From Eric: Chingachgook returns to his childhood haunts

As a small boy, growing up in Indian Territory in western Montana created a fascination with all things First American. James Fenimore Cooper’s story “The Last of The Mohicans” captured my imagination. Chingachgook, was the Last Delaware Mohican to survive after the evil Huron warrior Magua unsheathed his knife into the breast of Uncas, Chingachgook’s only son. He was brave, noble, uncorrupted, and a likely participant in the Algonquin Confederation which held in principal that personal benefit in harmony with national gain rested upon the precept of unified agreement and a natural distrust for despotic government. I had to have a Mohawk. My chance came when my mother ordered me down to the barbershop for a spring shearing in anticipation of Confirmation pictures. I ordered one and the barber said he had to check with the War Department first, which was a very unfair testimonial to my mother’s true station in Missoula. “No go, kid. Your mother is on the way down to tear my shop apart.” Drats, foiled.

Deep in the residual child we all harbor I yearned for the companionship of my hero, Chingachgook. When I learned that I had cancer my spirit guide came forward and said we will run this gauntlet together. My Mohawk was reality and I was ready with Chingachgook at my back for brain surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, and months and years of uncertainty.

Fortunately, my Neurosurgeon, Donald Ross, used “chingachgook” as his computer password in college and he enjoys a special place in my heart.

I am now a week out from surgery and slowly regaining some physical confidence but no sleep or exercise for 10 days has left me depleted. I am starting a two month round of MD visits, radiation, chemotherapy. My fashion consultant mentioned that this would entail public appearances and that I wouldn’t be taken seriously, or worse might raise concern for ths wellbeing of this man’s family. Since we are heading to San Francisco for a brain cancer consultation I was taken aback by this assertion and wondered if I had lost touch with the people. I had imagined that walking into a bar in SF with a nice blue Mohawk and enough studs in my head to alarm TSA and look like a snow tire might bring a round of drinks. The Neurosurgeon said no alcohol, other members of the family mentioned that I was a sartorial dyslexic and should get help, so tonight in the spirit of the Algonquin Confederation I have returned my spirit guide to his secret place to be called forth again in desperate times.

Sorry if this grosses people out. Flyfishing enthusiasts are always looking for new products from which to tie flies. I have blue hair to donate. If any fly using this product imperils our beloved steelhead runs because of its success then it must be withdrawn. Any financial gain from sale or reproduction should be donated to The Kids Connection for the purpose of teaching them the art and science of fishing, but from which they will learn hope and patience. May I suggest the name Chingachgook for the fly?

My education at the barber shop in Missoula didn’t end with Chingachgook and his hair do. The Carnegie Library was next store and visited proudly and frequently for sources of new excitement. The Library didn’t provide all information needed for a young lad approaching his confirmation and since I was attending the local Catholic Madras my access to a wide array of important biological information came from the post office, and the word that still sticks in my mind most vividly is “centerfold”.