The power of…

The day my mother died, I went fishing.

The day my mother died, I bought a used Pezon et Michel fly reel at a fly shop in a small town, Virginia, in the Shenandoah mountains.

The day my mother died, I picked up a new hobby. I started restoring bamboo fly rods.

Like many of my hobbies that begin innocently enough, I bought an old bamboo fly rod in an antique shop—probably a Montague. It was a 8.5 footer, three-piece and was in bad shape.

I scraped off the half-worn varnish with a dull knife, found new and old silk threads on the internet and rewrapped the guides, cleaned up the seat, polished the ferrules.

It was fishable after many failed attempts to complete the restoration job.

I didn’t know then that was also the beginning of a madness.

I studied the literature about bamboo fly rods, their history, the makers, the golden age of fly fishing. I became a historian and got to know a few suppliers of old “project rods,” people who collect and fish with them.

Mr. Ward Tonsfeld was my dealer who called and sent me the rare finds: everything from cheap HI (Horrocks Ibbotson) to high-end Wright McGill and Grangers.

Overtime, I have restored about 40 rods. They are still in aluminum tubes, stacking in my closet.

I didn’t know then, but I know now why. It’s the need and the power of what I must do with my hands. It takes time and total concentration. It dulls the pain, and it gives me the reason to live.