The Strange Case of Arthur Gribbs

The Strange Case of Arthur Gribbs
An original short story Copyright 2009 Erik Helm
Dedicated to William Olson who never stops inspiring me.

It was in the spring of 1965 as I wandered among the tables and booths of the Charterforth flea market near my home in Connecticut that it caught my eye. At a table filled with dusty items lorded over by a similarly dusty proprietor, I noticed a long fishing rod. As I approached, I held my breath as the object began to take clearer shape. Sure enough, An antique greenheart two-handed fly rod, and in excellent condition, despite the dust.

Nodding to the old man behind the table who was wearing an old jacket that was more patches than coat, I placed a hand on the rod and began to examine it. ‘That there’s a Gypsy crappie pole” said the old man. “Catch ya a load of crappies that pole will young lad.” I smiled at both the mistake in identifying the rod and the reference to me as a ‘young man’. Only a disheveled old coot like this would find me 50 years young. “May I lift it?” I asked while already moving it from its place leaning up against a wooden post. As the old man nodded, I took the rod in my hands in full for the first time. It was a smaller rod as they come, measuring around fourteen feet. It was colored a dark blue with some yellow decoration around the reel seat. I sighted along its length and wonders of wonders it was straight as the proverbial arrow. Then I gave it a tentative shake. As the rod flexed back and forth and the old man rambled on about some nonsense or another, a strange subtle tingling sensation seemed to envelop the rod and travel into my hands and forearms. The sensation was subtle, but puzzled me. Was this the ‘vibration’ action I have often read of that was used by Major Grant and others in their manufacture of greenheart rods? Certainly, the seller of the ‘Gypsy crappie pole’ could be of no assistance here. I turned the rod over again and again and began a detailed examination. The tip had been repaired rather expertly, and some small dark burnt coloring marked the junction. The only other mark was a simple inscription near the butt that read “Arthur Gribbs”.

Looking around to see if my wife was near or was still adding to her thimble collection, I hesitatingly inquired of the proprietor the price of the ‘crappie pole’ adding that “I already had one, but this one is in decent shape and would make a backup for those days when I needed to catch even more crappies.” The price was $20.00. A heck of a lot of money for 1965, and an obvious attempt at gouging me by the old man that ran the booth, but well worth the price for a rod like this. We agreed after haggling that $15 dollars would do, and I carried the rod carefully back to the station wagon, already cringing at the expected words from my wife, “Another fishing pole?” “Have you gone mad?”

As it turned out, she had found and purchased a set of pink and green salt and pepper shakers shaped like eagles which were made by someone who obviously had never seen an eagle, thus she could not reprimand me as she was equally guilty. As I drove home, I started thinking of the rod and of my yearly business and fishing trip to the Don River in Scotland. This trip, which I have taken for the past three years, was my vacation from the responsibilities of the breadwinner. I got away by myself for a week, checked up on some overseas operations of my firm, and got to enjoy myself without having to tow the family around to see the world largest ball of string or the fairy tale village in the middle of nowhere, America. The rod would be balanced by my old pre-war hardy salmon reel, a gift from the president of our Scottish branch and holder of fishing rights in perpetuity on the River Don.

That next weekend, As I took the family on a camping trip, I broke away for an hour to try the rod out on the lake. As I began to cast and get into the rhythm of the rod, the strange tingling sensation came back into my arms. The rod was rather heavy and cumbersome, but if I took it slow and easy and let the rod do the work, it became a delight to cast. That tingling sensation was quite strange though. Vibration indeed.

On July 23rd, I awoke in a quaint but comfortable Scottish hotel after a long but relaxing plane flight. After I visited the business and found everything in order, I called upon Allen, my partner, and the host of the fishing.

Salmon Fishing had been rather good he reported, as we drove his landrover through the beautiful Scottish countryside and down to the Don. “Small drab flies have been the order of the day, but the ratio of grilse to adult salmon has been better than average.”

We met the other anglers that would be fishing that day, and as I assembled my tackle, I renewed my acquaintance with Calum, the ageless old ghillie. Nobody knew how old Calum was, but he seemed to be a ghillie on the river as long as anyone could remember, as his father was before him. His white hair and youthful smile, as well as his wry wit and ready net was a welcome presence on the river.

The beat I was assigned to consisted of a series of rapids slowing into a deep pool. As I got into place at the head of the run, Calum grabbed my rod and reel and began to tie on a small gray and brown feather wing fly with what looked to be a throat hackle of blue jay. As he began to wind in the line, he hefted the rod, looked at it, and whistled. “That’s a devil of a nice wee rod you have there…I haven’t seen one like this in years.” “Sure is a pretty lass.” As he flexed the rod, his face took on a puzzled look, and when he handed the rod back to me I asked him what was the matter. He was looking at his left hand as he said “Years ago, when I was young and careless and after much proper malt was drunk, I did a somersault into the river on a dare and broke my hand.” “Since then, I have never had much feeling in it, but I swear that I just felt it tingle… Strange…”

Indeed, as I cast the rod and swung my fly, the almost electric sensation became stronger, as if the rod was singing. Half way down the run and forty minutes later all hell broke loose as a huge chrome snout appeared beside my fly, inhaled it, and began tail walking down the river making my old Hardy reel scream for mercy. The fish was approaching the tail-out of the pool. If she ‘went over’ I would be screwed, so I eased off on the pressure to try to steer her back upstream. Back she came to hold deep in the pocket. The rapids at the end of the pool were making an awful thundering noise, but as I concentrated on the fish, the thunder seemed to be coming from somewhere above. Calum arrived beside me out of breath and obviously excited. He pointed up to the now rather ominous storm clouds growing and darkening above us. “Looks like its gonna’ rain sheep and biscuits on us soon, we better land this lass and get back to the bothie.”

I tightened up on the line and began to gain on the fish. Each slow lift and reel was accompanied in rhythm by deep thunder from above. The rod began to get painful to hold onto. It seemed to shimmer with energy. Soon the salmon was ready for the net, and as Calum slipped it over the fish I almost imagined I could see sparks of electricity springing from the end of my rod. It began to rain steadily as Calum led me back to the bothie hut.

“Around 30 pounds I think” Calum smiled as I wiped the wet out of my hair with a towel and took off my Barbour jacket. “The best fish I have seen in a grand while.” “Ya best be recording it in the book” Calum said as he pointed to a large leather bound book placed in the center of the bothie table. I duly recorded my catch; the day, time, weight, sex, beat and fly that took the fish. As Calum waited for the other anglers to show up, he slowly and deliberately began to pour out two glasses of a single malt scotch whisky.

Fascinated by the book, I flipped back to near the beginning where the catches were recorded in flowing script with ink and quill pens and were now aged and stained. I was reading the section for 1902, and had come across an entry for a thirty-pound salmon on the same day and at roughly the same time I had just caught mine. What a coincidence! It was when I saw the name that my mouth literally dropped open. Arthur Gribbs, July 23rd 1902. RIP.

“Hey” I exclaimed as Calum approached with two drams of amber nectar, “Arthur Gribbs, that is the name on my rod, the one I got at the flea market…the one I just used to land my biggest salmon ever!”

Calum’s facial expression changed instantly, and he took on a dark and cautious look. He set down the whisky on the table and took up the butt of the rod, read the inscription, stood upright, turned, and stared me in the eyes for what seemed like eternity. It was if he were examining my soul.

“It’s a long story from long ago when I was a wee lad” he said as he returned with the bottle and topped up the glasses generously. “To the river, and the spirits of the unknown” he proclaimed as a toast as we sipped. The whisky was the finest I have ever tasted with the hint of peat and caramel blended with a whisper of heather, honey, and as I imagined it, the spray of salt and the wee hint of fish.

Rain thundered against the roof and sides of the hut. As Calum drained his glass and refilled it, his face lit from the side by the flickering of lightning.

“I was an apprentice ghillie that summer; my first year helping my father.” “I was green as a newborn but eager as ‘ell” he chuckled. “I was in charge of carrying the fish and the gentleman’s rods” he said, “not allowed yet to touch anything else.” “One evening we were fishing the very run you took your fish in.” “It used to be called the ‘auld medden’ pool back then but ever since has been known as the ‘dead pool.’”
“Mr. Gribbs was a ‘ell of a fisherman.” “He never tired of casting and was fun to be around.” “He actually made my job enjoyable.” “He was from England, but lived in the states.” “After two days with only catching a single grilse, he hooked a beauty in the heart of the run.” “The fish was one of the leapingist salmon I ever saw.” “It was so strong that he could not seem to gain any line, and the fish had done a better job with him than he got of the fish.” “After along about an hour it began to rain, but old Arthur, he just laughed as the water poured off his hat and into his eyes.” “He wanted this salmon.” “Well, as I said Mr. Gribbs was a fine fisherman, and he fought the fish well.” After some give and take he got the salmon to within a few feet of the river’s edge and went to tail her.” “He would not let us gaff her, nor net her, he wanted to do it alone.” “He did it too.” “In that wind and rain and thunder he tailed the fish, staggered ashore, and held it out in front of him while giving a primal roar of delight.” Calum took a long draught of the single malt and paused. “It was the last thing old Arthur Gribbs ever did, holding that salmon in triumph before him with that huge smile of his.” The next second, with a crack and a blinding flash, a bolt of lightning struck the tip of his upturned rod, and he was struck dead.”

I felt as if I was listening in slow motion as he went over to the book. “That is my father’s writing.” “Arthur could not have recorded his salmon on account of his lying dead on the grass.” “RIP, Rest In Peace…” Your salmon is the spitting image of his, all these years later.”

I took the rod in my hand, looking all the time at the repaired tip with its little burn mark.

“Here, Calum” I said, handing him the rod. “It remembered.” “The damn rod remembered all the time with its electric tingling.” “It is home now.’ “Let it stay here where it belongs.”

Calum smiled.
We raised a parting glass to the strange story of Mr. Arthur Gribbs.

The right tool for the job.

The proper tool.

A debate on the speypages site led me to think about the difference between the right tool for the job, and an alternative tool that may also work.

What the heck am I talking about?
Read on!

The debate involved the use of a two-handed or ‘spey’ rod to fish for smallmouth bass. I made the point that although the two handed rod is a lot of fun to fish with, and capable of being used to catch smallmouth, it is not the best tool for the job. Instead, a single-handed rod is superior due to the extremely precise accuracy of the casts needed to fish a fly in the heavy structure smallmouth often live in. This involves threading a popper between two limbs of a tree 6” apart, casting sidearm to place a fly 6’ behind and beyond a overhanging branch next to shore, etc. Popper fishing also demands that the rod be in motion in order to give the correct action to the popper, and that repeated long accurate casts are made to a single cluster of targets. This ‘target shooting’ is not what two handed rods are designed to do. Single-handed rods are also capable of everything two-handed rods are capable of when swinging streamers through riffles and pools. Obviously water differs between the smallmouth rivers here in the Midwest and those of the Pacific North West, but the fish and their in-stream habitat demands do not.

But then, in the ‘everything spey, skagit, and switch rod’ world, angler are applying two handed rods to everything from small trout streams to casting for bonefish.

My point is not that the application of a two handed rod will not work for these situations, but that the two handed rod is not the BEST tool for these specific jobs. It certainly is for swinging flies for salmon and steelhead, which is what it was invented for.

Sometimes in order to be able to comprehend the hidden logic in an obscure debate, one needs to bring in analogies. (Analogy warning)

If I want to pound a nail into a board, and I have by my side a hammer, a piece of paper, a screwdriver, a rock, and a salami, which is the best tool for the job?
Obviously the hammer would be the rational approach, but what about the screwdriver and rock? Wouldn’t they work? The answer is that yes they would, but never as well as the hammer. The hammer would make quick accurate and clean work of pounding in the nail, while the screwdriver will take much longer and be much more difficult. The rock works, but also scrapes and gouges the board. The paper and salami are right out. Some people might argue that their head would work to pound in the nail, but I will stop short of comment here.

I am going out to take a walk. Should I bring my walking stick, or the spey rod...
Hmmm.

Good Sport!

Good Sport!


I was reading recently of a description of sport (hunting) in colonial Kenya during the British empire period of the 19th century, and began to reflect on all the nuances of the definition of sport, and why it’s practice has engaged man for centuries. For this article, I will limit sport to the pursuit of game in a natural setting.

For definition, the sporting tradition, especially the British version that we inherited from fly fishing has a number of inherent characteristics.

First is the pursuit of an animal, be it fish, foul, or beast in a natural setting. In this sense, 19th century sport may be viewed as a gentleman’s way of affirming man’s position of dominance over other animals; a theme of western tradition and Christianity. Sport as practiced by many could be looked at not incorrectly as a simple gratification of the ego of both the individual and the species.

Second is the restraint of that power or the limitation of its use. If man wanted, he could slaughter every beast of the land and river, and in many cases, we nearly did. The sporting gentleman employed tactics and equipment that gave him the upper hand, but also allowed for a fair chance of escape. Thus, the sporting gentleman used a bolt action rifle instead of a machine gun or poison. The angler used a rod and angle instead of a net. This restraint only went so far. The end of the game was blood. It was playing with your food, but only for so long as the thrill lasted. 19th century sports used as much restraint in the kill as they did in making frivolous wars. This restraint was and continues to be a subject of debate and differs radically in interpretation and scope. For example, in Britain it was and continues to be a sporting tradition to conduct driven shoots. Wealthy country gentlemen, esquires, and manor borne sports lined up on vast estates with double guns and gun caddies while the drivers walked along waving flags and clanging bells, driving the foul that had been fattening up all year relentlessly toward the waiting shotguns of the ‘hunters’. The resulting carnage was considered sport. For hundreds of years the British have considered the classic fox hunt as sporting. Here priceless horses are ridden in pursuit of a fox being chased by a pack of baying hounds. The fox either escapes, or is torn to pieces by the dogs, while the gentlemen and now gentlewomen retire to the clubhouse to partake of aged sherry and cognac. These are just two examples of why it is dangerous to over-romanticize our sporting heritage. One man’s sport may be another man’s slaughter. What was true then is still true now.

But, for every example of excess, there were those that conducted themselves with class and practiced their sports along an acceptable set of rules that defined restraint. Thus the chalk streams were dry fly waters and low be born the man that dredges the subsurface with a wet fly. A single hunter stalking his game was accorded a greater achievement then a driven shoot, especially if the weapon is small. The ‘fair chance’ and ‘minimalist’ approach became the ultimate in sport. We fly fishermen take this to an extreme by using a single hook covered in feathers and fur and pursue one fish at a time while stalking the stream. Many fly fishermen may view the bass tourney types using sonar, radar, ultrasound, lasers, gps devices, satellite dishes, and fish scent as aids to their catching as less than sporting.

Along with restraint goes respect. The person that does not respect the game he or she chases will not become a steward of the game, the river, or the environment. Respect is seen in the way many people dressed and conducted themselves when chasing fish or game. Respect is seen in the intricate and beautiful hand ties salmon flies that were cast out into the river as an offering of beauty and a prayer or hope for return in the form of a chrome bright salmon. Contrast that with the wholesale raping of spawning fish by ‘fishermen’ with glo-bugs and we begin to see that respect and restraint define the gentile sportsman.

Third is the culmination ceremony where the head is mounted or the meat is consumed. Here we modern responsible sportsmen may engage in catch and release; the releasing of the fish is the symbol of the ultimate restraint.

Sporting should not be compared with food gathering. Gathering meat through the use of nets, baiting, driving, etc. is a necessary part of our ability to feed ourselves. No one should look down their nose at meat gatherers as not sporting, as well as in reciprocity those engaged in gathering meat should not refer to their activities as sporting.

What is sporting is a debate subject to all forms of extremism and debate. Taken to its absurd conclusion we have the character of General Zaroff in Richard Connel’s The Most Dangerous Game, who having become bored with his hunting big game with smaller and smaller weapons, as to increase the sporting chance, finally is driven in his fanaticism to begin hunting human beings.

Some fly anglers only use cane rods and silk lines, and may look askance at people that fish with graphite rods. Some anglers restrain their kill, but will sometimes take a fish for dinner. Others that practice strict catch and release may consider this barbaric or irresponsible. The bow hunter may see his restraint and the difficulty of mastery of his chosen weapon, as well as the limited range of approach and stalking skills thus mandated, as inherently superior to those hunting with high power rifles. This kind of debate and search for identity is normal, but one must always remember what it is that we are doing out there. Chasing things. Chasing them as we have for thousands of years, just with a more enlightened approach, a greater sense of respect, and the proper restraint.

Fishing with Dad

Fishing with Dad: Photo from @ 1975 or so

Most anglers and fly fishermen in particular have had the tradition of this great sport handed down to them by their fathers. My friend Rob’s father tells a neat story about fly fishing in Michigan when Rob who was all of eight or nine years old was perched on a rock casting, and Sylvester Nemes came past and remarked that the kids casting skill was better than his fathers.

Many of us cherish those memories of our fathers, from the first time we were shown how to bait a hook and cast, to the time we finally caught a fish bigger than Dad’s was, and the look not of envy but of pride on his face.

My memories are just as fond, but in a more ironic way.

My father loved to dream about fishing, but rarely fished. He taught me how to bait a hook with a worm, set the bobber and catch panfish. He taught me to clean the fish. He also taught me that he was not to be bothered for the morning bite. I fished alone in the mornings, as Dad would never get out of bed. Dad and I only really fished on vacations. These were supposed to be the time when mom could get away from her soul crushing job, and immerse herself in nature and paint and sketch while staying with friends ‘up north’. For Dad, these vacations took on a safari like expedition status.

The vacation planning would begin with my mother securing time off of work. After the dates were set, Dad would begin assembling the baggage train near the doorway of our house. Like everything else involving Dad, this took time; in this case weeks, with long speculation and daydreaming while smoking his pipe, and was over-meticulously planned. He gathered: hunting boots, hiking boots, casual shoes, two fishing rod cases containing a dozen of his hand built rods, two tackle boxes, a large box of fishing reels, two safari jackets, several hats including a pith helmet, several large fishing nets, four duffel bags of clothing, etc. Enough gear for an expedition to the Congo. My mother took some watercolor supplies and a change of clothes. I had one fishing rod and a small duffel bag.

That was Dad. Everything was overdone, over planned, analyzed to death, and had to be perfect.
He hand built spinning rods that were pieces of artwork, with gun stock French walnut inserts, elaborately wrapped guides, and guide spacing that was based upon complex mathematical models only known to him. He owned the best reels that money could buy, and a large collection of lures and sundry equipment. Despite this, he very seldom fished. When we did fish together, after I was about nine or so, the fishing sessions were inevitably memorable…but in the wrong way.

I couldn’t wait to go fishing the first morning of the vacation, but had to wait for Dad, as the fishing rods were locked in the car. On the pond was a boathouse with a pier from which we would fish. We stood on the little pier and cast spinners to the trout. I caught my first rainbow trout that day. Before that occurred though, there were the requisite disasters that seemed to follow us wherever we went. On an errant cast, I hooked Dad in the leg, the treble hooks embedding deep in his pants. It’s amazing that worse didn’t occur with the two of us crowded onto the tiny end of the pier. In order to get the hooks out he had to take off his pants. We stood on the end of the platform while I tried to free the hooks from his trousers, which were now around his ankles. I used needle-nose pliers and finally got the hooks free but left a sizable hole in the pants. By this time, both of us were entangled in the fishing line, and I dropped his pliers into the water. I was never to hear the end of this. The proximity of sharp objects, Dad’s anxieties, and a small boy crowded onto a pier had reached critical mass. At times like this, I was at the mercy of his entire wrath, as Mom wasn’t there to try to interfere and thus get criticized for always “Defending the boy.” On a positive note, I learned a lot of new words that day.

Several days later I went along on a shopping expedition with Mom and her friend and Dad was left alone to fish. When we returned, he proudly showed off a stringer of five beautiful rainbow trout. One of them was the biggest I had ever seen up to that point. It was almost hard to believe. Dad seemed such a fumble-klutz at fishing that it was an entirely new feeling to see him as a hero.

My father loved to fish. At least he loved to dream about fishing and collect tackle. He rarely actually went fishing. He read books on spin fishing, and purchased or hand built the best equipment with God only knows what money. Somehow though, in his meticulous study, he missed some of the simple fundamentals. When fishing with a spinning reel one opens the bail (control arm) thus freeing the line for a cast. In order to prevent the line from free spooling at this point and creating a tangled mess, one places a finger on the line and traps it against the rod or reel. Dad overlooked this. On a later vacation to Wisconsin’s Door County, we were fishing together and Dad repeatedly made casts that went nowhere and created a bird nest of line. At these times I was employed to help by holding either the rod or the line while he cursed and blamed, constantly stating “ I am going crazy” and sweating profusely. The tangles kept getting worse until they covered the reel, rod, and us. Monofilament was everywhere. Everyone took turns trying to help him, but it was to no avail. My Uncle Jerry, a Benedictine priest, and our driver on this trip even had his patience tried. He went swimming to escape the mayhem. Mom tried to help too, but finally went off alone to paint. The rod ended up getting broken, probably on purpose. I can still feel the tension in the air, and smell the frustration and terror sweat as it fell from Dad's brow.
It’s funny. I loved to fish too, but after these vacations, I never fished from age 15 until I was in my mid-30s. I often wonder if the traumatic imprints had something to do with that.

Dad’s hand built rods may have been works of art, but they hardly ever received use, even given our proximity to Lake Michigan. Dad’s fears and anxieties all but prevented him from ever venturing out on his own. Instead he amassed tackle and sat day dreaming about it until vacation time came along. He collected hundreds of back-copies of Outdoor Life and Field and Stream, but hated to leave the house for fear of getting his shoes muddy, getting wet, or getting eaten by mosquitoes. My mom and I thought he should have magazines entitled “Indoor Life” instead. When he did venture outside into nature, he dressed like someone attempting a parody of an English explorer from the 19th century. He would don special boots, safari jackets, and a pith helmet.

So, here’s to you Dad, in a loving but tongue in cheek way. Happy Fathers Day. Wish you were still here with me, disasters and all. I will wear your Irish hats in tribute, but will try not to tangle the line around myself and fall in.

Angling, Art, Thinking

"Angling has taught me about art, as art has led to interesting theories and experiments in angling. Thinking and fishing go well together somehow"

John Atherton 1932

Photo of the Prairie River Wisconsin by Erik Helm

Picking up fly fishing and the $nob factor

Fly fishing can be daunting, confusing, and downright unapproachable for many of those who want to take up this wonderful sport. The gear alone is pricey, and the terminology is a mix of antiquated measurements, technical terms and names not found in any language. The often confusing and conflicting advise newcomers receive does not help.
If one is a doctor or a lawyer or otherwise endowed with a large disposable income, one could attend an Orvis fly fishing school at some destination resort, but what do other 99% do? Where are they to go for advise?

In talking to non-fly fishers about some angling subject or another, I often discover that they have a fly rod in the closet somewhere that has never been cast. Some present from their wife or grandfather or other caring soul, it has sat there for years gathering dust instead of making memories.

I feel for these people, and have made it a mini mission of mine to encourage people to enjoy the great outdoors through fly fishing.

One of the largest hurdles to get over for a beginning fly angler is the sheer cost of the equipment.
I was in need of a new fly line for a specific rod, so I opened up the Cabelas catalog where I discovered to my shock that the price of a fly line is now roughly the equivalent of an average mortgage payment. Here is where fly fishing gets the 'snob' reputation. There are quite good rods and reels and other gear out there that do not cost an arm and a leg, but they are often buried under pages of $700 flyrods, $600 waders, and $500 reels.
I had customers come to my flyshop specifically because they felt they had been sold down the road and had their wallet fleeced by other fly shops. I had manufacturers reps that denigrated cheap equipment, and at all times exhorted me to push the most expensive rods and reels. I have no problem appreciating and using the best in life, but for the beginner, perhaps a wee bit of restraint is in order.
Sometimes the most expensive equipment is marketed to the angler that wants to improve his or her fishing but buys into the 'Magic Bean" concept that a better gadget will help them along the way, and solve their problems for them. The easy fix has accounted for millions of dollars in sales. I once had a customer that couldn't cast past his shoelaces buy a $700 dollar fly rod so that he could cast farther. The cost for a casting lesson with me would have set him back about $50.

So, to come back to the topic at hand, how does one take up fly fishing?

1. Visit a fly shop and talk to a professional. If the professional steers you toward the $750 pair of ivory forceps find another fly shop. Buy a book on fly fishing. There are many good ones out there. Take it home and read it. Then read it again. Talk to any friend you have that fly fishes. He or she will give you loads of advise. Some of it will be good and some will be bad. Refer back to the book to be able to tell the difference.
   
2. Think about what type of fishing you are going to be doing most and be honest with yourself. You are best off fishing for panfish, stocked trout, or some other easier quarry at first. Under no circumstances pick a famous trout stream for a first destination. That will be just setting yourself up for a fall.
   
3. Based upon where and what you want to fish for, determine the correct tackle (weight of rod and line, etc.) Begin exploring fly shops and talking to the people who work there. You will encounter snobs, fanatics, and people who will either not speak to you or will talk your head off. If you want to get rid of them, ask them where the "Worm poles" are.
4. When you are certain of the right rod and line weight, select a good entry level rod that has a solid warranty. long sticks of graphite tend to break after all. Buy a reel that balances the rod and does not break the bank, and the correct fly line. The line is quite important here. You don't have to buy the most expensive one, but listen to the advise you get. You may need to buy a 6 wt line for your 5 wt rod. See? I told you it was confusing...
5. Once you have the rod, reel, line, several leaders, a spool of tippet material, and a flybox loaded with a couple of dozen general purpose flies such as attractor dries, wooly buggers, and small poppers, it is time to learn how to cast. But what about the waders and creel and vest, and and, and...? Forget about it until later. Learn to cast. Buy a video on casting, get a simple lesson, and practice on the lawn for a half an hour every day. Write down what you learn. Tell the neighbors to stop asking you what you are fishing for. Use a piece of yarn tied to the end of your leader at first so as to avoid body piercings in strange locations.
6. Find a gazateer or other good map, put on a floppy hat, pack a sandwich and a water bottle, don the mosquito repellent, grab your gear and start exploring!

Cost of rod, reel, line, fly box, flies, leaders, etc. @$325.00 - $450.00
Ability to get out of the house and off the couch, share the outdoor experience with friends, explore nature, and catch your first fish... priceless.

Tribute to Caihlen

My fellow two handed rod aficionado Ken Campbell wrote this original thought on his blog Haiku Steelhead (link on my blog)

"Each cast, each drift fished out nicely over good water takes on a spiritual aspect. Each one like a well worn rosary bead, a petition to the universe that asks for inclusion and each one another step into the refuge and peace of tradition and respect."

This sums up perfectly what I love about the two handed rod.
I tip a wee dram to you my friend!