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A Continuation of Part 1

II

My next stop was one that held my highest priority for the day. I barreled towards a fly shop/brand in Boulder, CO that had found its way into my social feeds over the summer for releasing a special edition t-shirt called “Fish Wizard.” On it, was a purple wizard fly fishing by himself on a rock, and I knew that whatever had created that damn thing was going to have my business for life.

The two hour drive came to a halt with me flinging open the shop door marked “closed” heavily breathing between one of those horrible, squinty eyed, half-smiles where you’re trying to figure out if everything is going to be okay.

“Online order?”

“Well I saw the sign and it said closed.” A perfect response.

“Shit, sorry man.”

My new sensei appeared from around the corner and moved past me to change over the door sign thankfully missing me deciding in the very moment which display of honorable and humilitous loyalty to show him as his new student.

The “How can I help you?” came from quite possibly the first ever successful cloning project of Willie Nelson. A shorter white man with pale blue eyes, a white beard, and two tattered silver braids that framed his earnest wrinkled face listened to me say back “I’m here to plunder your fish wizard gear.” He pulled some items for me that I collected into a greedy stash. I got a net.

He then filled my ears with exhaustive detail on every inch of blue where I could potentially catch vibrant native species of fish. It had to have been nearly fifty years of experienced Colorado fishing given to me in good faith, free of charge. The brand sported quality made in the U.S.A. gear so actually not even sniffing free, but I wasn’t too worried about it. I had recently come into some coin for working my ass off at a camp just west of there.

I reveled in his tutelage as he rang me up and pointed me in the direction of his favorite pint, having been himself a professional brewer for years—of course. I asked his name and as I shook the hand of my new master he said “Chris.”

We both looked at each other. That’s my name.

“That’s my name” I said.

I can’t remember how I got from the shop to the car and the car to the brewery.

I slugged down the marvelously crafted beer and spun my helm towards the wild country in waiting during its peak season.

Now, this was a challenge: finding a place to pitch camp in a state where the census population sells off grandkids in March to partake in what I can imagine to be the Magna Carta reason for their moving there in the first place—and it was the weekend. But I had done my research and had options in the holster ready to fire off as soon as the clock struck “you’re fucked.”

My first option was a potential one room riverside cabin with a wood burning stove that I had so excellently sourced the booking of for the evening exactly twenty four hours from then; not the current night. Before I took up the third option based on my own(?) suggestions from the fly shop I re-routed the ship to option number two, the one I was banking on: Olive Ridge Campground. Technically and geographically outside the National Park and all its hysteria. But, ten minutes from where I had done some of my own digging on immaculate fishing within the park and about twenty five minutes from where I(?) had spent extensive time suggesting a spot to a kid who had just come into my fly shop wanting to “plunder wizard gear.”

III

I make it to option two nestled in between what looks like the Mt. Olympus of myth and a film set for “Where The Wild Things Are II: Even bigger, Even Wilder.” “Cash or check only” greeted my ears and since I was born after the commercial success of Bit-O-Honey chews my camp chair was already claiming a tent pad and my ship creaked towards the only gas station in town with an ATM. The machine spat my bills at me and I finished the haul with coffee grounds, canned sardines, and a gallon jug of water. Next door a liquor store had winked at me on the way in but I gave up looking for a bottle to kill when I realized the store, that I was now in, closed in three minutes. “A six pack’ll do” I thought, waving goodbye to the dear woman who had checked my out of state I.D.

Then, a holy pause came upon me. I was at once struck to the bone with the kind of cosmic responsibility Gandalf absorbs when realizing The Dweller of The Deep is meant for him and him only. Where I was currently standing, as well as where I was planning on hanging my hat for the evening, was completely void of cell service; and I had to call my love.

I then did something that has marked my life to the degree of the Dionysius B.C. and A.D. A thing that I now swear and grant “Sanctuary” in my cathedrals when exclaimed upon my steps.

I used a pay phone.

Maybe one of my favorite dates we’ve ever had.

I sent my love to her and our hometown tomato festival that she was pillaging at the moment and made my heading back up the mountain. On my way up, a shiny port caught my eye; an old log house with a swinging “tavern” sign out front. My ritualistic shot-and-a-beer was shared with an excitable young bartender who answered my name request and goodbye handshake with “Rob.”

That’s my dad’s name.

My eyelids opened and somehow I was back at my campsite dunking the spoils from the day all over the chipped wooden picnic table, complete with my camp knife buried half an inch deep into its weathered grain.

The campground host and his loyal companion collected my spittle and gave me my permit. As he gave me the lay of the land I stood there smirking ear to ear with the blind confidence of a hot seat poker player thinking they’re about to flush the house. When I asked the man his name the imaginary loud-ass casino bells in my head, instead of “jackpot,” rang “Blake.”

Because that’s my brother’s name.

“Nick.”

I looked now to the one with snakey skin who sat next to him on the golf cart in silence not knowing the omnipotence he had within himself to fulfill the sacred timeline and become the chosen one.

“Oh, and this is Eli.”

God damnit.

I slunk away to suit up the new gear and retire my tutorial island starter pack that had gone with me through every new cast, catch, and creek for the entire year. After all, I had kil—caught a trout today.

The final play was to mount upon my sword one of the brilliant new dry flies my co-worker gifted me as a deeply generous “yawp!” for finishing the month well. I raised up my blade from its broken down form meant for travel and placed carbon fiber tip to carbon fiber mouth, but, admittedly in a spot along its cutting edge that I did not feel the familiar junction. It hits me then before I even see it.

My rod is shattered.

Not was it just “my rod,” but, truthfully one of my Magna Carta reasons for taking the job over the summer in the first place. The rod my roommate who introduced me to fly fishing shipped to our porch seconds after he moved out of our heavenly home in Nashville. I opened it as he pulled onto I-24. It was the thing that started it all for me. My 6:30AM rooster just died; and every beautiful thing to possibly happen after he woke me up, with him. I feel the first tug here.

My brain scrambled through potentials of fly shops close by, morning routes out and back, and timed stopwatch laps to make it into the park before I legally had to acquire a reservation. It wasn’t going to happen. My open chest leaked liquid purpose until there was finally no more for me to have. The tug again, this time enough for me to turn and acknowledge that a happening like this is potentially governed within the bounds of Divine Rule.

“But why, God?” resonated endlessly in my head without any echo.

I placed my shattered blade like an artifact in my car trunk and grabbed my headlamp to complete a final lockup before the inevitable war room meeting, I was calling with myself tomorrow in the morning, came too soon. I click to turn on the main beam. It remains dark. The final tug.

What happens next can only be described first with a list of things it was not. It was not audibly heard. It was not formed as a thought, or as a voice in my head. It was not visualized and it was not felt internally like an emotion or externally like a touch. Now, for what it was. The closest related experience I can think to compare it to is that of remembering something. And what was it that I remembered? The word “Now.”

I fell to my knees and was struck immediately with the weight of my thoughtlessness. I trembled. I was afraid.

The truth was: I hadn’t recently just “come into some coin,” but equivalently my financial debts from being unemployed for nearly a year were abolished by two gifted checks that showed up completely out of my control. I hadn’t just “worked my ass off” and now needed a recharge. I got to do what my soul wrapped in skin commands me to do every morning that I wake up—be an artist—share stories with thousands of people through the medium of music. And I hadn’t just been given some “time to myself out west to reflect.” I now had before me a dynamite hole, and through it, a clear way ahead to finishing a record twelve years in the making. For the first time financially, physically, and emotionally I could see a way through to an album release. All of these things had happened in my life within the last four weeks and I didn’t say shit.

God is real. And God was now there to tell me that.

Weeks of evidence came to a screaming head on that day where I benefitted from real miracles and my position remained “God could be out there.”

“I’m sorry” sailed out of my mouth more times than I could count until I finally turned to atone and marvel at the ways I had just been so recently set free; been given purpose, conviction, direction, and opportunity. I bowed to the west until the fear of not remaining prone was balanced out by enough comfort to cook dinner and nourish my hide, feeling the deepest sense of embodiment I had felt in years.

I concluded:

“I don’t care what I do tomorrow.

But I pray I never forget that God is real again.”

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