John Colburn – Fly Fisherman, Fly Tyer, Friend
I first met John Colburn at Walter Reed on a spring morning in May of 2005. He was sitting in a chair in the lobby of the Mologne House wearing a pressed khaki button-down fishing shirt with various fly fishing club patches and khaki shorts with black socks pulled up to his knees. A black Korea Veteran cap with a brass missile over crossed cannons, the Army Air Defense Artillery emblem, covered his silver hair. A pair of trifocals hung around his neck by a chord. Chief Warrant Officer 4 (US Army, Retired) John Colburn was there to meet wounded warriors as a volunteer with a group called Project Healing Waters. One of the first things I ever heard him say was, “Healing Waters. Hmph. Sounds like bottled water.” I thought, Who the hell is this character? At that point, John had no clue as to how important he would become to the volunteers and anglers of Project Healing Waters. And it was too early to know just how much we meant to John.
John volunteered to teach fly tying to service members and veterans with upper extremity injuries. Every Wednesday, John would load the fly tying tools and materials into his daughter’s Ford Escort station wagon and drive from the Armed Forces Retirement Home to meet a rag tag group of wounded warriors. Marine Sergeant Sean Locker and I were skeptical about fly tying, but we thought we’d give it a try. At our first session, Chief Colburn introduced himself and made it clear to all of us that his instruction was for the sole purpose of rehabilitation. “This class is not arts and crafts,” he reaffirmed with a Chief Warrant tone. John’s intent was to help warriors cope with their injuries and regain the use of damaged limbs or adapt to using prosthetic limbs. He explained that the art of tying flies would help with dexterity and motor skills. John set up his tying vice, organized his tools and materials and began expertly tying a wooly bugger. By the time he had wound thread around the hook and was securing hackle, I looked down at my paralyzed hand and thought, this is hard enough with two hands. How am I gonna do this with one? I glanced over at Sean, who lost an eye and had a below-elbow amputation. Both of us had recently been wounded in Iraq. “How are we supposed to do that?” Sean asked. I followed with, “I don’t think I can do that.” John stopped tying and eyed both of us over the top of his bifocals. “It’s not that you can’t do it. We just haven’t found a way that you can do it.” He then proceeded to finish the bugger.
After the demonstration, John issued us tools and ordered us to get busy. Frustration set in quickly. Fuses were short. Tempers flared and profanity was lobbed like hand grenades, which had no effect on Chief Colburn. He had dealt with the likes of us over his twenty-year Army career. He stayed cool as a cucumber, waiting for us to calm down before helping us develop adaptive techniques to tie buggers, streamers, nymphs, and hoppers. But he didn’t cut us any slack. Chief would catch us performing most of the steps with our uninjured hands: “Hey! You’re not here to rehabilitate your good hand!”
Between sessions, Sean and I would tie our “homework” flies in the Occupational Therapy clinic. I was able to tie fishable flies with my paralyzed hand. Sean’s flies were much more impressive; he tied them with one eye and a prosthetic hand. If his hand was in the shop for repair, Sean would tie his flies with a combination of his uninjured hand and his teeth. This piqued the interest of other warriors like Sergeant Russell Martin and Captain David Folkerts. It didn’t take long for the Chief of OT and her therapists to recognize the value of John’s form of therapy. Sean and I were learning a life-long skill while simultaneously adapting to our injuries, which helped us with the skills of daily living. The rehabilitative value of John’s classes was not only physical; it was mentally therapeutic as well. John recognized that as our tying improved, our attitudes improved as well. When we were focused on tying, we had much less time to be angry and depressed about our conditions. John began to visit us daily. He would walk through the OT Clinic doors, pulling his dolly of tying tools behind him. “How ya doin’, Chief?” I’d ask. “Oh, fair to middlin’,” he’d reply. We always knew we could count on John to be there. And we knew we could trust him.
Over the next few years, John touched the lives of many more warriors with his mentorship. Specialist J.R. Salzman lost his right arm and had severe damage to his left hand. He had been a fly tyer prior to his Iraq tour. John recruited him to tie with PHW. J.R.’s post-injury flies were so well-tied, professional anglers were offering to buy his flies and market his patterns. J.R. was also an experienced fly fisherman. John researched the internet and found a way to adapt J.R.’s prosthesis to allow him to cast a fly rod. His loops were tighter than an angler with a natural hand. This adaptation also worked for Specialist Jose Robledo and Sergeant Jake Altman. Both soldiers had amputations from wounds sustained in combat.
John was adamant about teaching fly tying to warriors with upper extremity injuries only. He was stubborn as a mule; it took some prodding to convince him to allow lower extremity patients into class. Once he relented, Army Sergeant First Class Diane “Gunny” Cochran and Marine corporal Bill Johnston joined the mix. Soon thereafter, we recruited more warriors, to include Sergeant First Class Norris Galatas, Staff Sergeant Dale Cherney, and Air Force Sergeant Diane Lopes. We even recruited an Army nurse, Captain Elisabeth Mixer. Between fly tying classes and PHW events, John would invite us to the Retirement Center pond to “exercise the bluegills.”
At least once a week, a truckload of us would drive John to the Angler’s Lie in Arlington, Virginia to get fly tying materials. On the way, we listened to 1940s swing and jazz on the radio. There were four types of music John didn’t like: “Rock & Roll and Country & Western.” Everyone in that fly shop looked forward to John’s visits. Employees and customers alike were captivated by his stories of fishing the big rivers of Montana, Oregon, and Washington state back in the day. His corny one-liners kept everyone laughing for hours. The old angler was a local legend.
John was deeply dedicated to the warriors of Project Healing Waters.
In 2006, John was appointed to serve as the Project’s first Executive Vice President. He produced flyers and posters for PHW events, prepared pictures and other material for displays at shows, and composed much of the literature and material needed for PHW activities. John was an aggressive advocate for the warriors; he wrote numerous articles for Flyfisher Magazine and the Mid-Atlantic Flyfisher newsletter to gain support for the Project. John drove the Ford Escort into the ground traveling far and wide to spread the PHW word. Very rarely did he ever miss an event. John often expressed that volunteering for PHW was one of the toughest jobs he’d ever had, but it was by far the most rewarding.
On one particular visit to the Angler’s Lie, Anne Steele took me aside and said, “Thank you all for taking care of John.” “Ma’am, he takes care of us,” I proudly replied. Her eyes welled up with tears. “Well, you all don’t realize how much you mean to him. Project Healing Waters has given him a new life.”
John gave many of us new lives as well. He taught us to drive on. He showed us that we could enjoy life after adapting to permanent injuries. John’s friendship and mentorship was invaluable to wounded warriors and veterans; he dedicated the last five years of his life to their emotional and physical recovery. John had a heart of gold, but after a long and eventful life, his heart grew tired. On 27 February 2010, at the age of 81, Chief Warrant Officer 4 John W. Colburn passed on to the land of big beautiful rivers. I guarantee he is on the water with no cane and no pain, carrying on his selfless service to our fellow warriors who never left the battlefield.
John was loved and respected by many generations of flyfishers, veterans, PHW volunteers and their families. We miss him dearly.
