June 1, 1914

The morning was cool and crisp on the Colorado River.  A light mist rose from the pockets of water that flowed through the shadows of large rocks.  Swallows, such a stunning, iridescent bird species, curved, darted, and dashed above the river eating insects. We furtively crawled on our hands and knees from hole to hole up stream.  The sun warmed our backs, but our chests, knees and fingers were cold.  We fished leisurely, but very carefully, looked below submerged logs, peered around rocks, and cautiously moved along the grass river banks to each riffle, run and pool.

Other birds scolded us as we crept through willows disturbing their sanctuary.  We each started with ten worms in Prince Albert tobacco cans but did not use them. Thomas threw his hat on the grass and captured young green grasshoppers.  Cruelly, I flicked one with my index finger to a back eddy near us. It whirled, struggled and was almost instantly engulfed by a trout. The splash and resulting ring melted to match the smooth flow of the river. The moment was gone and now is only a memory. I laced hoppers on my hook and caught a couple fish.

Thomas encouraged me to use the imitation fly he tied with green wool and deer hair strands for wings.  I loved the deception. It satisfied equally catching or losing fish. We climbed to the level railroad grade where the sheer canyon cliffs had been blasted with dynamite and the huge, broken rocks pushed off to the rushing water’s edge. We sat on the rails and ate the bread, meat, and cheese we had packed in a rucksack. Thomas saw me looking, somewhat intimidated, at the steel ribbons that would soon lead me to my new home. He reached and rubbed my head, knocking off my cap.

“You need to know a few things.”  Thomas said looking fondly and directly at my eyes.  “We are remittance men, and everyone will assume you are an aristocrat.”

“But we are not even gentry,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter. You will never convince them, so don’t try.  Your value will be judged by what you are willing to do for yourself.”

I sat, stared at the water, and listened.

Thomas resumed presently.  “Lyulph Ogilvy may have told you what he likes most about this country is saddling your own horse.  He is the second son of an Earl, but I am sure he treated you as an equal.  You and I don’t drink much liquor, which is unusual for remittance men, but if you are in a bar and a cowboy says, ‘God shave the Queen,’ walk out.  You will be tested and teased.  Learn the difference.”

I started to laugh and did not.  A murder of black crows hackled from the cliffs and trees.

“Your accent, intelligence and proper bearing will be conspicuous.  This is a country of immigrants, but most arrive poor.  People will be envious of you, because you are cultured, and they will assume you are wealthy.”

“But I am not wealthy.”

“Your monthly remittance will appear near the first of the month in your account at the Routt County Bank.  Due to your mother’s insistence, you are receiving twice as much as me.  You will be well-off by local standards.”

“That is not fair.”

“I am older and established.  My money is simply cream on the cereal. Don’t piss your money away.”

I continued staring across the river.   A marmot glared back at me.  “How far is Steamboat Springs?”  I asked.

“It is about three hours on the train or a full day ride on a horse.  It depends on the weather.”

“I’m afraid.  What will become of me?  I may as well be marooned to a deserted island.”

“You fear the unknown.  Pay attention to what is going on around you and you’ll be fine. It will become easier to adapt every day.  You are staying the first week at the Cabin Hotel.  I would suggest finding a place to lodge by yourself.  You have your books and can write letters to me and the family.  In time you will have friends.  Your fishing rod is my extra.  Take it with you as my welcoming gift.  You will get a lot of thinking done while fishing the Yampa River.”

The three-piece split bamboo rod was manufactured by Bostonian B. F. Nichols. With silk fly line, it is a dramatic improvement over any rod I have ever used. It is obvious after only one day on the Colorado River. My casts are longer, more accurate and it transforms my fly fishing to a more dynamic form of angling. I will cherish it and the memory of this day with Uncle Thomas.

(As the narrator of this diary, I must say, Thomas never liked me. He had one foot stuck in the Victorian Era and the other looking for a foothold. We British were so boring and wanted to do the right thing for the sake of form. His and Julius’s darkness lingered in subconscious obscurity. The gentlemen shared the same ancestral fear. Perhaps it would be better to type, he did not approve of my behavior…….my Blunder. CE)