Trout Whisperer - Patience

Dangerously close, to my way of thinking, sits a fresh paddle, raw of blade, not a trace of wear to the shaft or grip, mind you not quite in the small orange flame. But because he is curing it with balsam resin, I think, or maybe I fear, it will just suddenly burst into flames. So I ask, Could it? Will it?
He says it has happened. “It’s not a serious matter,” he says, “I just douse it, and sometimes the charring, it adds a bit of color. Or if I’m away, it becomes heat to warm me. After all, it’s just wood and my time.”
After all his effort, the calmness he shows me, I think I would go nuts if the blade were to burn up wasting all that time - felling the cedar, waiting for its drying (or in his words), the time seems now, to carve it.
Then with a hand axe and hand saw he fashions the rough paddle form until it’s ready to be drawn completely out of a downed tree. He uses a rather unusual-shaped knife he himself fire forged from a piece of industrial planer blade, that he then fashioned a deer antler handle to affix to it.
He takes his time. It takes time, and it requires a patience I don’t possess.
So I tell him that would take far too long for me to master.
He looks at me, looks back at his very new paddle, and says: “Once you make one like this, you may like a canoe more than you ever knew you could.”

-- The trout whisperer