship is involved in bola-making. There is also a section which details construction of and names for parts of the bola tie. Supporting the text are excellent black and white and color photographs. The foreword was contributed by distinguished "bolaphile" Senator Barry Goldwater. This history of a newer item of apparel/jewelry is a fine addition to the lore of Arizona and the Southwest.

Views Across the Border; The United States and Mexico. Edited with an Introduction by Stanley R. Ross. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque, New Mexico 87131. 1978. 456 р. $5.95, paper.

Even casual visitors to the states on either side of that chain link fence stretching from California to Texas are aware of a number of shared traits: flora, fauna, cultural history, terrain, and problems. Yet, the border is there and must be reckoned with, for it exerts powerful influences on economic, political, historical, cultural and social aspects of this frontier region.

To consider its complexities, scholars from both sides of this border assembled in San Antonio, Texas, in April, 1975. Sponsored by The Weatherhead Foundation, participants presented papers on diverse facets of the border region. Prominent authority on Mexico Stanley Ross selected 17 well documented papers, preceded by his own perceptive introduction and a foreword by Richard Weatherhead, for inclusion in these Views Across the Border. Each of eight sections deals with an important segment: culture, politics, economics, migrant workers, health, social psychology, and ecology. Following in Appendix I are some of the thoughtful commentaries on the preceding essays. Appendix II identifies conference participants with a brief biographical sketch. The exhaustive bibliography suggests many publications on topics treated in the papers.

At a time when we are wrestling with stubborn problems at all governmental levels, this thought-provoking compendium provides a number of insights into Pueblo Weaving and Textile Arts. By Nancy Fox. Museum of New Mexico

Press, P. O. Box 2087, Santa Fe, NM

87503. 1978. 93 p. $5.95, softcover.

Until now Pueblo Indian weaving has had a long but not well-known history.

The author of this Museum of New

Mexico Guidebook No. 3 is curator of

the Laboratory of Anthropology in

Santa Fe and has worked with Indian

cultural materials for more than two

decades. In simple prose, she traces

development of textile arts in pre-

Pueblo times, i.e., during the Basket

Maker age, through modern Pueblo

trends, and notes influences upon and

from Navajo weaving and differences pueblo. She explains history, usage, fabrics, designs, and typical colors of each item of apparel: shoulder blan-kets, wrap-around dresses (mantas),

belts, sashes, leggings, breechcloths,

garters, kilts, and stockings. Weaving

techniques and equipment are not

slighted, as carding, spinning and dye-ing preparations, and varieties of looms are considered. Both in the text and in a convenient glossary of weaving terms, Fox methodically discusses types of Pueblo embroidery and weaving and equipment for and parts of looms. For

Those of us who don't know our warp

from our heddle, she outlines steps in producing textiles. After mentioning

the decline of Pueblo weaving in the

early 20th Century, the author closes

On a more optimistic note. At present

there is a resurgence of Pueblo textile

arts with some interesting changes by

women weavers in a highly traditional men's craft.

Textile specialist Kate Peck Kent

provides an excellent introduction to

this guidebook. Color and black and

white illustratiorts point up the beauty

and utility of handsome items now worn

Photo-graphs of weavers, garments and old

weaving tools, and well-labeled dia-grams aid the uninitiated. Appendices

list highlights of Pueblo textile devel-

Development, suggested reading, and Pueblo

weaving winners at major arts and

crafts exhibits. Those who esteem the

weaving craft and Southwestern Indian

Arts will be pleased with this new publication.

Yours Sincerely

Comments and questions from around the state, the nation, and the world.

IT'S A SELLOUT, BUT

The April issue of Arizona Highways was a sellout two days after it hit the newsstands. By special arrangement with our printer, W. A. Krueger, we got back on press for another 40,000 copies to meet the demand. It happened only once before in Highways' history and that was with the famous "Turquoise edition" (January, 1974), which is now a collector's item.

Altogether, AHM staffers worked on "Prescott Country," from concept to completion, for nearly two years. Nevertheless, little gremlins sometimes scramble facts.

Dear Editor: We in Prescott are always pleased to see our fair city and environs featured in Arizona Highways. Photographs are superb in the April issue, but the text contains several errors. At least two are important enough to be corrected. The Fremont House was donated to the Sharlot Hall Museum by St. Luke's Episcopal Parish, not the Methodist Church (page 41). Information on the Bashford House preservation on the same page is correct except for the moving date. However, in an article by another writer (page 9), inference is made that Phoenix prodded Prescott into saving the Bashford House, and that it was done with a $25,000 Bicentennial grant. This is grossly unfair to the people of Prescott. The way they rose up spontaneously and worked together is worthy of a story in itself. Clubs emptied their treasuries, school children took up collections, businesses and individuals dug deep into their pockets. The community was drawn closer together as every fund-raising idea, from home tours to serendipity sales were used. Two years after the fact, a $5,000 Bicentennial grant furthered restoration, but it was really the people of Prescott who saved the Bashford House.

Howard Henson, Past President Sharlot Hall Historical Society Chairman, Bashford Fund

GETTING AROUND.

Editor, You've probably already seen this photo, but just in case you haven't your circulation is ever expanding.

Gary Guenther Wheaton, MD Indeed, AHM does get around. We have subscribers in all 50 states and 156 countries around the world.

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS IS KID STUFF

Editor, I spent a most delightful hour in my doctor's waiting room last Monday morning. I could have spent another. Upon arrival, I glanced on the mound of tatty magazines and amongst them was a brightly covered one which attracted my attention. It was "Arizona Highways". When my turn came to go in to the doctor, I passed it on (to the others waiting) and, as I turned to go, I looked back at about a dozen or so people, who had, in a matter of moments, been transformed.

Mrs. E. G. O'Connell Dunedin, New Zealand These two letters arrived on the top of the desk back-to-back. Strange you two should meet this way, but Arizona Highways has been introducing people to people, and people to the land for 50 years, and this is another delightful example. We enjoyed hearing from both of you.

35mm COLOR SLIDES

This issue: 35mm slides in 2" mounts, 1 to 15 slides, 50 each, 16 to 49 slides, 45 each, 50 or more, 3 for $1.25. Allow six weeks for delivery. Address: Slide Department, Arizona Highways, 2039 West Lewis Avenue, Phoenix, Arizona 85009.

I am a fifteen-year-old boy from Boulder Creek, California, who lives as much a cowboy life as I can in this modern-day world. I would like to thank you so much for the making of this magazine because with every copy I receive it brings me just that much closer to the type of country I love and hope I can live in when I grow older.

Keith Cummings Boulder Creek, CA

NEW ZEALAND IN STEREO

Editor, For several years a wonderful friend has been sending me beautiful gifts in the form of Arizona Highways. How is it possible to put out each issue and surpass the last? They are the envy of all here who see them and certainly a never-ending joy to me.

Athol Hanfling Auckland, New Zealand

Grant Creek on Mt. Graham in southeastern Arizona. Brushy and usually out of the way, the several creeks in this area boast fighting trout, just waiting for anglers to wet a line.

"I have laid aside business and gone a-fishing."

Izaak Walton, The Compleat Angler The Salt River chain of lakes in central Arizona is stocked with some of America's fightingest game fish. And angler access is easy to all of them. Alan Benoit The Salt River chain of lakes in central Arizona is stocked with some of America's fightingest game fish. And angler access is easy to all of them. Alan Benoit (Inside back cover) Anglers find the windrippled waters of Blue Ridge Reservoir on Clear Creek, north of Payson, perfect for peaceful contemplation of Mom Nature as well as prime game fishing. Earl Petroff A quirk of r lividuals the scene of desert reser size. Some a record white Photos by Ja population Lake Pleasa undod