A couple weeks ago I asked Mom is she still had any red cedar for making a walking stick.

Mom of course knew exactly what I was talking about, even though the subject of walking sticks hadnít arisen in the old homestead for about 10 years.

ìYes, in the far corner of the basement, by the furnace,î she said.

Sure enough, there they were, just as I had left them after a stick-gathering walk in the woods a long time ago. Maybe 20 years, not 10.

I hefted several of them, and found the right one. Itís going to be a Christmas gift for a certain someone. Iíll call him ìAlex.î (I always like how the advice columnists put names in quotation marks to hide their identity.)

Alex is a lot like me, although without a 52-year-old girth. So I figure if I like the stick, heíll like it.

I took it home and could hardly wait to peel off the cedar bark and trim the knots with a hatchet and knife. It soon had the sleek, strong look of a good walking stick. I worked on it for the next week, just a few minutes here and there. Itís fun to take your time with a project, let it speak to you a bit. For example, I toyed with the idea of carving or wood-burning Alexís name in it. But after a few days. I thought no. Walking sticks canít be too gaudy. Nothing against those ornate kind that people sell. They can be magnificent. But you want a walking stick that you arenít afraid to lose. It is, after all, just a stick. Well, maybe not quite.

I lost a very nice stick back in about 1977. It had been a gift from a co-worker at Camp Courage, and it too was made of red cedar. He had coated it with linseed oil, and it was indestructible, like the staff of Moses. I had it for several years, and even took it on a backpacking trip in Glacier National Park. But that didnít stop me from setting it down on a hike from Brownsville to the Heiller Valley and walking away. I never did find it. Itís probably still leaning against a tree above Shellhorn.

I finally sanded Alexís stick, gave it a good soaking of linseed oil, and hung it in the barn, where it will patiently wait for a firm and loving hand.

Then I returned to Momís basement and found a smaller stick for Alexís girlfriend, ìLaura.î I wasnít quite as sure what she would like, because she and I are not alike, at least in the physical sense, and thatís a good thing. I found a skinny stick. It was crooked, but it had good balance. You could hold it a couple different ways and it felt just right. Thatís another thing about a good walking stick. It doesnít have to be this straight grained, perfect piece of wood. It can have a bend or a crook, but it has to have balance.

It was exciting getting this stick in shape too. It emerged like a butterfly from a cocoon. Now it is awaiting some final touches, a little sanding, maybe some more peeling here and there, and good old linseed oil. Then it will hang next to Alexís stick until I give it to them.

My own walking stick right now is special too. I found it at the home of a friend, Willie Boyer, in about 1982, shortly after he died. He was a hermit, and we didnít hear of his death until a couple weeks later.

We drove the 40 miles to his house, and poked around. No one was there. He was a woodsman, and could make things like axe handles out of white oak. He was really good at it. He had some pieces of white oak standing in the corner of his outhouse, so I took a couple and made walking sticks from them. I am down to my last one now. It is a very plain stick, but as strong as anything you could find, and it carries a lot of good memories of my old friend. I hope I get to keep using it for many years. Because thereís nothing like a good walk, and nothing beats a good walking stick.

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