There was no question where I was headed as I closed out September. I had found a good fish after all, and decided it was about time to go catch him.

Of course, trout, mayflies and Mother Nature don’t simply line up to bring these things about on our command. I have not been finding multitudes of either, feeling blessed to encounter a riser or two to engage for a few hours of one golden September afternoon. I had found this fish because I had been in the right place at the right time, the result of a somewhat systematic elimination of water and finned candidates.

When a river’s pickings are slim, it’s trout will take advantage of the best moments. The angler’s task is to determine when and where these moments might occur. If we are lucky, we get it right once in a while. If we are observant and persistent, we build experience and let that better our odds.

According to my recent observations, the most likely opportunities for a trout to get a snack have come in the form of a few brief flurries of cream-colored mayflies during the length of the afternoons. The timing and the intensity have varied, and there has not been enough of this activity to call it a hatch by any means, but a good surface feeding brown trout has to make do with what he has. This same immutable law applies equally to the angler.

I found this fish enjoying a very brief snack period, one of those that tantalizes the angler and then vanishes as quickly as it appears. I planned my return accordingly.

My little assortment of flies includes my 100-Year Duns and CDC duns and cripples, and they range in size from a standard 16 through 12. There are A.I. Light Cahills, Translucence Light Cahills, and those tied with my standard blend of red fox fur with a touch of Antron. After all, when your fishing comes down to hunting one good trout, it pays to be prepared to show them subtleties of imitation.

The little flurries of mayflies I was counting on have included two or three different sizes, and assumably species, of flies, so I felt somewhat confident that I could offer my quarry an appropriate morsel should he deign to appear again.

My wait was tempered by a rise upriver from my target’s table, and I went to work on him immediately. Sliding around another of those devilish little creases in the current, he finally came when his position and my guessed at drift line intertwined; and he refused me! This too looked to be a very respectable fish, and I tried valiantly to bring him up to a different fly until Nature’s little snack period ended rather abruptly.

I am not sure how long I waited for another to begin, for I was alone on the river and most happy with the warmth of the afternoon.

Eventually, I spotted the first soldier in a second flurry of Cahills. I’ll call them that, since that is what I call the dry flies I tie to match them, though I imply no actual knowledge of their species. I mean, since DNA testing entered the arena of aquatic insect classification, it seems nearly useless to even try to identify the bug on the water, and of course there are thousands of unidentified minor species and subspecies that will never be written about in a fly-fishing text. My trout seemed to recognize the bug well enough, and I fell hopelessly into the game as soon as he began to rise.

He was moving a bit, though generally holding a lie in the confident way that lets us know this is his pool. I had offered one of the long shank sixteens, tied with my Catskill Light Cahill blend, and continued with that pattern. The game offered seeming to be more a matter of getting his timing and the vagaries of his position in line with my repeated presentations. I didn’t need to change the fly.

The electricity made its way through leader line and fly rod straight away! This boy was big and mad and liked the music of the Hardy’s chorus as much as it did! We danced in a deep and rocky and unfamiliar reach of water, so I had to keep the line high whenever he pulled toward the bottom, applying side pressure only when he was in sight and obviously clear of obstructions. I relished every moment of that fight until he was mine!

It had been a long month, and I enjoyed the moment profusely. My vanquished foe didn’t like being lined up on the measuring centerline of the net to get his full length accurately, so I logged him at twenty-two inches plus.

The pounding in my heart finally subsided, and I stood there for a time, taking in the beauty and the solitude, fully appreciating how captivating these Catskill rivers can be. Then I started hunting for another rise…

I am plotting a grand finale to the dry fly season, warm, bright afternoons with occasional showers interspersed with the blessings of the forests. For this is the season of plenty!

October, the word springs from my lips with the ebullience of youth, memories of wonderful days afield with my father, and later years crouching intent upon the flickering movement of a whitetail picking his way silently through a carpet of dry leaves. These days, the greatest store of memories are found along the rivers of my heart.

A recent one was captured by a friend, an old Hardy spinning away the raindrops clustered upon it’s rim, my classic Leonard rod arched with strain as a great brown that had thrice bested me rushed for freedom. Ah, the chances and changes autumn brings!

I feel the urgency of the season most upon the rivers, though the morning chill on forested ridges brings forth the same emotions: catch it before it’s gone!

A tiny wink of light a hundred yards off along the riverbank draws me there. Low water demands the stealthiest approach imaginable, and those yards seem like miles as anticipation builds. At last, I am within range, though the short wand in my hand seems woefully insufficient. The cast, the drift, and yes, the take follows! That little rod bends double as the old Hardy protests vehemently… off to the races!

In the shallows the game ends, and the tired fish is shepherded into the chilled, October current.

The urgency within builds each day, yes, yes… catch it before it is gone!

My perfect trout is not a rainbow after all, and he isn’t as big as I thought he might be, given his choice of feeding lies. I went back for a visit this afternoon and, well, solved the puzzle. There is no question this nice wild brownie proved a worthy adversary.

I wasn’t seeing any rises upon my arrival, so I began the slow walk downriver to see what I might find. That trout remained supremely confident, for I’ll be damned if he didn’t begin to rise as I approached.

I had stayed with my usual 5X fluorocarbon tippet during our previous encounters but try as I might I could not get a perfect float through that wrinkly maze of currents and upwellings this fish called home. I had considered going down to 6X but, believing he was probably an outsized rainbow, I didn’t want to risk it. Our Delaware River rainbows have broken plenty of 5X tippets over the years with their long, fast runs topped off with aerial acrobatics.

This afternoon I knotted a long 6X tippet to my leader followed by an olive T.P. Dun in size 20. The drift certainly looked better, but it seemed that my friend wasn’t eating olives. Some rises were gentle splashes, and a couple of others were soft. I considered the season and changed my fly to a size 20 winged black ant.

My second drift resulted in a brief shiver at the surface and loss of sight of my tiny ant, so I eased the rod tip up and I had him at last. He thought he was a rainbow I guess, clearing the water half a dozen times as we danced. When I got him close, there was no question that he was a brown.

A seventeen-inch wild brown trout is a nice fish anywhere. In some places, I have heard anglers talking about big fish that measured a few inches shy of that mark. I have no complaints that this hard-won game didn’t result in a twenty-inch or better trout to note in my log. I earned the chance to put a nice arch in my fly rod and take the snapshot at the top of this page.

During my early years chasing difficult trout, there were a number of times my hard-earned trophies turned out to be trout less than a foot long. I let out a laugh when I landed every one of them, for they demanded my best and gave me theirs. I cannot ask more of any fish that swims.

I seem to have found the perfect fish! I love fly fishing for wild trout for the challenge and the beauty of the experience, and challenges have been the hallmark for this season. What could be better, given that rising trout have been terribly hard to come by, than a rising uncatchable trout, one to revisit again and again?

I stalked slowly into the wide flow of the river and began to work my way downstream. My eyes scanned the surface for signs of life: an insect, a rise, even a subsurface flash. Working down, I came to that same funny little crease in the current of the pool, the place where I had earned two refusals from a trout I believe is a worthy specimen. I watched for a while, seeing nothing. I took a step to continue my search and there he was.

Of course I don’t know this is the same trout, but I certainly believe it!

Working a small, patterned area from the flat above that damned squiggle in the flow, Mr. Bow had my rapt attention. Indeed, I feel I know him by now, he whose silver gill plate flashes at me when he takes a mayfly with enticing vigor. His routine was much the same as last week, sliding toward that wrinkle for one morsel and away for the next, never quite holding a taking position and thus building the level of difficulty, as if such a confounding ribbon of current needed the help!

There weren’t many flies available, one or two now and then, tiny fellows I took for blue-winged olives. A size 20 silk bodied T.P. Dun does great service for me this time of year, and the first cast with a freshly tied model should have been my only service of the game. The drift looked good, though obviously to me alone, and I paused as he slid up and intercepted it before raising my rod in victory.

Well, no, said Mr. Bow, there’s something squirrely about the drift of that fly!

I of course tried another cast, followed by several more, all to no avail. I tried every antic I can muster with a fly rod to impart just a bit more slack to defeat that current. He failed to surface again after that refusal, at least until something more was added to the menu.

I knotted a size 18 version of the fly with a sparse trailing shuck and, with the perseverance of numerous casts, enticed him to take a swipe at that for refusal number two. Oh, I neglected to mention the wind.

Now I felt that this fish and his inability to consider rising anywhere but close to that band of wrinkled current presented challenge enough, but the Red Gods decided to up the ante. Wind gusts materialized from nowhere and plagued me for the rest of the afternoon. The only time they seemed to calm for the first hour or so coincided with my wading back to shallow water to warm up a bit. The river gage recorded forty-nine degrees for the water temperature during our little war of wits.

Eventually I forced myself to remain in the frigid water, thus firing a few casts during the calmer moments of the afternoon. The fish was unimpressed.

As had been the case last week, there was a brief and sudden appearance of a few pale mayflies, and I countered with a size 16 XL Light Cahill 100-Year Dun. He came for it once, leaving me to celebrate a third refusal, and putting me in mind of the late, great Vincent C. Marinaro’s duet with his trout without a mouth on the hallowed waters of the Letort.

Once the Cahills vanished as quickly as they had appeared, it became clear the game had ended for the day. My perfect trout had tired of it and left me alone with my thoughts. I left too, grudgingly, and ran the heat in the car all the way home.

I took a chance on summer’s final fishing day, traveling to the Neversink River with hope in my heart.

I had visited only once this season, finding the summer flow meager at best, and trout absent from familiar reaches. The flow has since been increased, and I thought I owed the river the opportunity to redeem herself in my eyes.

The day was bright, comfortably warm, and carried a surprise – wind! Gusty breezes frequented my old haunts carrying the promise of a feast of terrestrials. I hunted carefully, despite the lack of even subtle hidden rises.

There has been development here in the years since I first visited, and I expect a few more trout may have been released into new residents’ kitchens than the law allows. Whatever the reason, I have found fewer trout in these environs in recent seasons, where once I discovered a quiet bounty.

As I fished along the little run with its overhanging grasses, my heart quickened with memories.

It was springtime when I first approached from downstream, creeping right up to the lip where the current gathered and then spilled into a wide, shallow riffle. The pooled water just above that lip had three trout rising, plucking Hendrickson duns from the surface. I cast as delicately as I could and my dun was taken by a large, vigorous wild brown trout. Landing him, I was breathless to find his brethren still rose.

I caught all three that afternoon, that first one the largest and better than twenty inches, his fellows not far behind. Quite the introduction to this unassuming little run of water!

As I moved on to the tail of the Victory Pool, memories came freely. I found a good trout there at last, his belly tight to a flat rock on the bottom, almost asleep. He had ignored all of my presentations as he ignored the fruits of Nature’s larder delivered by the winds.

I fished on through the pool, covering all of the hides, the shaded edges, the pockets below each rock, but there was nothing but the silence of my casting and the brush of the breeze to break the trance. At the top I recalled a very special day there.

It was my first Catskill trip of the season a decade ago, a longed-for occasion in a late, timid spring. The day itself was everything I had been waiting for: sunny, warm, gentle and beautiful, and I had high hopes for a hatch of Hendricksons. I sat down on the warm, green grass to watch the pool, stretching back and nearly napping with the pure pleasure of it. A sound came to my ear, a gentle plop that brought me upright immediately.

The current parted above a huge rock outcropping in midriver, and the first things I saw there were wings! Blue quills had begun to emerge and struggled to dry their wings and escape the surface. A soft, slow bulge interrupted those struggles, and the mayfly disappeared.

I slid gently off the grassy bank and planted my feet on the gravel, then pulled line from the Hardy Perfect reel. I carried my first vintage bamboo rod, a Wright & McGill Granger Victory, as I began to approach into casting position. By the time I was ready, the first Hendrickson emerged wriggling in the crease of current above the tip of the rocks. The Blue Quill was ready, and I cast it, watching the drift as it bobbed along that subtle seam between smooth flow and upwelling.

Another bulge, and a Hendrickson ceased its struggles. I retrieved my line, clipped that blue quill, and knotted one of the Hendrickson emergers I had tied back in February as my new Granger rested nearby. The rod was older than I, but straight and smooth casting when I sent that Hendrickson on it’s quest, and the arc it described after the bulge and lift was epic! That trout battled hard, ever running back to that sunken outcropping to rid himself of my fraud. In the net he was gorgeous, besting the twenty-inch mark on my tape! That old brownie started me down the long and wonderfully winding road of vintage bamboo and trophy trout!

I savored that memory as I walked slowly downriver, smiling at that grassy bank and the midriver outcropping, on my last summer day on the water. Memories accompanied me rather than energetic trout and the music of a singing Hardy reel, but my feelings were of contentment, not remorse.

It has been a difficult summer, the longest and hottest dry spell of my Catskill memory, my own summer style of fishing interrupted by a July flood and the City’s September drawdown, neither of which brought improvement to the fishing. This season has offered it’s own special gifts, as each season does, and I shall not hold it’s memories in lesser esteem.

What shall autumn bring? I have high hopes, for they are stirred by each new season in a sportsman’s life. I’ll walk the forest thickets on frosty mornings searching for the elusive Mr. Ruff, and angle away the golden afternoons with my hand gripping the scarred cork of vintage cane. What shall I find? Promise and contentment amid cool mountains and bright water of course.

There are clouds at daybreak this morning and, as much as I have enjoyed these last calm, sunlit days of summer, they are welcome. It is fifty degrees here in Crooked Eddy.

I hope the clouds will urge the late season mayflies to play out their life cycles this afternoon, to ascend toward that leaden sky and tempt the wild trout of the Delaware to feed. There have been too few such dramas of late!

I traced a new path yesterday, walking a wide lovely pool along the lower East Branch Delaware. The afternoon sun was warm once more, the surroundings beautiful with a tinge of color hinting at autumn in the golden glow of that sunlight. I had searched upriver and down, finding nothing to draw further interest, and had taken a stance near mid-pool to survey and wait. Another angler joined me, cordial and considerate, and we spoke briefly about the lack of any activity. He asked if I was headed downriver, and I replied that I had just come from there, so he nodded and headed down.

I saw him cast a few times in a couple of areas, but from the distance I could see no rises. Trying spots where memory held a trout? Eventually he returned and I asked him. He reported a handful of trout had risen and related that he felt his casting had kept them out of reach. As we spoke, he told me that two or three were still rising, and suggested I have a try at them, volunteering to show me just where they were holding. I was a bit stunned at his act of kindness.

We walked down and, sure enough, just beyond a ripple of current swelled from a submerged boulder which I had earlier scouted, there was now a trout picking tiny morsels from the glide. A few Cahills had appeared during the past half hour, and I had knotted a 100-Year Dun to my tippet accordingly. Rather than change to a tiny olive, I offered the Cahill once, the smooth power of my Delaware Pent laying it gently on the edge of that glide. The trout rose, I paused, then lifted it free of current and trout!

Analysis can be the bane of the angler, but after trying a couple of other flies once that trout resurfaced, I fell headlong into that trap. My conclusion in the end was that I had misjudged a refusal as a clean take, thus taking the fly away while the trout was visibly beneath it. He had resumed feeding within a few minutes, though clearly alerted I felt. I would never come close to touching him again.

I kept at it for perhaps an hour, there being nothing else to draw my attention, while my impromptu host worked his way upstream. We nodded goodbye to the river and walked out together. He remarked he was recently retired, and I saluted retirement as a wonderful condition that allowed anglers such as ourselves to fish all week! The one thing we neglected was a formal introduction.

Thanks to this stranger, I had an enjoyable interlude with a worthy opponent. I had thanked him for sharing his fish as we exited, but I regret that neither of us dropped our names.

I confess I have become too accustomed to rude, boorish behavior from my fellow fly fishers, to the point that I tend to shun conversation and contact. It seems I forgot how to act in the presence of a gentleman angler. I hope we cross paths again.

My favorite season is coming to a close. Though this summer has not been the kindest, nor most productive, nor even the most comfortable of those I have enjoyed since my retirement, I still feel a touch of melancholy as these last days pass. In truth, none of us ever know if we will remain to enjoy another.

It is not that I do not dearly love the autumn or the springtime, for each of these are truly sportsmens’ seasons, it is just that I find these Catskill Summers uncommonly sublime.

Our great drought brings a second wave, and there seems no relief upon the horizon. The wide Beaver Kill has shrunken to a warm trickle, the flood of July nothing but a memory. The river’s bones bake in the sun, and I wonder if her trout can even survive much more of this.

I spend many happy days along the river each autumn, but last year left me wanting. The large, wild trout I meet there made no appearance, not even when the crispness of the air and cool autumn rains bade them to come home. Would that I could spare half the high flow in her sister river and shower her gravel with that gift of cold, clear, lifegiving water!

My thoughts look past the glory of autumn, for there is a fear growing. I try to distract myself with the culm of Lo o bamboo which waits for these old hands to split, plane and glue. JA loaned me his copy of the bible, A Master’s Guide To Building A Bamboo Flyrod, to prepare.

Imagine me, tasting the last draughts of summer and thinking toward winter! Too set in my ways perhaps, too comfortable with familiar summer patterns to embrace the variety of a difficult season.

I keep hearing the same line, hatches and rising trout at evening, but it is an old song. In spring certainly, dusk brings a whirlwind of activity, but I have spent many summer evenings along these rivers with little for company save my own thoughts. I hear tales of the afternoons too, yet the great river I walked last week revealed little.

I should look further, deeper into Nature’s farewell to the season of warmth and plenty, yet memories pull us back to old haunts by their very existence.

Part of me wishes to survey miles of river from the seat of my drift boat, to float easily upon summer’s last release, search the riffles and pools for some spark of life. I don’t trust that pinched nerve in my neck though. Still hearing it’s murmur, I know this is not the time to challenge low water with a solo float, despite my longing.

I just cleaned the ferrules of my fly rod, my Delaware River rod you might say, for when the 8 1/2-foot five weight penta was conceived and ordered it was with the Mainstem in mind. Pittsburgh rodmaker Tim Zietak flamed the cane beautifully and presented me with a smooth casting foil. Each autumn, I take it home, to the wide expanse of the Delaware.

As the second week of September comes to a close, summerlike conditions prevail. There is not much dry fly fishing about other than on the big river. Flows are ideal for wading, and plenty of cold water flows from both branches and their reservoirs.

Still, the Mainstem always presents its challenges. Foot access is limited as it always has been, so anglers cluster around the few available. The riverbanks can get a bit crowded in these areas. Walking up or down river will provide some space and solitude, but that too is limited. There are deep eddies, rock studded heavy water right to the banks, and a general lack of convenient walking encountered, and respect for private landowners generally means staying in the river. Age enters into the picture too for anglers such as myself. Long walks in the riverbed take their toll on legs, hips and backs in particular.

There are memories here: bright evenings as the anticipation builds for the hatch, epic battles with drag burning rainbows, and quiet moments when the sheer beauty of the river touches your soul.

On this afternoon the first pool I visit is deserted. I wade out and see one tiny fish break water, nothing more. Deciding to give things some time to evolve, I wade further and cast first an Isonychia dry, and then a soft hackled fly to resemble the swimming nymph. It swings through the tumbled water around a rock pile, though it’s path is not intercepted by any of the trout I seek.

Straining my eyes downriver I see a lone drift boat and wonder if he has found some action where the river moves into a shaded bend, so I stand and watch for a moment. He moves on, and with that I decide to do the same.

My second stop is not so completely deserted, as a lone angler prospects downriver. I am free to sample the first and second riffles which had drawn a small crowd earlier this week. The anglers there seemed not to be catching much of anything, until one gentleman hooked “the biggest fish of the year”. It was more than he could handle, running hard into his backing and staying there, so I moved to shore and bid him walk through to follow. His friend eventually joined us and netted the fish amid much complaining, a lovely 18″ rainbow wearing the angler’s fly on his flank. Foul hooking had seemed ever more likely as he tried in vain to get the fish close, but I was pulling for him!

Mostly the river has surrendered feisty small trout, to me and others this week. On this bright, comfortable afternoon it was much the same. A few flies were seen, but only the occasional rise typical of small, hungry trout taking advantage of slim pickings to draw a cast. That fellow down river walked out before me and reported the same: two, between eight and ten inches. I nodded, as my single fish resided firmly in their company.

Eight days remain in the summer of 2024, and for now the big rivers are the only destination which will draw my interest. I have urged JA to join me but have yet to hear his reply. Working on this or that no doubt…

It is still cool nearing midday. Though the sun is bright, its light has a subtle tinge, that golden quality of autumn light.

I am headed for the wide-open reaches of the Delaware this afternoon, feeling somewhat improved from my weekend battle with some sort of pinched nerve that forced a rod from my hands. I feel better walking around at least, and that is enough to break my hiatus and get me out on the river. If I find a rise to draw my cast, I will discover if my aging muscles are sufficiently healed to perform. The Delaware is not typically a place for short, gentle casts.

Our forecast shows a coming four day return to summerlike weather. Beginning Thursday the highs should hit 80 degrees with plenty of sunshine. Today though, I hear whispers of autumn.

My mind is a rush of thoughts, from the simple joy I feel on a beautiful day, to that touch of melancholy that ghosts in with each thought of season’s end. Fidgeting with tackle, I keep travelling back to past Septembers on my Catskill rivers. Fishing seems never to be easy. Rivers are usually low, their wild trout straining to recover from the long drought and difficult migrations of the heat of summer. Yes, migrations, as the City of New York’s whimsical attitude toward the health of these great rivers and their fisheries does not make for comfortable conditions in many miles of these rivers. Both freestone rivers and tailwaters become too warm for trout to survive, and they must move to seek spring holes, cool tributaries, and sufficiently cold water closer to the dams.

Conditions vary each year. Hurricane Debby complicated the picture this summer, and a few short spells of colder nights brought many miles of marginal waters down to cooler temperature regimes for a time. That did not last, as heat and sunshine returned when the rivers dropped and the freestoners saw afternoon temperatures in the seventies again.

So where are the trout? The big water of the lower East Branch and the upper miles of the Mainstem Delaware have nice, wadable flows and ideal water temperatures right now due to increased dam releases in anticipation of the Delaware Aqueduct Project. That should increase insect activity, but have the trout come back? Nature’s wrath already posted a false alarm after Debby, and I found a few in the Beaver Kill after that, but not many. Guiding my new friend from Germany on Thursday and Friday I did not find them within the hours we had available to fish.

Today’s walk along the Delaware is another leap of faith, an exposition of my belief in the stamina of her wild trout. I hope for a sign, enough mayflies to bring a couple trout to the surface would be a shining example, the arch in my rod as a sleek rainbow charges away downstream would be even better!

There is nothing so frustrating for a fishing guide as failing to find a taking fish for his “sport”, particularly when that sport is such a fine angler and personable gentleman as Dr. Peer Doering-Arges. NYC disrupted the tailwaters with high releases on Wednesday morning, with Peer arriving that evening. The freestone rivers had warmed after the post-Debby cool down and are frighteningly skinny. As so often occurs in early September, fishing conditions are relatively poor.

Peer’s first visit to the Catskills is tied to a presentation he will be giving at the 30th Catskill Rodmakers Gathering tomorrow morning, and it was necessary to fit in our fishing within his available hours. The rivers, insects and trout failed to cooperate, but we did enjoy each other’s company.

The good doctor has found, tested, used, distributed and is marketing a new species of bamboo for rodmakers. Commonly called Lo o (low-oh) in it’s native Vietnam, Bambusa procera has some interesting properties to recommend it to rodmakers. The culms are larger, typically yielding 16 strips rather than the 10 split from a culm of Arundinaria amabilis, China’s tea stick or Tonkin cane. The nodes are spaced much farther apart too, making it possible to build a nodeless multi piece fly rod without removing nodes and splicing sections. The lack of nodes means reduced work for the maker, as there is no sanding, filing, pressing or staggering of nodes required, and the nodeless strips are much simpler to straighten. Having briefly tried my hand at planing bamboo strips, I believe that will be a somewhat easier and smoother process working a nodeless strip of Lo o.

Peer fished a 7-foot three weight Lo o rod yesterday on the Beaver Kill, giving me a chance to cast it on the water. It is light, responsive and casts smoothly and accurately. My friend Tom Smithwick made two identical rods for comparison, also 7-foot rods for number three lines. Tapers, fiberglass ferrules, reel seats and guides are identical, though one rod is made with Tonkin cane and the other Lo o.

The Lo o is noticeably lighter, and the reduced mass is felt in casting the rods side by side. Tom suggests a maker could increase his taper dimension by roughly 4% to create a blank with similar mass and feel. “Or you can simply speed up your power stroke a bit”, he adds.

After casting their rods, I know I would be quite pleased with a 7′ 9″, 3 piece Lo o bamboo rod for a number five line to put through it’s paces during a long Catskill dry fly season!

I hope to catch Peer’s full presentation tomorrow, and there’s a chance we may get a few more hours together on the river before he heads on to his next destination. I would love to find him a couple of our quality-sized wild brownies willing to rise and put a full arch in that new bamboo!