WE APPRECIATE YOUR PATRONAGE! - Lisa and I decided a long time ago that what we do has to be as much about our commitment to a life-style and connecting friends, as anything else.

We sincerely hope that you feel this commitment in everything that we do, and that you'll think of us, and visit our website whenever you feel compelled to treat good friends, or yourselves to something special.

SMALL FRY CARDS - A box of Small Fry Cards makes a wonderful gift, and there's no better way to express your friendship at this time of year than with a gift or card that's truly meaningful.

Order online before January 1st and receive a free box of cards! We'd like to show our appreciation... buy three boxes of Small Fry Cards and receive a fourth box free! We're sorry, but we can't extend this offer to custom imprinted or wholesale orders.

THE ALASKA CHRONICLES - I've guided many of you in Alaska. Have you ever wondered what goes on behind the scenes at a fishing lodge? Miles Nolte's insightful and honest description of a summer in Alaska, working as a guide at a remote lodge is destined to become a cult classic. I first became aware of Miles and his now infamous post, The AK Chronicles, on the Drake Magazine's message board. We have a limited supply of The Alaska Chronicles available. Buy it from us and we'll include the official sticker, which I designed. I promise, you won't be disappointed!

JOIN ME IN ALASKA NEXT SUMMER - Autumn has only just begun, and I'm already thinking about spending time in Alaska next summer. I'll be hosting two separate weeks of fishing, at two very different lodges.

August 7 to 14 - Meet the Artist!

On the first trip of the season, I'll travel with my easel and brushes to Bristol Bay Lodge, which is managed by my old friend, Steve Laurent. Throughout the week I'll paint on location (plein air) and exhibit the completed work at a small opening on Friday evening.

Join me for this exciting week of trout fishing on some of my favorite Alaskan rivers. While you catch fish, I'll capture the scenes on canvas. There are currently 12 reservations available.

August 29 to September 5 - Alaska's Autumn Splendor

If I had to choose a favorite week to guide in Alaska, I'd pick the first week of September. And, that's just what I've done! I'll join the crew at Royal Coachman Lodge to help them give you a memorable week of fishing for rainbow, char, and silver salmon.

Join me for the quintessential Alaskan experience, fantastic fishing against a backdrop of golden cottonwoods, bordering cerulean rivers that run across a red and violet tundra, toward distant cobalt mountains. There are currently 10 reservations available.

If you have any questions or would like additional information, please let me know how I can be helpful.

FLY FISHING DREAMS - My old friend David Lambroughton cut his teeth as an Alaskan guide, at Bristol Bay Lodge, almost 30 years ago. Since then he's become known worldwide as a steelhead fisherman, fly designer, guide, and perhaps most importantly, an internationally renowned photographer. We're honored to offer you his 2010 calendar, Fly Fishing Dreams. This large handsome calendar features two beautiful photographs for each month, and all the bells and whistles. Order two... one for home and another for the office!

A GENTLEMAN'S FIRESIDE DIARY - If you enjoy the Thursday Morning Art Review, then you'll treasure the latest book to which I've contributed. We're very proud to offer a limited number of, A Gentleman's Fireside Diary. This handsome book is a collection of essays, poems, and short stories thoughtfully written by sportsmen like us, and brilliantly edited by Ryan Doughty, with an evocative forward by Dez Young. The book is illustrated with over twenty of my pencil drawings, and I'm honored to have contributed two essays. Each copy includes a signed original pencil drawing on the title page. When you order, please specify your favorite fly or game bird feather.

THE THURSDAY MORNING ART REVIEW

Brothers

"That all men should be brothers is the dream of people who have no brothers."
Charles Chincholles

Oh shit, I thought, when I heard my father's footsteps in the hallway, I'm in trouble now!

I hardly had time to extinguish the flashlight and bury it under my pillow with the book before the footsteps stopped in front of my door. They always stopped at my door; no matter that there were two other bedrooms at the end of the long hallway. The other bedrooms belonged to my three sisters, but they were perfect... perfectly sickening.

This would be my father's third visit within the hour to inform me that it was both a school night, and well past midnight. The first time he'd found me at my desk, tying flies, and offered a patient reminder. The second time, betrayed by my reading light, he'd caught me in bed with a well-worn copy Robert Ruark's, Old Man and the Boy, and had been less patient. Now, I knew, I was really in for it.

The image that illustrates this short story has been used before, but it it's a favorite of mine. This oil painting shows two brothers on a northern river, and Lisa and I are proud that it now resides in their parent's home. Thanks to all that made this happen.

The door opened slowly, and through my half-closed eyelids I watched as my father stood silhouetted in the doorway for a long time before he silently walked to my bed and sat down. "Bob, are you awake?"

Should I continue my subterfuge, feign to stir, pantomime a yawn, and then pretend to awaken; surprised to see him? I knew I was a horrible liar. "Yes," I said, propping myself up on an elbow. It then occurred to me that the last time my father had dropped by for a midnight chat, I'd learned that my dog had died. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer for a long second, as if he were trying to find a gentle way to tell me something difficult. "Wrong?" he asked.

"Did the dog die?"

"No, your dog's fine," he chuckled. "Nothing's wrong, nothing at all. As a matter of fact, everything's great... you're finally going to have a little brother!"

Holy shit, I thought. He's not kidding!

I'd always wanted a brother. I had three sisters, two older and one younger, that I constantly battled with, and I fervently believed that my life would be made much simpler (and much more fun) if I could even the odds a bit. "Really?" I asked in awe, hardly believing that it could be true.

"Your mother just told me," he said, "and we've talked it over and decided that you should be the one to pick his name."

"Tommy," I blurted out. "I've always wanted a brother named Tommy!"

"Tommy, it is," he said. Then a serious look crossed his face, and he continued. " Your mother is getting a little old to have children. So, you and I are going to do our best to help, and say a Rosary every night until Tommy comes."

I hated school and homework, and was even less fond of church and praying, but decided that, given the circumstances, it'd be worth it. "When's he going to come?" I asked trying to gauge how many nights I'd have to kneel on the hardwood floor in my bedroom.

"That's the best part," my father said with a smile. "He's due on Christmas!"

"Christmas?" I gasped. The wait until Christmas under normal circumstances seemed like an eternity. "That'll take forever."

For nearly eight months I spent the hour before bed on my knees, as I climbed my way around the Rosary... bead by bead. Spring passed into summer, and summer into fall. The leaves changed their colors and Halloween fell, followed by Thanksgiving, and soon we were watching Christmas specials. The Rosaries became easier with time, perhaps because of the calluses on my knees, and I fell asleep each night content with the knowledge that God would soon give to me the best Christmas present any boy could ever ask for... a little brother.

On Christmas Eve my mother's water broke, and one of the neighborhood moms came over to stay with us while my father took her to the hospital. It seemed like forever until the phone rang, and by a bit of bad luck, all three of my sisters beat me to it. When I finally got the chance, I asked my father a very important question, since I was making a large "Welcome Home" banner for my little brother. "What's Tommy's middle name?" I asked.

"Ahhh," he stammered. "I thought it best if your mother named your new little sister."

My world stopped. "What?" I croaked. "But, God was supposed to... what about all those Rosaries?"

"I don't know what to say," he offered. "I know how disappointed you must be."

"Disappointed..." I whispered and handed the phone back to one of my gushing sisters. It was that night, at the age of ten that I stood alone, in the dark, on the edge of the precipice and experienced a crisis of faith from which I have never fully recovered. There is no God, I decided. And, if there is, she's a girl.

I grew up alone (even the family dog was a girl) and envied all of my friends who had brothers. The neighbors down the lane had four boys, and the family at the top of the hill had five, so I spent a lot of my time with them. There was the usual pack mentality that a close bunch of boys develop, and we watched out for one another, but I never had anyone whose allegiance and loyalty surpassed friendship and came from blood.

In retrospect, of course, there were some benefits to being the only boy in the family; I had my own room, and didn't have to worry about sharing my stuff. There was little chance that my sisters would make off with my fishing poles, poke around in my tackle box, or borrow my BB gun, though I once caught them using my hunting knife to pry the lid off a can of glitter paint.

On the other hand, there were certain important life-lessons that I never had the opportunity to learn. I never learned to share my space, time, or things with others, or how to have a knock-down-drag-out fight with someone, and then throw my arm around his shoulder when we finished.

If I were to be psychoanalyzed, I'm sure that it would be suggested that, as a result of being an only boy, I'm insecure and overly sensitive, and that I strive too hard for other's acceptance.

This may well be true, but I'd argue that I have gained important insights into brotherhood by virtue of not having experienced it first hand... by being on the outside looking in, unencumbered by the very blood connection that is its heart.

Some learn about brotherhood by the simple virtue of having a brother, many by playing team sports, others by serving their country and learning to trust their lives to their brothers-in-arms... something so powerful that it is unimaginable to me.

I finally learned about brotherhood as a guide in an Alaska. There's a certain selflessness that's necessary to survive in such an environment. One learns to sleep while others snore, and to share the last of whatever is important and rare; credit for a job well done, a certain fly pattern, boat gas, two-cycle, tippet material, the location of a good fish that might make the day, dry matches, a cigar, and countless other things. I've had more than my share of whisky over the years, but the very finest taste I ever had was at the end of a wet, shitty day when logistics demanded that I and my brother-guide return to the lodge in open boats over a large and windblown Lake Beverly, and then ride out the standing waves at the mouth of the Peace River, before winding our way to warmth and safety.

As we waited for the de Havilland Beaver that would transport our guests away to the comfort of the lodge, with it's glowing fire place, sauna, hot tub, and generously stocked bar, one of the older fishermen slid over between us and smiled with a sigh that indicated he was much more comfortable with us than his companions. "It's going to be a shitty, cold ride back, isn't it?" Jack said, more as a matter of fact than a question.

"Yes sir," I replied. "Well be fine, and see you in the bar in an hour or so."

"Yeah, I'm sure you'll be okay, but when we meet in the bar, I'll have had a hot shower, a drink, and hors d'oeuvres. You'll still be wet and cold, and stopping by just to say hello before you shower and get warm."

My brother-guide and I looked out at the gray wall of weather we'd soon be in, back to Jack's clear eyes, and then down to our feet. "You guys take this," he said reaching into his tackle bag and producing a well used and tarnished flask. "One each before you leave, and the rest when you beach your boats at the lodge."

"Thanks," we said in unison.

"And meet me in the bar before you head off to "The Swamp", he said in reference to the guide shack where we bunked.

The big floatplane's two-bladed prop cut into wave tops as it rotated off, and it quickly disappeared into the rain and fog. "What is it?" my brother asked, nodding to the flask.

"Who cares?" I answered.

"It tastes like bourbon," he gasped as the fiery amber liquid made its way to our stomachs and began to warm them from the inside.

We made the trip home slowly, feeling our way through the waves and fog, and eventually met Jack in the bar as he'd requested. "Here's your flask," I said, handing it to him as a crowd gathered around.

"You keep it, brother," he said to me, "I know you'll make good use of it, and pass it along when the time's right." I nodded and smiled, proud to have someone I admire refer to me as a brother.

I've never had a real brother, but I've shared plenty of brotherhood over the years, and I've come to the conclusion that the term shouldn't be used lightly or thrown around haphazardly.

The older I become, the more sparingly I use it, and if I ever refer to you as a brother, know that I choose my brothers carefully.

Thanks for visiting,
Bob White