Snow storm in December...

The National Weather Service had been predicting a winter storm to move into West Virginia all week. I never understand why so many seem to never take those matters seriously. They were right and starting after dark Friday night the 18th, the rain turned to snow. It's beautiful here on the river when it snows like this. The pines and bamboo soon cover and create a beautiful color contrast of green and white. It's especially nice when it happens this close to Christmas.

There was little to do other than watch it fall and build. I made sure the squirrels and birds had plenty to eat right outside my dining area windows so I could watch them. Once again, I have created a monster I have named Fatso. He has to be the biggest squirrel I have ever seen. It's nothing unusual for him to plop down on his behind with his tummy hanging over the edge of his feet and devour a whole ear of corn in one sitting. How dare any of the others come near it. He's instantly in a rage and chases them off. They tend to only get the crumbs when he heads back to his nest in the big Maple tree on the river bank, for a nap I'm sure. He's getting so fat that he no longer makes the journey from his nest to the deck via the tree limbs. He simply can't make the jumps any longer.

The snow storm hit as predicted and the southern part of the state has been under siege since Saturday morning. Snow levels coming in from all over the state has some places seeing as much as 30 inches. The turnpike was closed and travelers stranded along the famous toll road for as much as 20 hours.

As I sat at the table watching the circus on my deck, I started to think about a time I too was like so many of those traveling this weekend. I was stationed in Cheyenne, Wyoming, at Francis E Warren AFB. I was granted a leave over Christmas and decided to make the journey back to West Virginia so my wife and I could be with family. One of the men in my photo unit lived in Baltimore and was having a problem getting flight connections home. He offered to help on gas if he could ride as far as Columbus, Ohio. We left Cheyenne in the afternoon and headed east. Conversation flowed and the miles flew by with ease. I made the trip from Cheyenne to Parkersburg in 24 hours. We stopped for gas and eats and that was it. Actually it was a good trip considering the distance.

New Years day my passenger flew into Parkersburg and off we went on what we hoped was to be an uneventful trip back to Wyoming. It was uneventfull until I got to Iowa. Late that night, it started to snow and blow. Temperatures dropped like a rock and driving at times was miserable to say the least. Close to daylight, I stopped at an exit in Ashland, Nebraska, for breakfast and gas.

When I went to leave, I couldn't move forward or backward. The guy who was riding with me had grown a long handlebar mustache while on leave. With my wife behind the wheel, and he and I pushing, we finally got the car moving again. In the process, his mustache froze and when he went to wipe the frost off, it broke . We moved to a Phillips 66 station across the road. We never moved again for two days. The owner told us we could park under the canopy of a drive-in that was closed for the season. It didn't take long for the service station to fill up with others. Soon the word came the interstate was closed and we were stranded there. It was known as the New Years Day Blizzard of 1971. Thousands were stranded along the interstate and had to be rescued by the National Guard. The chill factor at times was -40 below zero and snow accumulations well over 3 feet in areas. The open country of the Nebraska plains was perfect for drifting snow at times well over 6 feet. We slept where we could, along with others. The owner of the service station went out of his way to make us as comfortable as we could possibly be in a situation such as that. When the road finally opened, it was one lane east bound and one lane west bound. The snow was piled so high, you couldn't see the other side of the highway. It took us a day and a half to make it back to Cheyenne. It's most definitely something I'll never forget.

As I sat this morning and watched the snow falling, I heard the news stories of all that are stranded and remembered a time I too knew that helpless feeling. It's so peaceful to look out and see a blanket of snow, the limbs all covered, and that strange silence that comes with it all. There's something about all of this that gives coffee a totally different flavor and effect. The fire in the fireplace seems warmer and more welcoming, and definitely a new meaning to "a long winter's nap".

Tis the season once again

Winter paid the river a visit today. The air temp was just above 22 degrees with snow flurries all day. The winter sky I'm so familiar with was predominate for sure. It was a good day to build a nice fire, make a pot of coffee and simply relax. Most of my woodworking projects for Christmas are done and I wanted to take advantage of a day like this.

38 years ago today my daughter was born. Oh, how I so well remember that day. I was stationed at Shaw AFB in Sumter, SC. It was a long labor, and the nurse had sent me home, telling me there was nothing I could do and to get out of her way. I had just gotten ready to sit down and relax a few minutes when the phone ran. I was summoned to the hospital. I hurried to get ready and when I opened the door I had two surprises waiting on me. One was a fog so thick you couldn't even see the car. The other was our Santee Pointer named Trixie took out after a possum that was in the yard. Not what I needed. I finally got the dog back in and then faced the trip to the base. The fog was so thick I used a flashlight with the door open to follow the berm of the road.

That night I was given one of the greatest gifts a man can receive. I have been so proud of her since that very first moment. Nothing has changed. She is a beautiful mother in her own right, now with a doll baby of a granddaughter. Just as all three are to me.

As I went from one small project to the other today, I put my Christmas CD's on. I'm sure everyone has their favorites from the old standards of years gone by to even some of the new modern versions. A couple of years ago I came across a Christmas special on PBS. It was called a Christmas from Dublin. The group is four ladies by the name of the "Celtic Women". I honestly think that their voices are what angels will sound like. I'm partial to Celtic music anyway and this just captured my mind and heart. But one of my all time favorites is John Denver and the Muppets Christmas Together Album. If you should get the chance to either pick the album up or view some of the cuts on Youtube, it's more than worth it.

There's just something about a cold December day, with the way the sun sets at dusk that brings so many thoughts to my mind. I was thinking today how rich I am as a man. For I have seen that special look in my children's eyes on Christmas morning. It's just something one can't put a price on and I will never forget.

It will change. To me, it's the same...it's home.

Not far from the county seat of Raleigh County is a small burg called Beaver. Founded in the the early 1800's by the two Prince brothers, it has gone by other names. First, Oxley and then Glen Hedricks. Beaver lies along two creeks, Beaver and Little Beaver. They join near the center of town at what was once Todd's Hardware. Beaver centered around the Ritter Lumber company where both my father and grandfather were carpenters. Ritter timbered the the local water sheds along with the areas along the Piney. The railroad ran through the community, crossing the creek at Glen Morgan and running through Blue Jay to the C&O dam. From there, on to the southern coal fields.

Several mines were active in the area. Raleigh Number 7 was behind my house on the ridge and Pimmerton along the Table Rock ridge area. The landscape was scattered with various strip mine ventures from time to time. Beaver had it's own movie theater where my brother Andy was the projectionist at one time. Twenty five cent matinees were in easy reach of most of us, often obtained from soft drink bottle returns. Beaver had its own grade school, which my whole family attended and fed the population of Shady Spring High School. I was the last attending class of the old high school and first graduation class of the new in 1967.

A lot of the locals worked for the railroad or in the mines. I can still see in my mind the miners walking up the road with their hard hats and blackened faces, contrasted by the round, shiny dinner buckets they carried. These men held my respect then and still do. Often they would walk in the yard and stop and talk to my parents about what was going on in the area, or how their garden was doing. It was nothing uncommon for them to leave with a hand full of fresh tomatoes or a bag of green beans.

I spent my younger days fishing Beaver Creek every chance I'd get. I knew every rock, and every hole from the airport road to the Beaver Block company. I'd ride my bike to the old site of the Blue Jay lumber company and fish all the spots that held such a secret then.

My grandfather had a cabinet shop in Beaver. To most, he was known as Uncle Charley. I used to watch with amazement at his craftsmanship and the monstrous saw blades men would bring to him to be sharpened. I can still see him walking from the shop to the house at dinner time, brushing off the saw dust and his so well known cough. I never knew my grandfather to not wear his fedora hat when he worked. So often I'd venture to his shop, and he'd hand me a hand full of nails and small hammer and scrap piece of wood..."Drive 'em straight, David".




Beaver had it's grocery stores and markets. Southern produce was always fresh at Ransom's market. I'd walk in with a list my mother had given me and knew I was going to be greeted by the owner as "Little Ray"...I only knew his name as Chawback and he had grown up in Beaver with my father. He never failed to look at me and tell me that as long as I lived my dad would never die. At the time I didn't really know what he meant, but it referred to looking so much like my father.

Beaver at one time was a tight community. There was one church that the Baptist and Methodist shared on odd and even Sundays. My grandfather was an elder in the Baptist church and I still have a photo where he and other men from Beaver were burning a bank note that was paid off for the new Beaver Baptist Church. Southern WV culture was very strong then and the men and deacons sat on the same Pew. My father was a Sunday School teacher and so well liked by all of those in his class. Many years after his passing I have had those that attended his class tell me how much he meant to them. So many of the coal camp homes in Beaver were built by my father as well as those in the Beckley area.

When I got older, I began to venture out to areas new to me as young pup. I began to hunt the ridges and mountain tops around Beaver. I had a spot a good hike from my house that had a large rock outcropping. The rocks were on a steep bank right at the top. Far below ran Piney Creek on it's way to New River and the railroad. I could sit on these rocks and it would put me right up among the Hickory tree tops below. Hidden against them, I was in a perfect place to squirrel hunt. I have spent so many fall days sitting on these rocks and counting the coal cars as they made their way from Raleigh to Prince. I'd buy my shells usually 5 or 6 at a time at Lilly's Hardware. I learned at a very early age not to waste a shot. Often on the hike I'd kick up a rabbit or a grouse. Like a cat with a captured mouse I was so proud to show them to my mother when I got home. Little did I know, it was a coming of age ritual I was experiencing. It was at that time I formed a love for autumn in West Virginia. Every color you can imagine would line these ridges and hollows.

One Saturday morning, I took the hike to the ridge to hunt. I could hear the noise well before I got to where I was going. I came to the ridge where the rocks were and I was, all of sudden, lost. The hickory grove and Red Oak were gone. Instead, it was bulldozers and cutting machines getting ready for a strip mine. A man approached me and asked me my name. I told him and he asked if Ray Akers was my father. He proceeded to tell me I couldn't hunt there anymore. They were taking timber to get ready for the mine. Funny how certain things, after all this time, stays with you. He told me his name was John Plumbly and to tell my dad he said hello. I told my father that afternoon about the meeting. He went on to tell me what a good man John was. To me, I hated him for cutting down my trees. After all they were mine...I didn't care who owned them. They were mine.

The summer I turned 14, my mother approached me one afternoon while I was painting the steps to my grandfather's house. She had been to the store, and Henry Lilly asked if I would be interested in a job. I went to talk to Henry and he told me he needed a stock boy and someone to help around the store. Little did I know I was starting, basically, a full time job. My hunting and fishing time was no longer, except on Sunday afternoon after church. I soon made friends with the older men that worked for Henry. It didn't take long to be part of my life, other than school. Once I got my drivers license, my job was delivery and seeing a part of Raleigh County and it's culture I didn't know.

Beaver was more than just a place in my mind. It was also the hometown of my friends. Kids I started first grade with. Kids that soon became as much like family as anything else. These were kids like Bobby and Jody, who I shared so much with and thought the world of. Boys you played ball with and felt when growing up there would be no separation. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. There were families you soon learned to care about and admire. These were the people that waved and always stopped to asked how you were doing, or how your parents were. These were families and children with a mountain and southern West Virginia heritage, a common matter we all shared.

Beaver was a town where on a cool evening you could sit on the pipe fence rail at Ruth Evans' house and just watch the cars go by. Never a fear of trouble and problems from others. Beaver was a town where a walk to the Kook Kup was an adventure and always ending with one of Cora's cool treats. Beaver was an all-American town where on the fourth of July, you could hear the bootleg firecrackers and bottle rockets going off. Flags draped the front porches and picnics everywhere. Nestled in this valley between two ridges, it looked like a post card from New England with the church steeples and the creek flowing through. I'm sure there are those that lived there that didn't see if through my eyes...or my mind. I'm sure there are those that couldn't wait to leave and never returned. Perhaps I took the time to see it as it was. On a visit to my mothers in the late 70's I drove up the top of the ridge behind her house. I stopped and walked out into the field where I could look down on Beaver. It had changed. It had grown. The vacant field now had a Kroger's and the airport road was now an exit off I-64. Fast food was there where at one time only Cora's Kook Kup offered a hot dog. I could see from the old High School to the bend at Glen Morgan. It had changed...but I still could see the houses where my friends lived. I could see where I went to church and where a summer's afternoon you'd find me fishing.

I could see the grocery store where I worked, and I could see the house where I was raised. It looked different. But it was still the same...it was my home.

It's a West Virginia Mountaineers...thing of the heart

As I rode out Route 50 heading to Morgantown, I began to take note that the trees were starting to show color and the famous fall vista along Rt 50 was coming to life. One car after the other would pass with their WV decals or flags flapping from the motion. We all had one thing in common. We were going to see the West Virginia Mountaineers play football.

I have never really been a sports fan. I follow them at times more so out of curiosity than anything else. But Mountaineer Football is something entirely different. Perhaps the same emotion that thousands in this state feel but can't explain.

Fall was showing it's face in Morgantown . The temperature was 50 degrees with a clear sky and an almost full moon. It was a sea of gold once you got to the stadium area and an excitement and spirit was filling the air. The smell of grills and traditional foods teased your nose. Thousands of fans in full pregame party caused that familiar rush I love so well.

As I sat in the stands during the pregame, the voice of legendary Jack Flemming came to my mind as if a ghost was sitting in the seat next to me. It was as if I could hear him saying, "Autumn in Morgantown, West Virginia, home of West Virginia University is here. It's a cool fall night, the perfect canvas for football as the West Virginia Mountaineers take the field"... No one could commentate the Mountaineers like Jack could.

As I sat there watching the warm ups, my mind drifted back to 1967 and being in Parkersburg going to school. A friend of mine from Beaver was in his second year in Morgantown and called to invite me up for the weekend and a WVU football game. The only exposure to such a thing was on TV and even that was rare. I jumped at the chance. He drove from Morgantown and spent the night Friday night and we took off to Morgantown via Rt 50 which at that time was mostly two lanes still. Fall was in full force and it's effect on me added to the excitement of this weekend.

Once in Morgantown, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I guess I had been sheltered too much for such things. Everything from sheets of plywood to bed sheets were hanging from the dorms with the phrase..."beat the hell out of Pitt". I couldn't believe such things being exposed in public. But I soon learned it was the norm. I was introduced around the dorm and was captured by the atmosphere I was becoming a part of. Fraternity rush was in full swing and all the tradition that goes with it. The long bath robes, Darby caps and walking canes, each representing a frat rush of some sort. The old stadium beside the river was a perfect back drop for an event I'll never forget. That night, I added to the strings that pull at my heart. That night, I became a WVU football fan that bled blue and gold.

It was a beautiful October Saturday afternoon and I had been to Beaver to visit my mother. I was on my way back down the turnpike not far from the tunnel. (Yes, I do still remember where I was at). I had tuned in the WVU and Pitt football game and it wasn't the dangerous toll road that was causing my knuckles to be white. The score was tied in the last quarter and WVU had taken possession of the ball with 4 seconds on a stopped clock. The field goal team was put, and I can today still hear Jack Flemming giving such an excited detail. He was all but screaming in the microphone..."it's long enough...IT'S GOOD...the game is over and it's a mob scene on the field". I probably scared my wife and kids to no end. My eyes were so blurred I had a difficult time seeing.

Nothing has changed since that first trip to Morgantown in 1967. Perhaps only the emotions grew more. It doesn't matter to me the season stats or the gossip or the turmoil that surrounds any major college football team. To me, it's the Mountaineers...for I am true blue and gold and always will be.

Over the past few years I have read several accounts of WVU inviting the late John Denver to the new stadium to sing "Country Roads". The bottom line of each article you might read is that he was awe struck, not expecting to have 50,000 back up singers. At the end of the game I glanced over to my 3 year old granddaughter sitting on her father's shoulders. She knew every word to the song..."Almost Heaven, West Virginia"...once again my eyes were blurred.

Autumn in the air

I recently read a post on a website saying "the smell of Autumn was in the air". I've heard that thousands of times over the years but, for some reason, it caused me to wonder what the smell of Autumn really is. I'm sure there is, in fact, some sort of a natural or chemical transformation going on that could put a scent in the ozone or mask the smells we have grown accustomed to over the summer.

It's the beginning of September already. The weather in this area of the mountain state has turned cool. Daytime temps in the mid 70's and down to 50 at night. The sky is a clean and clear blue that seems to have no beginning or an end. Dusk comes earlier than it did a couple of weeks ago, and dawn seems to hang on for the longest time before daylight comes to the river. Having coffee on the deck in the morning requires a long sleeve shirt. The dew seems heavier and lasts till well up in to the morning.

Last evening, I spent some time in my swing and as I sat there, I began to once again visit the notion of "fall in the air". The blooms on my Rose of Sharon are all gone and the lower leaves now are turning a light yellow. No longer is the humidity so thick it robs the pleasure of an evening out in the yard or sitting in the swing. I noticed yesterday as I was driving home close to my house, a field full of geese and the view up the river is now more open that it was two weeks ago. The fawns I have been watching all summer are losing their spots and the two bucks are beginning to get frisky and lose a little more of their velvet each day.

When the storm hit my property a couple of weeks ago, hundreds of black walnuts were knocked to the ground. During the clean up, I picked them up and placed them in a pile along the fence. The squirrels are making good time in stealing these. Leaving only a pile of brown shells . Even they know what time of the year is getting close. Harvest is starting in the mountain state. Apple festivals and fields of stacked corn, along with wheat and oats are a common thing now. The sight of school buses tells you summer is on its way out. I watched a groundhog this morning I have named "Prince Charles"...or Chuck for short...growing fatter each time I see him. He's braver now and will eat the scraps I put out by the fence while I watch. He still doesn't say thank you...just waddles away at a much slower pace.

I built a fire in my fire pit, and as I sat there watching the flames dance and the smoke swirl, memories of other falls and the Autumn season slowly began to replace the notions of getting the yard mowed and weeds pulled. I began to plan where I'll set my Mums this year and place the shocks of corn. Suddenly, the list of things I need done before winter doesn't seem as doable as it did when I felt I had a lot of time to do it. The trees around my house will be turning a beautiful shade of yellow, and late in the evening with the lights on my house looks like a Kincaid painting.

Friday and Saturday evenings, I'll hear the cannon fire that signals the start of a local football game, and instantly my Associated Index will bring smells of the hotdog concession at a Shady Spring High football game. The section of the Upper Shavers I fish will soon be every color one can imagine and the river, at times, like an artist palette with all the mixed leaves and colors. One does not need a trip to New England to have their breath taken away. It's right here. My wardrobe will change also. No longer the shorts and t-shirts but soon to be back to my flannel shirts and old faded jeans I'm so comfortable in. Even my diet will change. You will find a pot of chili or vegetable soup on the stove and fresh homemade bread sending its scent throughout the house. There will be many evenings in the swing or on the deck, drifting back to another time in the mountains of southern West Virginia. I'll close my eyes and see the fall vista of Grandview, and continue my journey of searching for the one perfect tree that symbolizes this wonderful season...camera ready, so I can capture it.

Frost will bring a brown canvas to show off the reds of poison ivy and oak. Young Sumac will stand out way before you get to them. Fire on the Mountains will turn red and orange and yards go from bright green to a carpet of leaves. Saturday mornings will be just like those growing up and a layer of smoke from burning leaves hanging in the hair over Beaver. My Balsam and Snap Dragons will be replaced with blooms of crimson, purple and yellow Mums. Firewood will be carried to the deck and days working outside will get shorter.

It is my favorite time of the year. Time to gather books for winter reading, bundle up for walks, and time on the deck with a cup of hot coffee in my favorite cup. I have always had a matter with fall I could not identify. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. At times, it's an endless energy, trying to soak it all up before winter makes it's appearance. Sometimes, it's an unknown sadness I can't quite put my finger on. Perhaps it's signaling an end...or preparation for a new beginning. The warmth of the fire tonight felt good and the orange flames had a rival. The full moon was a bright orange...and the perfect back drop for a witch on her broom out and about for the evening.

It's called fishing, not catching

As a young pup growing up in Beaver, I developed a love for fishing. With Little Beaver Creek just a short walking distance away, it was an easy passion to build. I would sit on the rock ledge behind Todd's Hardware and fish the day away. From Rock Bass and Creek Chubs, I moved on to finer things as far as angling was concerned. That was trout.

On one of the visits to my Grandmother Richmond's farm at Pluto, I took a long stick and tied a hardware store bought line to the end of it. There were no fancy leaders or tippets....just a small hook and worms gathered from under a rotten log behind the smokehouse. Pinch Creek gets it's start at the corner of my grandparents' farm. It flows slowly through the meadow creating a deep hole at each bend. I must have been 10 or so...but I can remember today seeing that line go tight and under a log. I had caught my first native brook trout. My uncle who lived on the farm was watching me from the foot bridge and told me to get a few more and he'd fix them for dinner. That was my first taste of trout and the beginning of a love affair that has never died.

The older I got, the farther I ventured out in the area to streams I had only heard of as I was growing up. Today, some 50 years later, these streams are still my favorites to visit when I can. I have caught trout in Glade Creek, Pinch, Little Beaver and Camp Creek. Each, a memory I hold tightly to. But it wasn't until later in life, did it become an avenue of escape for me.

I grew up watching a neighbor fly fish. I can still, today, see him false cast and lay that fly just at the right place on Pinch or Glade. I'd listen to his stories of trips to the Williams and Cranberry Rivers. To me, at the time, they were in another world. He often gave me his rod and told me that only with practice would it come to me. He was right.

I bought my first fly rod while stationed at Frances E Warren AFB in Cheyenne, Wyoming, in 1970. It just happened that the day I was in the store, so was Curt Gowdy, the famous sportscaster and fly fisherman. He signed the 9 foot Eagle Claw rod I bought and I have that rod today. It was once I was out of the service and venturing out to streams I had only heard about, that I began to fall in love with fly fishing. I have spent so many hours on streams that most never visit and never catch a trout. Yet, caught up in where I was at and what I was teaching myself slowly, but surely, to do. I would often venture out with friends from work to a recently stocked stream and use a spinning outfit, only to catch myself watching for a hatch or a rise that I could have cast to. I began to find a peace and solace in places most never think of. To see the surface of the water break and a small native trout hit a fly I have tied gives me more pleasure and peace of mind than I can describe. There is actually a romance about it all, and releasing it to catch another day is a part of it. It's a way of sharing back and forth with this beautiful state of ours. Trout live in such beautiful places.

I came across a fly rod at an antique car swap meet of all places, that got me to thinking about the older bamboo rods. Soon after that I decided I wanted to build my own. After a lot of research and reading, I came to the conclusion that it was too far out of my reach to do and bought one of the newer composite light weight rods. Yet, the thought was still in the back of my mind, along with the romance and history behind the older rods from England and the craftsmen from New England.

I bought my first older Shakespeare Rod in the late 80's and have been hooked ever since. There's a lot of things I don't remember and a lot of trout I have forgotten. But I can remember the first trout on that old rod. I was at the lower falls on Fall Run of the Holly River park, and it was a Black Gnat dry fly that I had cast to a small Rainbow that been coming to the surface. There was no turning back. The desire to build my own only grew stronger.

The more I researched the older rods, the more I came to realize it was much more than planing down bamboo strips and glueing them together. There was, in fact, a science behind it. This comes into play with the taper and length of the rod. The taper meaning the progression of the size from the tip to the handle. I was fortunate to be able to find others who had gone this route before me, and their trials and tests to find just what they wanted. Building bamboo fly rods can be a very expensive venture, so I slowly began to gather what tools I didn't have so I could start.

One key tool to building a bamboo fly rod is the planing form. It's an adjustable form that has a 60 degree slot down the middle. The taper is adjusted and one of six strips are planed down to the desired thickness. I began to correspond with an older gentleman from Vermont who told me how to build my own forms rather than purchase them. Having worked with wood all my adult life, I figured this was the way to go. I built my first forms from hard Maple and actually still use them. I was wise enough to know to practice, so in 1997 I began to practice on a domestic type of bamboo that grows here at my home. A special bamboo called Tonkin is used for the better rods, and is not that easy to obtain nor is it cheap. I lost count that winter of the number of strips I cut and threw away. But soon I got the hang of it, and mastered the forms to do as I needed them to. I bought my first supply of Tonkin bamboo from a supply house in the state of Washington and instantly could see the difference. I learned to keep my plane irons razor sharp and have a lot of patience. Lots of patience!

One needs to envision a strip of bamboo planed to the thickness of a toothpick on one end and an eight of an inch on the other. These six strips are glued together and wrapped with a string and set aside to cure. Once the glue is dried, it's sanded off and the surface of the bamboo, the outer surface, is sanded to a glass-like finish.

The hardware is installed and the guides wrapped with a silk thread tight enough so that you can't see the wraps. The rod is then finished in a varnish and allowed to dry. It's then polished once again to a mirror finish.

I have built over 12 of these rods. I've sold a few, kept a few and given some away. I sign each with my name and the Motto...Montani Sempri Lebri, meaning Mountaineers are always free men. It was while I was making my last few rods, I began to notice a problem I have been having with my hand. Arthritis has taken it's toll in my hands and wrists and I can no longer plane as I did. I'd spend an evening in my shop working on a rod and then have to take four or five off for my hands to get so I could do it again. I loved it while it lasted.

Casting a bamboo rod is much different that casting the newer power rods. It requires you to slow down and pay much more attention to what you are doing and the mechanics of laying a weightless imitation of a fly out on the water...just as nature would do with the real thing.

It was one of those spring days you read about in books. The scent of everything coming to life was everywhere on top of Cheat Mountain as I made my way down to the stream. The sky was cloudless and wildlife was taking advantage of the absence of snow. As I hiked down the mountain through the Laurel and Spruce, I could hear the river ahead of me and the excitement that never dies grew in my chest. I sat on the bank and watched the water for evidence of some sort of insect hatch that I could try to match from my selection of flys. I decided to go with a fly that tends to imitate a lot of things and see what this new rod I had built was like. I began to work the pool from all angles and, with each cast, fell in love with the creation in my hands.

I had let the Stimulator fly drift to the tail of the pool, and out of the water came a beautiful rainbow with the fly in it's mouth. There is nothing I can write to explain the feeling of that catch. I had caught a beautiful colored rainbow trout with not only a fly I had tied but a rod I had built. The transfer of energy from the trout ran up the hair thin tippet, through the line and down the rod to my hands. The whole exchange of a trout fighting on the other end winds up as excitement in your heart. One that I never tire of and often becomes an addiction.

I spent the rest of the day learning the quirks and traits of the rod. I was fishing and not catching. That was fine, because I was alone in such a beautiful place. I was witnessing Wild Wonderful West Virginia at it's finest. The only sounds were those made by the river. Each bend held a new scene of nature that took my breath away. I was in "Almost Heaven". Toward late afternoon, a hatch of Blue Wing Olives came to the surface. I tied on a size 22 and began to work the ripples to several deep pools. Out of nowhere the hits came, one right after the other.

It's a day I'll never forget and will always see it as my benchmark on fly fishing. I was alone in the middle of nowhere, intoxicated by the sounds and scents of Spring and with my own creations. I have since caught a lot of trout on the rod I built, but that day will always remain with me. When I open the Oak presentation box I keep it in, I instantly go back to that Spring day on the Upper Shavers River of Cheat Mountain.

My last rod sits half finished. On a good day when my hands are not swollen and I can manipulate my fingers, I work on it. It will be signed: My Last One...David Akers, builder.

An anniversary of sorts....

Today is June the 13, and a day I probably will never forget. What does this day have to do with my blog and memories from another day? Because the events of last June and every June for 6 years before that has a lot to do with who I am. There may be some who will read this who will understand what I will try to explain. There may also be those that won't believe it or actually scarf at it.

On February the 14, 2002, I was awakened in the middle of the night with what I thought was a sinus headache. Little did I know the pain that rousted me from a deep sleep would be a villain in my life for the next 6 years. I had only been asleep a couple of hours when it happened. The headache lasted about three hours and went away as fast as it came. I knew I was having some sinus problems as I usually do that time of the year and really didn't give any thought to it.

I had just started my 7 day long break and was off from work. I went about my day preparing for a coming snow storm they were predicting and really didn't feel bad at all. Then that night within 30 minutes of the time the first one hit...another one. Only this time it was twice as bad. Bad enough it scared me. I experienced things I have never known before. While outside the storm raged. This time it lasted for four hours and absolutely wiped me out. When daylight came and the headache subsided, we also had 14 inches of snow. Roads were closed, businesses shut down and I was snowed in, even with a four wheel drive.

I began to experience what is known as the "hang over" or aftermath during the day. My neck and face were so sore I couldn't stand to touch it. But the confusion of what was going on was just as bad. That night again within an hour and half after I was asleep it hit. This time...I felt sure I was going to die. I had never in my life experienced such pain. My left eye was swollen shut...along with the left side of my nose. I experienced a feeling of heat that I still cannot describe. It was then I realized I was doing things I had no control over. I paced and walked...cussed, cried, and screamed. I felt that in the wee hours of that winter morning my life would end. I knew that only something really bad could cause such pain.

When it became daylight, I decided I had to do something regardless of the streets. I finally made it out and went to emergency medical. They told me I had a serious sinus infection and gave me some meds to take. They told me, as always, to go see my personal physician as soon as I could. That night, just as with the others, it hit. My teeth were so numb you could pull them without Novocaine. I paced, rocked and held my head in my hands like a vice trying to force the pain out. I cussed and screamed which is something totally out of my nature. Without realizing what I was doing, I went outside in the cold and packed my face in snow. I don't know why. I know I did. Finally it was over just as fast as it came.

This was the pattern for the next 18 days. I went to my personal physician and he, in turn, sent me to a neurologist and a headache specialist. After thorough exams of MRI Scans, and everything else you can think of, he told me I was suffering from what is known as Episodic Cluster Headaches. He told me the medical history of them. That they were very rare and there was no known cure. There was a regimen of meds I could take to ease them somewhat. But that was it. He instructed me on giving myself a pain shot when they hit and set me up an appointment with a specialist that deals with them in Charlottesville, Virgina.

The headaches ended by the end of March and I felt it was over with. I began to research them and the more I found, the more concerned I became. They had all sorts of nicknames from "The Devils Dance" to "The Smith and Wesson Headaches". Some actually called them "The Suicide Headaches". I found that an unexplained nature of them was the uncanny time line they followed. The end of April mine were back and far worse than the first series. At times, my temples were void of hair where I had pulled it out, and I'd go to work looking like I had been in a bar fight from the black and blue bruises where I had unknowingly hit myself or squeezed my head so hard trying to force the pain out. This set lasted 9 days. So became my life every three months to the extent you could mark your calendar by them. Each came after I was asleep for about 2 hours. Each lasted from 2 to 5 hours.

A doctor from the Cleveland Clinic created a pain scale for the clusters during a group study of them. A number 5 is like the worse migraine you can have. Number 13 was suicidal. After my visit to Virginia, I was taught how to judge the pain and instructed to keep a journal of them. My employer was sent a letter explaining how rare and how intense the pain was and the type of meds I was on that might show up in my yearly physicals. I became afraid to go anywhere. I was afraid to travel and carried even more fear my children might see me have one. I was held hostage by them.

This was my life for 6 years. In that time frame I had over 250 of them. I have cried till my eyes were bloodshot and screamed to the point I lost my voice. I begged God and I cussed him. Never in control of what I was saying or actually knowing. I have thrown things and knocked holes in the wall not knowing till they were over that I had done so. One physician who did a study on the Clusters wrote that it's some of the worse pain one can experience. She described it as amputation with out anesthetics. She went on to explain that out of the thousand cases she studied, that the word "cluster" was a key to recognizing them. She went on to say they were not even in the same category as migraines and you don't have just one. So many know or feel they know of someone who has them..or had them. But in reality it was not the true "clusters". It's something you don't want to see another have...nor will you ever forget the pain.

For 6 years I knew that at least 4 times a year, an hour and half to two hours after I was asleep they would hit. It was like knowing that each time you fell asleep the same terrible nightmare was going to happen. I had every test you can imagine. Sleep test after sleep test. I tried meds that one sufferer would suggest and nothing showed a trigger...or relief.

Then the first of June 2008 they hit. Only this time they hit during the day and some days I had as many as 5 or 6 of them. By the end of the first week of June I was beside myself. I was desperate. Dangerously so. I contacted the specialist in Virginia and they conferred with my personal physician and suggested a morphine patch. I won't go into details, but, fear, pain and a hopeless feeling went beyond danger for me. I knew I could not continue to suffer 10 to 13 level Clusters much longer. I ran into a problem with getting pain meds from my insurance company. My personal physician tried to help but was running into a block wall and I was running out of time. I simply could not stand it much longer.

I contacted my son for help and he asked me if I would consider trying something somewhat new. He called and got me in with a Neurologist the specializes in chronic, severe pain. When I went to see him the first time and explained what I was going through he showed me more compassion than any physician I had seen. Trust me. I had been to a bunch of them. He told me something I'll never forget...he said, "I'm 90 percent sure I can stop 90 percent of the pain". "I just can't tell you how long it will last". He told me it could last a week, a month, a year or 5 years. I told him if he could give one week of sleep it was worth it.

The procedure consisted of long needles placed at three nerve points in the base of the skull. Then one in the jaw on the side the headaches were at and one in the temple. I'm not going to lie. I walked back to my son in the waiting area with tears running down my face. The procedure hurt and hurt bad. After each procedure I'd sleep at times for 12 to 20 hours. I had a total of 4 of these. Finally after the fourth one, the headaches stopped. That has been one year ago today. One year I have been pain free. I still wake at nights with the symptoms of them. But no pain. For the first time in 6 years I'm no longer afraid to travel or be around others certain times of the year. For the first time in 6 years, I don't have to worry about stocking up on pain meds and stat pens. For the first time in 6 years, I don't have the fear of being at work or in a grocery store or at dinner and the "devil coming to dance". I finally have my life back.

For those that want more information on these devils and those that suffer them you can check out The Organization for Understanding Cluster Headaches..."OUCH".