Monday, February 10, 2020
Copyright 2020 Erik Helm
The other day I was reading an article in a fly-fishing magazine that was proclaiming how much easier it was to get started in the sport today than it was in the past. The argument as stated could be paraphrased as: ‘Today we have better and more availability of gear choices, and information is easier to come by.’
I found myself laughing a bit at this, for truth be told, a case can be made that it is both easier and yet more difficult to begin in this fine sport due to exactly the same reasons stated. Follow me as I explore this a bit…
Back when I took up the sport there were admittedly less gear choices available…. a lot less choices. In some ways, this worked in our favor, since we had fewer decisions to make, and spent more time fishing. I asked a number of the finest anglers I know about their path into the sport, and the answers all shared common themes. We went to a fly-shop to purchase a setup, were gifted basic equipment, or assembled the necessary gear ad-hoc after much research. Since we were beginners, and there were fewer choices available, we were less confused about our gear. We simply had what we had. One of us had a double taper line and a Shakespeare Wonder Rod, another of us had a new graphite rod and a weight-forward line and we all thought he was the king of the river. Then we went fishing.
My initial setup was an eight-weight rod that I purchased as a blank and hand-built into a finished rod. I still have it. That rod served me for steelhead and bass in my local river for three years before I purchased a five-weight for smaller quarry. For those initial three years, it was my only rod. A lack of financial means when on one’s own after college did lead to a rather necessary frugal approach, but I never felt lacking. Instead, I went fishing… sometimes up to five times a week. The other stories were the same. One friend had his mother sew pockets onto his old hunting vest, turning it into a fishing vest. Another friend used an old candy tin as his first fly-box, and still has it somewhere.
Not to seem like one of those dour “Back in my day” types, but the reality of it was that the choices we had were easier to make because the market was smaller, and more simplified.
To carry our gear into the river we had a choice between an assortment of vests or possibly a canvas stream bag. Today we have chest packs, myriad sling packs, fanny packs, hip packs, backpacks, packs that transform and convert, packs that attach to other packs to form modular ‘Tactical gear storage solutions,’ and everything in between. I saw an angler recently on our local spring creeks who was so top-heavy and over-loaded with packs and storage solutions that he was having trouble walking on the bank. The variety of choices is an improvement, but not if it hampers our actual fishing.
For fly rods back in the day, we had several large manufacturers out there like Orvis, Fenwick, Garcia, and the first Sage rods as well. Here we had what we thought were a myriad amount of choices; more than enough for our needs depending on our budget. They were easy to understand as well. Marketing was less sophisticated, and seemingly tried to simplify the process of selection instead of confuse us. Today we have dozens of major manufacturers marketing rods with odd but trendy names. Some rod companies claim they make and sell over 150 different rods, each for some ethereal but very narrow purpose. Given their similarity to each other, the beginner can hardly tell the difference. Add in online companies not represented in reputable fly-shops who mass-market rods made in China at cut-rate prices, and it becomes apparent that any on-line forum with a classified section has a massive amount of gear for sale with the description “Cast twice,” or “Fished once.”
Confusion leads to an unending cycle of buying and selling in the quest for an illusory magic bean. Less time is spent fishing, and more time spent on gear acquisitions and unending debate and questions. Arguing with fellow anglers about which sling-pack is cooler or better may have replaced the time we used to spend absorbing the lore of the sport through literature or by getting our proverbial feet wet.
The ultimate complication and confusion poster-child may be fly-line.
In the past we did have choices between a number of brands and categories: double-taper, weight-forward, floating, full-sinking, sink tip and specialty lines such as saltwater, bass, and shooting heads. That would make up around 90% of lines available at the time. A new line needed to purchased when the old one wore out, or when a new type of fish or fishing necessitated a different line. The labels were rather easy to read and differentiate as well. For example, Cortland had a package labeled ‘444 Fly-Rod Line: WF Floating.’ It doesn’t get much simpler that that. Garcia had their Kingfisher line, and Orvis sold their own ‘Flyline.’ What was lacking then versus today is the hyped-up marketing which has turned the entire fly-line industry into a specialized marketing engine designed to get one to not only purchase the ‘New’ thing because it is better than the ‘Old’ thing from the same manufacturer that you bought last year and fished with once, but to get the average angler to have a fly line for every river, day of the week, or lunar cycle. No wonder new and even experienced anglers are confused.
A quick browse through catalogues and websites shows us both the diversity and the confusing over-abundance of lines marketed today.
Here are just a few random examples:
‘Hi-Performance Fly-line’ (vs. what… like Low performance fly-line?)
‘Pro’ fly-line (Apparently for professionals… not amateurs, which explains its $98 price.)
‘Frequency’ fly-line (Does it vibrate differently by weight?)
‘In-Touch’ (vs. what… out-of touch?)
‘Nymph Taper’ (Because we need a different fly-line every time we switch from a dry-fly to a nymph, even though thousands of us have been using a standard taper WF floating line for both applications for years…)
‘Euro Nymph’ (Take your choice: either a line allowing competition angling with multiple nymph rigs, or a ‘Sprockets’ like line that comes with electronic techno-pop music and allows the user to wear skinny black turtleneck shirts while fishing…)
‘MaxCatch’ (Now I understand why I never catch my limit every day… I guess I was using a MinCatch line all these years…)
‘Fairplay’ (I just want to find an ‘Unfair Play’ line… That sounds so much better to me…)
‘Clearwater’ (Apparently only to be used when no rain or runoff starts to dirty the water…)
‘Precise Finesse’ (A must-buy for those of us currently using an ‘Imprecise Clod-Hopper’ line…)
‘Creek’ fly-line (What about a river… or a brook… If we call it a ‘Crik’ do we need a different line or a jar of moonshine?)
‘World Class’ ( Perhaps not the best for anglers traveling to 3rd world nations for fishing adventure…)
‘Cheeky’ line (Reminds me of a quip I uttered at an attractive blonde back in college that earned me a kick in the shins…)
‘Technical Trout’ (Apparently all this time I have been fishing to ‘Non-technical’ trout…explains a lot.)
‘Amplitude’ (Must be similar to ‘Frequency’, but this one vibrates at the maximum frequency… wonder if it can be programmed to play distortion guitar?)
The reader gets the point… so enough already.
All humor aside, tapers do matter in a fly-line, and one does need different lines for different applications, but this has gotten downright silly.
Worst of all are shooting heads, especially those designed for Skagit-style casting and involving separate heads and running lines. When this started out, we had a choice of two or three brands of heads and running lines to match together. Within several years of the industry seeing the benefit of floating and sinking heads and running-lines sold separately, everything exploded. The most common question on online forums (see next section on information) was “Which running line should I pair with a given head?”
I know anglers today that actually carry with them on the river something like twenty different head and running line combinations. They must spend the entire fishing day farting around with their lines…
So what do I have against innovation and choices? Nothing. I just miss the clarity and simplicity that fly-fishing is supposed to be.
It also insults my intelligence… Since I spent fifteen years inside the industry at independent fly-shops as well as corporate giants, I can tell you a little secret… Ready for it?
The confusion is deliberate.
Marketing performs its job when it makes us want things, or desire to replace things we already own with a ‘newer’ or ‘better’ model. It does this by appealing to both our baser instincts, as well as to our desire to ‘Keep up to date.’ ‘New’ equals good, and anything you have that is old (ie: not current) is bad, or outdated… and how many of us want to be accused of being outdated?
However, this only goes so far. By saturation-bombing our different choices and making things unduly complicated, (you need a specialty rod to fish for Small-mouth Bass, not the standard 9 foot 6,7, or 8 wt., or if you are casting streamers from a boat then you need a rod specific to the purpose with a proprietary fly line to match and a separate running line and special nano-friction backing,) the industry maximizes its dollars per angler, and in a limited market, that is a desirable outcome for the corporations. Never-mind that one in five anglers will give up fly-fishing because it finally seems to get so complicated, an outcome the article cited at the outset claimed was the opposite.
In some ways, it benefits some of us older and wiser coots. We no longer need to pay full-price anymore or buy anything new since the biggest market for fly tackle in all of history sits before us in the guise of things purchased and now for sale second-hand with little use at all…
I just feel sorry for many of the new anglers that never had the chance to see what the world of fly-fishing was like when we had a chance to go to the river without so much confusing stuff.
The second part of the claim is that there is more information available today. That is something that I don’t think any angler would argue with.
However, it is the source, and medium of the information that can cause problems and resulting chaos and confusion.
Many of us took up the sport in the P.I. epoch… (Pre-Internet)
Because we actually read books and magazine articles that were written by experts and professionals, we were steered in straighter pathways than today. Read a copy of Bergman’s Trout, Schwiebert, Atherton, or other authors that explained the nuances and broke down the mysteries and necromancy of fishing with a fly in chapters rich with information and expert advice, and one was primed with knowledge before questions arose.
Then the internet came along, and to our happy surprise, we discovered like-minded anglers of all experience levels sharing information on various websites and online forums. The world opened and good solid information flowed back and forth over the modems of the pescadors. Bytes were exchanged for more bites. I was there as one of the first users of the new technology and access to the libraries of wisdom out there…
Everything changed within ten years. I stopped even accessing the forums I used to avidly participate in because as time passed, and new anglers came online, the same questions badly framed and poorly asked again and again overwhelmed and eclipsed the solid information shared and traded.
“What’s the best five weight rod?”
“What grain head should I use when the water flow increases by 3 feet per second and my fly-rod is green in color?”
“Which sling-pack is the coolest?”
It was a sign of the times… Then came social media, and the whole world of information overload and confusion reached critical-mass and detonated leaving mere fragments of typing left to fall like a fog over the unread books.
I joined a few social media forums in the past year to see how the questions were asked and answered: it caused laughter and cynicism in the same moment.
Many of the answers were contradictory or self-serving. Even thoughtful responses to questions or inquiries only lasted a day or so, and then someone asked the same question again, getting a different answer.
Then the inherent problem occurred to me.
Not only were the internet and social media venues not durable as far as a source of information such as a book, it was that by attempting to crowd-source the answers that the questioner ran afoul.
The person answering the query could be a knowledgeable angler with vast experiences, an open mind, and with good critical-thinking skills… or it could be some dude who caught a fish and now thinks he is a guide. The answers could come from independent sources unbiased as to brand, or from somebody with a brand entanglement such as the ubiquitous ‘Brand Ambassadors,’ or ‘Pro-Staff.’ Believe it or not, some companies actually pay people to provide gear advice on social media forums. It goes without saying that the answers are not unbiased, and the employing company’s brand is recommended each and every time. The worst thing is that the beginner, without a foundation of knowledge, can’t tell a good answer from a bad, inaccurate, or misleading one.
Do an experiment. Join a social media forum on fly-fishing and ask a ‘newby’ type question. Save the good, the bad, and the ugly answers you get. Now wait a week and ask the same question again, perhaps in a different way. Note the answers, and compare them with one another.
I bet my oldest and stinkiest fishing hat that you will shake your head.
That is what new anglers are facing if they don’t get their gear from a reliable flyshop after asking appropriate questions and doing a bit of homework, and staying away from the noise of confusion. If not, they might become one of the competitors in a fly-fishing team competition recently held. Two of the anglers spent twenty minutes arguing about whose fly-rod was better. Then one broke his rod while the other one dropped his tactical modular gear storage system into the river.
My advice to the thousands of anglers I have taught to cast and fish a fly has always been this:
“Go to a flyshop. Get a matching rod, line and reel, a few leaders and a box of flies and go fishing for God’s sake. Put in your time. Stay off the internet and don’t look at any ads. Less information in the short-term will benefit you in the long run. Learn to walk first in your diaper stage before you get all tangled up in the underwear of too much confusion and stuff, and end up placing your new outfit into the closet along with all the other abandoned dreams…”
Saturday, January 25, 2020
Copyright 2020 Erik Helm
John Phillipson motioned to the waiter at the Fox and Hounds to pour the wine first for his guest. He had chosen the vintage carefully to accompany the lunch he was giving for his young employee Ed, who had been a key team member in the successful conclusion of a major project for his firm. Ed was a software engineer of rare talent. Slim and dark haired with thick glasses, Ed was someone one would pass on the street and not remember seeing, even if the street were otherwise empty. He had worked long hours for the past six months and even took work home with him to his small bachelor’s house. John thought perhaps Ed had worked a bit too hard at times. He needed to get out in the sun more, thus the lunch at his favorite restaurant, and further invitations to participate in activities that would take Ed away from his screen and keyboard.
What made John rather unique, he thought to himself, was that he got to know each and every one of his 92 employees on a personal level. Like a good general, he reasoned, a good manager and CEO should know his assets and how best to keep them active, happy, and even more… know what drove them in life. That last question was one that eluded him with Ed. He couldn’t believe that Ed’s work was his only reward or joy.
“What should I order?” asked Ed, who habitually had a brown bag lunch of a sandwich and a piece of fruit at his desk while he worked.
“I recommend the pheasant’” Phillipson replied. “I have it every time it is on offering, and it is very fresh and well prepared. They serve it with asparagus, wild rice, and a nice herb white-sauce.”
It was agreed, and John toasted Ed’s health, and after the wine was sampled, began to inquire about any hobbies that his valued employee might engage in. After some sundry talk about toy trains and stamps, John asked Ed if he had ever hunted pheasants.
“No, but I do love pheasants,” Ed exclaimed with some passion as the plates arrived with the delicately presented breasts of that most desirable of birds steaming and framed like a work of art with the rice and vegetables.
After the feast was consumed, and the coffee was served, John brought up the subject again.
“I would like to invite you to my home for a little pheasant hunt if you are willing… I have over 60 acres of scrub fields bordered by thin wooded copses that are full of pheasants. A couple of years ago my accountant suggested the idea of reducing our taxes by raising game on our land, so we stocked 25 pheasants and bought several chickens and even a pet goat. The chickens lay a few fresh eggs, and the goat… well, the goat just is a goat, but the pheasants multiplied like rabbits. There must be over a hundred cocks and hens, and I rarely get time to hunt them any more, but now that the project is over and a success, I suggest we take the time this Saturday for a few hours and do some nice upland wing shooting.”
Ed mentioned that back before grad school he was a keen trap shooter, but that his shotgun was back with his parents in Connecticut.
“No worries,” John assured him. “I have a little Spanish side by side 20 bore you can borrow, a spare game bag for you, plenty of shells I got from a little ma and pa sporting goods store that was closing, and anything else you need. Just come as you are, so to speak, and wear some tough pants and a jacket that will stand up to moving through brush, and also a stout pair of hiking boots or something on that order. We will hunt together, and then Ellen, Mrs. Phillipson, who you will meet, will do her magic to the birds. You also will meet my English Cocker Abby, the best bird dog I ever owned.”
“Do you enjoy a fine Scotch, by the way?” John enquired with one raised eyebrow.
Ed agreed he did indeed enjoy a fine malt, and would be delighted to enjoy this adventure offered so kindly to him. The time was fixed at 1 o’clock Saturday the next.
Sometimes fate turns and weaves its lines through the stories of our lives beginning with a little incident. The ‘incident’ in this case was that in un-boxing a fine 12 year old bottle of Speyside Scotch, Mr. Phillipson accidentally dropped it. The tinkling of broken glass and following invective brought Abby to investigate, and the poor dog trod on a bit of glass, cutting her front left paw. There was no other bottle of scotch in the house, and with Ed due to arrive in fifteen minutes, a change of plans was in order. Brandy would follow the hunt, which would now have to be conducted without the dog. More difficult for certain, and lacking in that essential quality of hunting over a champion bird dog who knows more about bird hunting than the hunters ever will, but not impossible he reasoned. The sheer quantity of birds on his land would allow the hunt to continue even without a dog. They would just have to do it ‘old-fashioned style,’ each of them zigzagging and flushing their own birds. He hurried to sweep up the glass as his wife placed a bandage over Abby’s thankfully very slight injury.
Ed was prompt, and Phillipson, upon opening the front door, was greeted by a unique sight. Ed had on a pair of old rubber galoshes complete with metal buckles. For a coat, his guest was sporting a dilapidated khaki barn coat obviously several sizes too big for him, and smelling faintly of mothballs. This outfit was crowned by an eager smile and delivered forward with a warm handshake. John wondered, just a fleeting thought in the back of his mind, if Ed’s hunting attire had come from a short visit to a local thrift store. But then, he recalled, Ed did say he loved his pheasants. Maybe he had no outdoor gear, since Ed seemed to be always working owlishly at his computer, or maybe he had his old hunting kit stored at his parent’s house along with his shotgun. Well, today he would show him a bit of the outdoor life anyway. Perhaps if Ed enjoyed it, Phillipson speculated, he could gift him with some briar pants, a game vest, and even a nice bird gun as an end of year bonus. He was worth it after all… all those long hours…
John ushered his guest into a little sun room located off the foyer that he playfully referred to as his ‘Safari room.’ He seated Ed in a nice leather chair, and took down a canvas gun case from a nook between shelves filled with outdoor books. He unzipped the case, and revealed the soft warmth of a hand-rubbed and oiled walnut stock, and case patterned side plates of the Spanish double. He broke the gun and handed it to Ed.
“This little girl needs to sound off a little. She hits exactly as you point her. You don’t need to lead too far with pheasants, and I think a box each of high-brass number 5s should do us fine today.” Ed was cradling the gun as if it would break or bite him, but Phillipson soon reassured him, and closing the action on empty chambers, executed a few snappy swings. Ed said the drop and length of pull were perfect. John was impressed. His associate knew a few things about guns. This would be a fine hunt, with the slight clouds, little wind, and a half-inch of powdery snow fallen in the pre-dawn darkness.
They began on the edge of a small corn-stand abutting the drive. Each side of the drive was a field, and on the edge of each field were the wood copses.
“Pheasants, like most game are creatures of edges,” John explained to Ed. “Edges and Cover. We will split the sides between us and work the edges of the field and wood. Cover everything in between. Pheasants can be runners instead of flyers, and you want to kick them up into flight. Try not to shoot runners, that can lead to accidents.”
“Good hunting!” he added. “We will meet back here in two hours, so take a look at your watch… I have it half past the hour.”
Ed nodded and smiled, his action broken and cradled expertly in his right arm, and his galoshes clicking and galoshing as he walked.
John turned and strode into the shoulder high grass and weeds, beginning the process of covering ground and every likely lie a bird might favor. After 10 minutes or so, he kicked up his first cock out a sort of snow-covered wigwam of brush. The bird flew straight up and angled right. John swung from behind and touched off the right barrel of his Fox 16 bore. The pheasant dropped in a shower of feathers. It was easy to locate due to the snow cover. It also helped that John had hit it with a headshot, so it never had a chance to run, hide, and slowly die hidden from prying eyes.
Five minutes later John found his second bird. A hen, this crafty gal ran straight away from him and then flew low and flat. He aimed the fowling gun and fired the left barrel, giving the hen a shot-string of full-choke 5s and bringing her down dead. As he retrieved the bird, he wondered at the lack of shooting from Ed’s side of the field. That morning he had spread a large bag of feed around on that side of the drive, and if the past were any experience, the birds would be on the feast pretty quickly. He did want Ed to have a successful and fun day today.
The third bird John flushed required both barrels to bring it down, and as he was searching for it where it fell near the edge of wood, he heard the joyful sound of a distant report followed by a second muffled ‘boom.’ Ed must have found a bird! The day would be a success if Ed could shoot one tenth as well as could write code… but then there were those galoshes… really, what was he thinking? Ed really needed to get out more often.
The next hour saw no more birds located by John, while on Ed’s side of the woods sounded like a slightly excited English shooting party on a driven hunt. No more than ten minutes elapsed between further exclamations from Ed’s shotgun. He must have found the mother-load thought John.
The time came to make his way back to the rendezvous, and as Phillipson approached the little corn stand, a final pheasant flushed and flew left and high. John’s shot was on the mark, and the fourth bird fell fifty yards off as Ed appeared out of the field. John pointed to the bird, and motioned Ed to place it in his game bag, as he was much closer. Ed’s bag, John was very pleased to note, was sagging heavily and very full. The pheasant was added to the bag and the tail feathers stuck jauntily out as Ed smiled.
“Well, how did it go?” John asked with a wink.
“I had the best time ever!” Ed exclaimed with flushed cheeks. “Some of the pheasants flew kind of strange, and one just sat there, and then there was one that perched in a tree, but I only missed a few shots! I even hit a double…”
“Pheasants can be like that sometimes,” John explained as they walked back to the barn to breast-out the birds. “Predictability is not a pheasant’s strong suit.”
Phillipson had a bench at waist-height covered with plastic sheeting and a tin garbage container ready to accept the offal. He reached in his back game pouch and placed his three pheasants on the table. Ed opened the strap and turned out the contents of his bag next to it.
There are moments that time seems to move rather slowly. At this very moment, it crawled in slow motion. The contents of the bag that tumbled out onto the table included in order:
One cock pheasant (The one that Phillipson dispatched)
A large woodpecker.
One female cardinal
And wearing a rather stupefied expression, as if to say “Now what the hell?” a very dead member of the small Phillipson stock of chickens.
“Well, what do you think?” Ed proudly exclaimed.
The words almost formed in John’s mouth, but both because he caught himself in time, and due to the fact that his jaw was hanging open, only a sort of strangling gurgle made itself heard. He finally closed his mouth, straightened to his full six feet and with his back rigid, and his hand extended, turned to Ed, shook his hand, and exclaimed, “Good shooting!”
As he lined up the birds for dressing and stropped his knife, he reflected that it would not pay to even mention or explain to Ed what he had done, nor to inquire if Ed indeed had ever actually seen a pheasant before, and if he had or had not, what the heck he was thinking…
His knife hovered carefully over the little starling.
Ellen (Mrs. Phillipson) was presented a tray of ‘Pheasant breasts’ in the kitchen with a whisper from John. She arched her eyebrows in reply, and John placed his forefinger to his lips and winked.
Seated in the ‘Safari room’ after being introduced the smiling and lovely Mrs. Phillipson, Ed was offered a large snifter-glass of amber liquid. John proposed a toast, but Ed insisted in presenting a tribute instead. “To my first hunt and your excellent hospitality,” he proclaimed.
“Excellent Scotch,” he added on the subject of the brandy. The best I have ever tasted.”
Both Mr. And Mrs. Phillipson agreed with some shared reflections after dinner was over and Ed had left for home with grateful thanks; these were that the woodpecker was surprisingly delicate and tasty, that Ed had obviously thought of a ‘Pheasant’ as some sort of food he had been served once or twice that formerly had wings and flew a bit now and then, and that above all…. That Ed REALLY needed to get out more…
Sunday, October 6, 2019
The Perfect Taper
A thought experiment
I just returned from a gathering of bamboo fly rod makers where I cast dozens of wonderful handcrafted rods, gave casting demonstrations, and participated in a nice panel discussion.
After these events, it is not unusual for me to go on a philosophical or thought journey as to what I learned or observed with no end in mind, and with enough twists and turns or detours in the path as there are synaptic junctions in my brain. This often results in a headache, and aspirin might be in order, or a visit to a psychiatrist.
In this case my reflections centered on the design of tapers for bamboo rods. Some discussions of the legendary rod builder Everett Garrison, a structural engineer who used an engineering and mathematical approach to try to achieve a chimeral concept of the perfect taper in a fly rod were juxtaposed in my mind with the final product on the rod racks outside. Each rod was different, and each was made by a different builder. No rod had the same aesthetics.
Would it even be possible to build the perfect fly rod, and what is perfection exactly?
What is measurable, and what cannot or should not be measured?
Where do engineering, art, craft, nature’s material, and casting meet or cross paths?
Can perfection be measured?
Where does the human element come in?
So many questions to explore… so enjoy this little thought experiment with me…
Lets imagine that there is an engineer working for years in his attic on the perfect mathematical model for taper design. One day he finally finishes testing and proofing all the math, and designs a computer program to reflect it. One simply enters the variables of rod length, line weight, number of sections, ferrule measurement, etc. into the program, hits the calculate button, and gets the results. Scrolling through the report schematics we now have calculated stresses, deflection numbers, measured diameters at intervals for planing, load calculations, and all the other myriad elements of structural engineering design right there at our fingertips. Charts and graphs display the performance of the rod too, so that we can visually see the calculation’s resulting perfection.
“Excellent,” mutters our engineer, and begins the long process of splitting the cane, and putting it through all his machines to bevel, taper, bind, heat-treat and transform the natural bamboo into a blank ready for hand finishing. Numbers guided the machines through their process, the cane being ground and shaved to the mathematically perfect model, while the human hand moved the pieces between the machines.
Finally, the guides were wrapped on, the varnish applied and let to dry, and eventually the rod was finished. It gleamed with perfection.
Our engineer took the rod out on his front lawn, attached a reel, strung up the rod, poured himself a half a glass of wine to celebrate the perfect rod, pulled out thirty feet of line, and with a grin… made the inaugural cast.
Alas, the puzzled and quizzical look on his face did not derive from the poor quality of the wine he sipped. Instead, it sprung from the rather unspectacular performance of the rod. He had expected bells to go off, epiphanies to form, and a piercing light to part the fogs and miasmas of past fly rod designs, but what he just experienced was rather anticlimactic.
He cast the rod for an hour, testing the flex with short and long casts and trying to get a feeling for what the rod was doing. It seemed to do everything moderately well…. but not
spectacularly. It had no real clunky spots or faults but also no real shining performance attributes. It was just sort of… fly-roddy in a non-descript mediocre way.
He went back inside and spent the rest of the week checking his engineering math and computer program, and finding no errors at all, re-entered the variable data, getting the same result.
Then he took the rod to his local fly-fishing club, and asked the members to cast it and provide their feedback. The following is a faithful recording of the often reluctant but mostly honest commentary:
“Beautiful to look at, but it doesn’t sing to me.”
“A little fast and slow at the same time.”
“A nice rod if you like Wonderbread…”
“It does everything right, but yet something is wrong…”
“It seems to have no real personality…”
“Reminds me of a punch we made at my frat house in college. We each added different ingredients and liquors until there were over 20 substances in that bowl. It got us drunk, but it tasted like gasoline.”
And finally… “I don’t get it…”
So what went wrong?
Well, from a pure engineering standpoint, nothing did. The measurements were perfect. It was what could not be measured by engineering and math, the myriad variables, the human element, the creative process, the lack of art and involvement, the clinically dry and romantically sterile approach that doomed the rod to failure.
What if he had succeeded? Where would we go from there? Is there life after perfection? Would perfection eliminate personality and diversity? Would uniqueness die under the dissecting table of science? I would ask him if I could, but I have never met science on the river. If I did ask science how he felt today, he would probably answer, “Rather methodical, thank you!”
Imagine a world where every fly rod was the same. It might make a good horror movie. It could be called ‘Perfection’ because only in the fantasy world of movies could perfection even exist.
Perfection is a human concept. It cannot and does not exist in nature. There is no perfect tree, perfect flower, perfect raindrop, or perfect human. Every object and individual is different in some way, shape, or form. So is bamboo. It is not a manufactured substance that can be predicted. It is a natural grass that is effected by the wind, moisture, rain, where it grows, when it is cut, and how it is stored. One could say that every culm of raw bamboo has character traits and personality. Now those are human attributes, but perhaps the human was missing in our perfect fly rod experiment. Humans can interpret, apply abstract concepts and even imbibe a fine crafted object with a little of their personality. Mathematics cannot. That’s not to say that mathematics and engineering should not be a part of the design, indeed they are necessary and vital, but with a human there to provide a touch of well… humanity and personality to the process. Machines do not create, humans do. Machines perform tasks and duplications. Human thought put them there.
And… of course… a machine will not be casting the finished bamboo fly rod, a human will.
Each of us has a different casting stroke, a different approach to casting a fly rod, and a different level of proficiency. There is no perfect cast as there is no perfect fly rod taper. Even our mood effects the cast… the mortgage is due… that was a beautiful sunrise… these trout are so frustrating… I better hurry because I only have an hour to fish… Gosh, I feel so relaxed…
Another variable that math and engineering can’t take into consideration is that as individuals with personalities, we each have preferences; likes and dislikes. One person’s concept of what he or she wants in a fly rod will contrast and differ with another angler. As the saying goes, one man’s meat is another man’s poison. That variety is the very spice of life.
If we did in effect achieve some sort of ‘perfection’ that would appeal to everyone’s differences, wouldn’t we instead have to first eliminate those differences first in the person and then in the product? We have been there already, it was the dystopia of soviet era manufacturing which gave everyone the same cars that barely drove, the same clothing in a shade of gray, and housing reminiscent of industrial chicken farms.
Diversity comes from craft, from a lack of common approach, from ideas born and followed without being ironed to perfection. Wrinkles might just be a good thing.
The rods I cast that day all had different tapers. They all did something different. I loved the quirks.
One thing a pure engineering and math approach cannot do is add variations on purpose or by accident to a human design or purpose. If we did achieve one ‘perfect taper’, and had ten different rod builders build ten rods off the same taper, all ten would be different. That is because we are not machines… yet. That cyber A.I. nightmare is around the corner, and until it arrives, we are still in charge of the creative process.
Engineers may be searching for perfection, but on the other side of the fence, artists are working toward failure. Huh? Well, artists unlike mathematical models understand that in an aesthetic sense as well as in the properties of individual objects or creations, perfection is not just immeasurable, it also can’t exist. By working toward failure, the individual artist and craftsperson is always pushing the envelope by asking, “Why not this or that?”
“What would staggered ferrules do here?… Why do rods all have to be a common length?… What would happen if I did this?… What if I hollow-built the butt section?… etc.
These experiments not only give us diversity, but also often end up in failure. Failure fosters learning. Failure is also fearful. It takes an intact and secure ego to admit and even celebrate failure in the process of creative design.
In our ‘engineering only’ design-process, from start to finish there is little room for deviations.
These deviations are a human element of the artist. A painter for example has a blank canvas. He or she has a concept in mind and goes about capturing that concept as a painting which can evolve as it is being created. Many artists, craftspersons, writers, and composers will tell you that some of their best work evolved to deviate from the original intent. A bamboo rod maker that feels the material in their hands rather than pushing it only through machines may be in tune to the raw material. In other words, the bamboo might be in charge to some extent, of the evolution of the taper. It may be able to tell us what needs planing or shaving here and there. This might be more in keeping with crafting a fine casting fishing instrument out of a natural substance instead of conquering it or forcing our will on it with a pure mathematical model.
This is how all artist-quality musical instruments are crafted. There is an intensive process that involves adaptation in the horn or violin to achieve a unique and rich sound. That could be comparable to the vibrations in bamboo listened to by the rod crafter and interpreted into a fine casting instrument. One can’t really listen very well when machines are making noise.
Which brings us back to the very beginning and Mr. Garrison. Now before you poor readers of this philosophic detour off the deep end send me letters excoriating me for some sort of heresy against this fine rod-builder, let me say that Garrison made a great cane rod; one of the finest out there, and even if the search for the ‘perfect-taper’ may be illusory, we should still search for it. For in that search, the conversation continues. The language of that conversation being perhaps a bit more wine-enhanced and romanticized rather than mathematical… The ‘perfect-taper’ awaits… if we close our eyes we almost touch it.
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
Or… the road to perdition is paved with Wooly-Buggers…
Jr. Trout (proper family name Jr. Brown esq.) was a tad late arriving under the bank in the family domicile in time for his evening meal. As he nosed through the silt and rocks to munch vittles of fresh-water shrimp appetizer and awaited the main course of Hendrickson nymphs, his Grandpa eyed him suspiciously.
“Boy, you have been hanging out with those brook trout again haven’t you? Now don’t lie to me.”
Jr. kind of wiggled his fins in a guilty manner and looked askance at the old man. His grandpa was the oldest of the Brown clan in this part of the stream under the shade trees. He had scars on his back from disagreements with herons, and his fins were a bit worn with age. He was no longer the biggest fish in the pool, but he was the wisest, and all the extended Brown family looked to him for sage guidance.
“Sorry Grandpa, but it is hard to stay away ‘cause they are my friends. They even taught me a new game called ‘chase the tail’ today!”
“Son…” the old man began slowly with a frown, “I have told you before that those darn fish are no good for you. They are Yankees, and like Yankees, they hang around in gangs and get up to no good. Look at them there in the middle of the water just swimming around like they don’t have a care in the world. If they had any self-respect they would be in the shade being quiet, not doing acrobatics and water-polo where any darned otter or even uncle Fritz could make a meal of them.”
“Why do you call them ‘Yankees’ Grandpa?” Junior asked carefully.
“Because they are American Trout, boy! See their colors? Like the American flag; all gaudy in their red, white, and blue.”
“Catholics too I would bet, and just as catholic in their tastes… they don’t give a damn what they eat for heaven’s sake.”
“And we are Germans, right Grandpa?”
“Germans, Protestants, and gentleman too,” the wise one said, swelling up with pride and showing off his spots. “Just look at our colors… Like the German flag, gold, red, and black… quiet colors, respectful colors.” Like gentlemen, we Browns are not frivolous. We don’t play games, we shy away from bright places and street-corners, and we absolutely don’t eat wooly-buggers.”
“What’s a wooly-bugger Grandpa,” came the inevitable question.
“Well now, take a seat by this here rock, and I will tell you. Don’t tell your Mother or Father or they will get sore at me again for frightening you, but I think any Brown in this family should know a few things before they go out into the next pool. Served me well for years, even if I learned the hard way myself by making the mistakes I keep scolding you about.”
The old trout rested back on his little pile of gravel, and taking a caddis case from his pocket, began slowly chewing it as he always did when he was telling a story.
“You had a cousin named McSpotty once upon a time. Lot older than you. He was a distant cousin too from some island, on your Grandma’s side,” he recollected with a frown or a wink… it was often hard to tell the difference.
"This young trout got his name from the amount of spots on his side… all black and few red. He was wont to fraternize with those brookies, and even to tipple a bit of brackish water even at his young age. You couldn’t tell him anything or get any sense to stick in his noggin no matter how often we tried. He was always chasing the ladies, even the American gals that hung out in shallow water and had bad reputations. He went to worship on Sunday, but we never could find him for scripture during the week.”
“Well, McSpotty started to get a taste for exotic foods. I always blame those brookies for corrupting him, but he never would have come to trouble if he ate plain fare like us Continental Browns. He began to chase worms and leap at dragonflies like a hoodlum. He left home after a bit, and preferred the company of his new friends on the wrong side of the rocks.”
“One day there was a big commotion and splashing in the water. After a bit, some of your relations and me swam over from the bank to investigate. Your Cousin was nowhere to be seen. Story has it that there was something in the water that the Americans were chasing, but McSpotty got there first. From there it was hearsay. Some of those fish claimed that a giant hand came down from the sky and just scooped him up. Others said that he exploded all by himself. Anyway, he was never seen again. One old gal, the matriarch of the clan, by the name of Char or something like that, finally said that he had eaten a wooly bugger. None of us knew what that was at the time.”
“You can imagine that it put us off our food for a spell, and even the frisky fingerlings stayed close to home for the next week. Rumors as to what a ‘wooly-bugger’ was began to run their course among the youngsters, and even the old-timers began to tell stories.”
“Some said it was a ghost that appeared when the sun was high and the sand was shifting, others speculated that it was bigger than a beaver or a muskrat and only ate trout who missed church or lied to their parents. My own uncle Günter thought that they came with the rains, and lulled their prey to sleep with a song before they ate them.”
“Did you ever see a wooly-bugger yourself Grandpa?” Jr. asked with a shiver of his dorsal fin.
“I did see one once, not close-up like, but in the distance and in murky water. It was big and black and ugly, yet enticing. I felt my will tried as it shimmered and wiggled like one of those belly-dancers I read about once in my Pa’s magazines. I still shudder at that memory. Funny thing was, even with all my teaching and learning, my discipline faltered for a fraction of a second. I started to swim over to it when it just disappeared out of the water. Don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t have off and left. I might not be here now.”
That story made a bit of an impression on our young lad. For a month, he did all his schoolwork, and never swam in the shallows. However, as all boys are fickle, there came one day when his family was all out on some errand or another, and he swam over to find out what the brookies were up to.
At supper that evening, he claimed he had no appetite, and begged off his caddis soufflé. His Grandpa got suspicious.
“What’s that scar doing on your jaw there son? Have you been rubbing your nose on mussel shells again?”
“Mrrn…” was all Jr. could answer.
“Speak up boy, and come closer. Is that a hole in your mouth? You are getting a likkin if you got any body piercings. You know how we feel about that….”
“Well, speak up…”
“Mi mink mi mate a mooly mugger,” Jr. confessed with tears.
“No kidding. You don’t seem to have disappeared, so maybe it taught you a lesson. What did it look like?”
Jr. flexed his jaw a few times, shook himself, stood on his head, blew some water through his gills, and feeling a touch better, answered his Grandpa.
“Mit was morrible! First it looked big and black and ugly, then after I ate it, it tasted like hurting and changed to the hugest, most ugly thing I ever saw. It had a big floppy head and its fins were really long and pale. One of them had a long pole as big as this whole stream in it. I thought I was a goner for sure, but somehow I escaped!”
Grandpa stared long and hard at the boy…
“Now, seeing that you survived, how’s about telling me what you learned…”
“Hanging out with brookies leads to eatin wooly-buggers, and the road to perdition is lined with wooly-buggers!”
“Let that be a lesson to you son,” said the old trout. “Now come and finish your caddis, its getting cold.”
So…take a lesson from poor Jr. Brown. Stay away from those vagabond brookies. Keep out of the shallows. Eat your tiny bugs, and whatever you do, if you fly-fish, don’t have that extra glass of wine with dinner while looking out the window at the rains and flooded streams, it only leads to fables and parables… or wooly-buggers…
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
|Nasturtiums, a painting by my mother.|
Seamus lay on his side by the banks of the stream and took in the fullness of the May morning. Wildflowers were poking out their heads from amongst the grass and unfurling their colors. The valley was full of the yellow sun, and the resplendent green that only a spring day can bring; not quite green… a sort of yellow green… a youthful green, an infant green, a green of freshness. It gave him a feeling of innocence.
He was watching a long slow pool on the river shaded by a willow tree. Although he could not locate a single mayfly on or over the water, the trout were jumping into the air and performing summersaults in the air before slipping headfirst back into their freshet realm. He had never seen anything like it before. By twos and threes, the fish leapt into the air as if wishing to taste the surface world’s greening. A warbler provided a woodwind accompaniment from his perch amongst the bursting buds of the willow.
Seamus watched the trout for a few minutes, and pondered the ballet before him. In his hand was his father’s cherished H.L. Leonard bamboo fly rod. He turned his attention from his puzzle on the water to the handle of the rod. The cork was stained with long use. He could discern the imprint of his father’s thumb at the top end of the cork. He placed his thumb into the impression and closed his eyes, his ears still attuned to the splashes of the fish.
“Why do the trout jump?”
He thought about his father for a few minutes as the sun warmed his face pleasantly. What would he have said? He conjured a scene from his childhood in the old man’s study, a place of quiet and learning; a place of science and precision. His father stood looking at a book he had carefully taken out of the shelves buttressing the room, and easing down his glasses over his nose, was busy lecturing Seamus on the natural world. The question never was asked except in his imagination, but he knew the process of the answer would take him through anatomy, weather and barometric pressure, and angler’s streamside observations carefully recorded and now called into the courtroom to answer the question. Another book would be opened and another passage read, the author’s name preceding the quote, along with the date and the page number. Seamus would be expected to listen attentively as the case was made. His father was a lawyer, and the study in their large house in Dublin. Patrick McDermott esq. believed in science and logic, and it served him well in the courts. He would apply the same thorough analysis to this mystery of the trout. There would be a reason in the end. No mystery… but an uncovering of motive and resulting behavior. The fish would be subjected to the psychology of the individual and the group, and there would be a solution. The book would then be shut.
What that solution was, eluded Seamus’ daydreams for now, as ethereal as the memory of his father’s voice, and the smoke from his pipe as the vision dissolved in his head. He opened his eyes to the brightness of a flowering dandelion awash in bold impressionist brushstrokes of yellow and hints of orange; his mother’s favorite flower.
Mary McDermott loved God’s world and his works. She once told a young Seamus, (awash in stains from crawling through the grass and garden in the front lawn of their Dublin home), that “Dandelions were God’s paintbrushes.” He could see in his mind’s eye the ochre streaks on his boy’s pants held up with suspenders. He had felt that the stains were something bad; something he would be punished for, and had looked on his mother through tears of questioning guilt.
Whatever his mother said to him that day, and every other day she encouraged him or explained something, the focus would be God. Mary’s world was one of faithful contentment. There was a reason and a will behind every breath, every leaf that fell, every bird that sang, every bruise, and bloody knee; that of the Lord and his plan. We could not question with anger the stubbed toes of life, nor curse the road’s turns when they turned away from us, for man was the center of a plan in God’s garden, and there was a reason for everything; one that would include stories and fairy-tales and passages from the Bible as she combed his hair or mended his torn shirt. What the answer would be in the end would be sweet and simple, but remain a defined mystery. Her smile and the sense of comfort in that mystery was in complete contrast to his father’s academic approach, yet love and security warmed the young Seamus.
Mary would have said that the trout jump because it is God’s will. There would be a profound rightness and peace in her answer.
As Seamus’ eyes opened upon the banks of the stream, his left hand brushed against a tiny wildflower opening its purple petals to stare up at him. Purple was his little sister Rose’s favorite color, despite her name. She always wore a purple ribbon in her long strawberry-blonde hair as she followed him through his daily adventures. She was his favorite, and he was hers. She was as happy as he was inquisitive, his dark curly hair and brows contrasting with her round apple dimples and tiny white teeth. He made up stories for her full of knights and ladies, castles among the garden and frog princes at the edge of the little pond bordered with primrose. She listened and smiled… and always laughed.
He had visited her in her house in County Claire, married now and with a daughter and son of her own. The children taking them back to their youth in Dublin with their antics, and reminding them of stories they shared over a wine made with those dandelions of youth and crisp as their memories. Her smile and innocent exuberance had never changed. They had instead just grown larger with age and beauty.
Seamus recalled the day when he (ten years old and feeling ten feet tall and full of imagined manhood) had in response to a question posed by Rose as to why a lark, perching in a lilac bush was singing. He was doing his best to embody his father, and the answer was scientific and clinical; something about mating and territory. His voice filled with importance.
Rose had laughed and threw a handful of grass into his hair. She replied “No, silly! He is singing because he is happy!”
He opened his eyes. The trout were still jumping. Where science and religion only began to illuminate and uncover the beauty of a simple answer, innocence prevailed. She was right… the trout jumped because they were happy!
He was happy too, he thought aloud, as he bit off the fly at the end of his leader, never having wet a line that morning, but instead gathered wildflowers in his wicker creel for a love somewhere that awaited that perfect innocence he now felt.
Saturday, March 30, 2019
A repost from a vignette written years ago... Enjoy! one fine romp through fly-casting and why most everyone won't ever practice.
I was walking in the park the other day, as I am known to do from time to time, day-dreaming of trout rising and the possible relationship between squirrel behavior and the plots of Verdi’s Operas (there isn’t any), when I stopped before the little par-3 golf course, and specifically, before the putting green. There stood a group of guys and gals wearing acceptable golf attire and endlessly practicing their putting.
That gave me an inspiration, and after concluding my walk with more useless speculation as to why overweight middle-aged men are irresistibly attracted to loud farting motorbikes, I ambled back to the car, where in the trunk sat a nifty glass fly rod and a reel complete with line and an old leader. “Putt away you St. Andrew’s dreamers,” I thought aloud to myself, “I will join you on the Itchen…er… Itchy Grass River,” as I swatted a mosquito on my ankle.
I placed three trout (twigs rather of the birch or char variety) at different distances and conjured the spirit of Charles Ritz as I played with rhythms and thumb pressure and timing, and the fly (a piece of a nearby convenient gum-wrapper) landed as close as I could make it to the targets. I had done this for half an hour, and was getting ready to leave, when a guy walking his dog asked me the dreaded question... “Are you catching anything?” “Just practicing for senility” I quipped, causing him to tighten the leash on rover a bit and curl an eyebrow as he walked just a fraction faster and changed directions to take him and his canine companion away from me all the quicker.
I had become “That Guy.” You know the one or the type. The guy with the long beard who plays the bagpipes near the kite-flying area: the idiot dressed up as a mime who stands dead-still outside a shop window posed as a mannequin for hours: or one of those train-spotters who everybody fears will start talking to them about trains.
Yet, as I pondered in that park, fly-anglers should do this. They should be seen on ponds and rivers practicing with the long rod; line making graceful loops so that their time on the river is filled more with reflection and less with frustration. Yet, I am the only person I have ever seen doing this. That might be due to too much time at the tying vise or the fact that my glasses might need updating, but I don’t think so.
Years ago it was common in any park with a lagoon or pond to house a casting club. England and France had them in spades and so did America, especially during the Great Depression and into the 1950s where they were a family outing and a cheap source of recreation. The great fly-casters were formed here, especially in organizations such as the Casting Club of Paris, or the Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club in San Francisco. The Golden Gate club still exists, but most of the local groups sedately casting away in local parks and sipping beers on weekends withered away as their members died off and younger generations never went out doors or suffered from maladies such as Digital Flu, or Too Busy Disorder.
Awhile back, another avid fly-fisherman and I seriously discussed starting a casting club. We would meet, it was postulated, at a local park on the river, and each caster would bring a rod and a bottle of wine and some cheese. Cigars would be welcome. It was to be a fraternal men’s group. A place where lies could accompany clarets, plumes of smoke, and loops of line. The idea of each bringing fine cane, glass, and graphite rods to share and try out reached a snag when a local doctor, who considers himself a great fly-angler was handed a rod by me to try out and immediately began major malpractice on it. Yea, that’s what I needed. “Sorry about the rod Erik… it just seemed to break mysteriously.”
I imagined who would show up at the group. Ten people at first and a fine time would be had by all, and then seven and finally four… two being tournament casters sporting 19 foot graphite lances and shooting heads and competing against each other (and the rest of us who couldn’t give a shit). The other guy would be some codger with a crooked Orvis Battenkill or Wright McGill who never fished and drank all our wine. The final two would my friend and I who would become more and more aware that Oscar Wilde’s famous quote that “I would never be a member of a club that would have my likes as a member” might apply here. Even if it worked out, I mused, it might just turn into an elongated casting lesson for free, which is part of my day-job anyway. I still might try to organize a club like this, but am aware that it might become the world’s most misanthropic and lonely men’s club.
I thought back to the 12 years or so that I had taught for local clubs and organizations at their annual casting clinics and picnic. Inevitably as the picnic progressed, more and more people wandered into the open fields and knolls to cast their fly-rods, but as I began the formal tutorial, I would be left with only the true beginners, as the rest of the established club members would rise in unison like a pod of German Browns to the scent of cooking bratwurst and foamy hops and retire back to the riffle of the picnic tables, leaving me to do whatever it is that an instructor does with 20 new casters.
Don’t get me wrong, I like teaching beginners the best. Wide eyes and good listening skills result in good casters and less bad habits, unlike the guys in the clubs who would demonstrate the same fatal flaws I tried to break them of for the past ten years to no avail.
When I did manage to cast with one of the regular members, they always offered the same caveat or excuse. “I am not a really good caster,” they would proclaim, and then slink away to ensure that their handicap would not be rectified anytime soon. I was puzzled. Then one of the older and wiser fellas told me that “They didn’t want to look bad, and were embarrassed by their casting.” Aha… and how silly. Then why was I there to teach a casting class, if the majority of casters were too shy to learn? Was fishing a game of lies? Were those tales told at club meetings where the 50 foot cast using 6X tippet and a size 22 midge hooked a 20” brown trout best absorbed after a martini so dry it confounded the senses? Should Old Rusty’s tale include instead a foul hooked chub with a botched roll-cast and a size 10 Adams? I took a sip of scotch and feared to tread there for obvious reasons.
Yes, we don’t want to make fools out of ourselves. Perhaps that is why fly-fishing is a solitary sport. Our tales and treasured literature sees us tangling our line around gorse-bushes, inventing new choice invectives, splashing our line on the water and scaring away all the fish, and finally catching the smallest fish in the river once our dry-fly accidentally sank. We look around sheepishly and see if anyone noticed, and straighten up a bit when we find ourselves all alone. Nobody saw us thank dog… now back to hooking bank side brush or festooning trees with little ornaments.
Contrast that to the golf course. Here stand parties of golfers progressing forward on the links, all in open view. Here your foibles are in full-view to all. Slice that drive and hit your Boss’s elderly crippled mother in the noggin and you might want to take a look at that Peace Corps brochure. Botch that 15 foot putt ten times for a quadruple Humphrey Bogie and your face will be so red that you could take the place of the flag on hole # 19, that being the clubhouse after your sixth gin and whoopee. So golfers are far more serious than fly fishermen? Either that or they are more sensitive to embarrassment. For anglers are serious about their sport too. Yet they would rather be eaten by zombies than spend ten minutes twice a week in the back-yard solving their problems.
I remember the moment I began practicing in earnest and became a better caster as a result. It was during a fly-fishing event I was working at a local shop. One of the reps, a tournament caster took an 8-weight rod and threw the line into the backing with grace and little effort. He then offered me the rod, but I begged off saying that my arm hurt. Rather it was my ego that suffered contusions that day, for I had strength, but no grace, and poor timing at best. The next day found me at the park, fly-rod in hand. I have a nearly perfect forward cast today, but a back cast that several master casting instructors still puzzle over, frowning and wondering why it works at all. I continue to learn on the water and on the grass. Some day I will be a caster worthy of the river, but for now, there are still situations on the water that confound me, and if fly-fishing isn’t a game of problem-solving and challenges, then I will hang up my rod and my pen and horror of horrors… take up golf.
As I tell new fly anglers, “Nothing you can do will improve your fly-fishing fun and fulfillment more that learning to cast proficiently.” Not necessarily far, but at 30 feet. Pick-up and lay-down, roll, steeple, side-arm, reach, etc.
So if you hook your friend in the ear on your errant back-cast, the ensuing verbal conflagration might serve you well in remembering not to drop your rod tip or break your wrist. It also might serve as a reminder that you might want to join me at my lonely post as ‘That strange guy standing in the park and fishing in his mind’. The putting green awaits, and practice makes perfect… or perhaps less of a quadruple Bogy on the stream. But then you might have to bring a new tape-measure to the river with you to measure your success rather than the extent of the stretch of truth told over a 12 year old… err.. 6 year old, err… 6 month old scotch. Errr… cheap bourbon.
See you on the velvet green!
Thursday, March 21, 2019
The Rejuvenation (copyright Erik Helm 2009) reposted for your enjoyment... Top ten vote getter!
Author's note: Ever go to a fishing club meeting? So many of them seem like an excuse to get away from the wife and eat and drink and tell lies to the same old farts that have gathered together for so many stale years.... well... here is one club that never saw what was coming!
As Richard listened to the speaker from the Fish and Wildlife Department address the room on the subject of PH levels in area streams, he slowly looked around at his fellow club members. Al had melted into his chair, his pipe intermittently disgorging a cloud of smoke. Henry’s head was slowly nodding forward as sleep took his eyes and brain. Cuthbert was picking at his fingernails as always, and Ed was attempting to show he was paying attention by hitting himself between the eyes repeatedly with the eraser on his pencil.
This brought to Richard’s mind the same problem that had been bugging him for the past six months. The fly-fishing club had become stale. Boredom plagued the members. Richard had attempted to encourage new subjects from speakers, had pushed a membership drive in order to infuse new blood, and tried to interest the members in outings to new places, all to no avail. The club seemed to be happy with the status quo, however sleepy it was. Ennui.
Thinking back on the last several meetings and outings, Richard sighed as he recalled Al’s fly-tying seminar. Al was a good tyer, Richard had to admit, but for some reason, Al limited his fishing to three patterns: a pheasant tail-nymph, an elk-hair caddis, and an Adams. He tied them all perfectly, but that is all he tied. Richard had wondered more than once if his constraint in fishing the three patterns had anything to do with the fact that those flies were the only patterns Al had ever learned to tie. He also seemed to recall that at the last tying seminar the club held only three months ago, Al had demonstrated the same three flies.
Then there were Henry’s outings. Usually around half a dozen of the club’s members would take part in a group fishing day on a local stream. This April it had been Muskrat Creek. It was always Muskrat Creek for trout, or Custer Park Pond for bass. The members would begin arriving late in the morning, put in a desultory few hours of fishing, and then retire to a local watering hole where Al would tell them about his three flies, or Peter would talk about the time he almost met Jack Hemingway.
The outings had originally been intended as mentoring sessions for newer anglers. However, since there had been few new members in the last seven or eight years, the fishing days became more of a day to get away from the wife for a few hours. What few new members there had been mostly faded away within a few meetings, and never returned.
Therefore, as president, that was Richard’s dilemma: how to infuse new energy into the somnambulant angling club.
Last meeting he had booked a local guide who had a slide show on fishing for Atlantic striped bass from shore. One of the club members, Richard could not remember exactly which one, had followed up the presentation by asking the guide how the tactics he described might be applied on Custer Park Pond. Richard had cringed in embarrassment.
The speaker from the Fish and Wildlife Department had finished and departed, and the lights had been turned back up. Chuck, the club secretary and treasurer, was yawning and wiping sleep from his eyes as he began the formal part of the meeting: reading the minutes and taking care of new business, of which there usually was very little indeed.
She walked in carrying an old canvas rod bag in her left hand, her scent and legs preceding her.
The silence was so complete that Richard could hear Al’s pipe clatter to the floor.
“Hi!” she said with a sweet smile revealing a set of perfect teeth and full lips. “Is this the Peterborough Anglers Club?”
It was in the way she said it. There was no hint of shyness, just clarity and confidence. Her name was Ann, and she was spending her summer with an Aunt before returning to Boston to complete her master’s degree.
She was six feet of Boston Brahmin breeding and curves, topped off by long wavy red hair and green eyes. Her purple skirt flowed as she moved to find a chair and settle in. The green cable-knit sweater she wore complemented her perfectly.
Ann was looking to find some fly-fishing nearby, and had brought her grandfather’s seven-foot Payne bamboo rod with her for the summer. She told the club that she fished the Catskill region from time to time, but had not been on a stream for the past three months. Was there any chance of trout fishing nearby?
Richard sat in his car at the pullout of Muskrat Creek and watched with a wry smile as the club fished. It was seven a.m., and fully two dozen members were in the creek by now, following Ann slowly through the riffles. Henry seemed to have lost his limp, and left his wading staff back in his car. Cuthbert had a new hat, and was wearing it at a jaunty angle. Chuck had broken out his Bogdan reel, something he said he would never do. Richard grinned as he heard Al explaining to a member how to tie a Quill-Gordon as they walked down to the stream.
Even Stash, the oldest member in his late seventies, had a spring in his step, and had finally managed to stop dropping his rod-tip as he cast.
Richard shook his head in laughter as he reflected on all his attempts to rejuvenate the club, only to have the answer walk right through the door in the form of a feminine fountain of youth.
The next three months sure would be fun, he thought aloud as he pulled on his better pair of waders.