The joy of the cane fly rod

This past fall I acquired my first fly rod built of split cane. A 6’6” two-piece for a 4wt line. The model is a Redwing ‘Precise’ hand built by master craftsman Joe Balestrieri. Mr. Balestrieri is a true gentleman of many years acquaintance, and has been hinting and whispering to me of the possibilities inherent in bamboo for years.

He has a rather unique philosophy, namely that to follow the old master’s taper designs is like trying to recreate the Mona Lisa, and instead, by designing his own tapers, he finds discoveries that prove that the best cane rod is yet to be built.

Let me digress for a moment…

Having been involved in the fly-fishing ‘Industry’ for quite awhile now, I have seen, wiggled, cast, and fiddled with literally hundreds of split-cane rods. It is a weekly occurrence to have a customer come into the shop with an old stained rod sock and pull out a cane rod for evaluation. Many want to fish a legacy, as it used to belong to Grandpa, or they found it at a rummage sale for a song and now want it matched to a reel and line. Of the rods I have handled, 99% are rather awful. The reason why is simple.

Back in the days before the fiberglass and graphite revolution swept over the fly-fishing world, all rods were made of cane; the vast majority being mass-production rods. Yes, they were hand-crafted to an extent, but not by masters, instead, the were planed, glued, baked, and wrapped by the assembly-line process. They were heavy and not finely tapered and tuned. The analogy I like to use is a simple one when explaining this to students and customers: “Saying that you have a bamboo fly-rod is like saying that you have a metal car. All rods were built of cane, as all cars were made of metal. The differences between a utilitarian Ford, and a Ferrari are the same when comparing a South Bend from a local hardware store to a finely crafted Payne or Garrison.”

This is why cane rods have a bad reputation in modern days to the occasional angler. The run-of-the-mill rod is clunky, poorly tapered, heavy, and collapses on the cast when any distance is desired. Graphite is lighter, crisper, and recovers faster. Holders of this opinion are to be forgiven because they never have had the pleasure of casting a cane rod that is a true work of art.

The possibilities of cane opened up to me one evening when I paid a visit to Joe and his workshop. Always the gentleman, I was soon comfortably seated with a glass of Sicilian wine in my hand, and examining a restoration project Joe was undertaking on a short spey rod owned by some obscure Viscount in Great Britain. Balestrieri then pulled out a big 9 ft. 8 wt rod, and handed it to me to flex. Now I can be rather stubborn, and set in my opinions, but am wise and quick enough to recognize when my self-imposed blinders have been lifted off and the light of day revealed. What I held in my hand was an epiphany. It was as light as most graphite rods, with a fine parabolic taper and quick recovery. Unlike production rods of any material, no two handcrafted cane rods are precisely alike. The finish varies just a little, and the grain and knurls in the wood seats add a unique touch.

I sat speechless as Joe stood forth on the infinite possibilities of taper design. Perhaps it was the wine, but I could almost hear and smell the flowing water just beyond the tip of the rod.

Flexing it was like a finely tuned musical instrument with its own unique character not unlike a fine violin, both with inherent musical (casting) personalities and aesthetic charms. It had a presence not unlike a fine work of art. I was blown away. I left that evening after sampling a StrathSpey Single-Malt Scotch, and was a changed man.

That was a few years back. Now I regret the time in-between when I could have played the small streams of Wisconsin for bejeweled trout with an instrument that turned mere fly-fishing into a concerto for wood, water, and speckled wild quarry worthy of Mozart.

The first initial cast of the Redwing ‘Precise’ knocked me out. It felt like graphite, but yet not. It had power to spare, a sweet action that somehow seemed designed just for my stroke, it was beautiful, and it was the most accurate fly rod I had ever cast. I fell in love.

The initial outing with the rod was at the end of trout season on my local creek, which was totally brush choked. I fished with hopper patterns and baptized the rod with a lone 9” wild brown. Playing the fish with the flexible action of the rod was like listening to a symphony in stereo rather than mono: the experience just became more intimate. The short rod made negotiating the small spring creek much easier too, and the fly landed with the precision intended by Balestrieri’s artful hands. The pairing of an old 1950s Hardy Perfect 3 1/8” reel and a DT line made the rod come alive. It balanced like a dream. It disappeared in my hand as my casts just landed like I ‘thought them’ into place.

Laying awake one night before my annual trip to Idaho to fish for steelhead, I had an idea. Why not drive the extra fifty miles or so and spend the first day of two on the Selway River fishing wild cutthroat trout? Why not take the new cane rod? Why not have the proper experiences of sporting-restraint fishing dries with a tiny cane rod on a big western river?

That is just what I did. Yes, the little rod was limiting in some ways. I could comfortably put out 40 feet of line, and reach out to 55 feet or so when necessary, but it necessitated the stalking of some water, a cautious approach, and more thinking than casting, which is another of Joe Balestrieri’s little opinions. He believes that super powerful rods have limited the joy of skill and the hunt that the older more sympathetic cane rods made necessary. The thought, reflection, and the studying of the stream became with the new plastic rods, an art all but forgotten.

So I raise a glass of fine claret in salute to Joe Balestrieri the artist and craftsman, the rod he built for me, the joy of fishing with it, the feeling of a delightful coming together or symbiosis of aesthetics, power, and restraint: a tool worthy of the fish we pursue in beautiful places, and a rod that elevates the fly-fishing experience from the near mundane to the moving feelings of high-art.

The Double Taper Experiments: Part One - Trout

The Double Taper Experiments

 

Part One: The trout rod.

 

It all began with a reel; a Hardy Perfect 3 1/8” with agate line guard. Loaded on the reel was an old Scientific Anglers Double Taper 4 line. The reel was a gift from a friend, and so ‘perfect’ a perfect that it just had to be used. No sense in letting the ‘good china’ gather dust in the closet.

Of course, the first thing I did was remove the old dumb DT line and put on a new Weight Forward 4. I fished the line for a year, but was unhappy with its coiling memory problems, so early this year I thought, “Why not try out the Double Taper…”, and I put it back on the reel.

A little background here. When Weight Forward lines first appeared, they revolutionized casting. With most of the grain weight placed on the forward 30 feet of line, and the rest of the line acting as a running line, what we had was the first commercially available shooting head. Distance, (always the desire of anglers, after all if we can cast farther we can catch more fish… in theory) became far more effortless. I have articles written in the 1970s that proclaimed the death of the Double Taper. When I started fly-fishing, it was all done with a Weight Forward line. Old-timers used to come into shops I was working at and ask for DT lines. When we didn’t have them, they often cried that “A DT is all you need for trout fishing.” I never listened. Neither did most everyone else. After all a DT is just a DT, but a weight forward offers so many more possibilities.

Weight forward lines come in power tapers, quiet tapers, distance tapers, nymph tapers, longer belly tapers, fish-specific tapers, etc. etc. The DT just sits there on the shelf, in all its boring lack of complexity, lonely and unused, gathering dust.

Until someone with a insatiable curiosity and a tendency towards hair-shirts winds one on his reel one March day.

What has happened can be likened to opening a hidden window in a musty old cellar, and the sweeping of cobwebs from the brain. With the new light of day pouring in, objects and concepts dimly lit or obscured all these years become clear, and the world turns.

I guess I was surprised. I also felt a bit humble. After all, I was a doubter, and a quite verbal one at that. What I found in the DT line opened my eyes.

First, when paired to a full-flexing trout rod such as an Orvis Superfine, it was instantly more accurate; there was something about not casting running line that actually played in favor of accuracy.

Second, the weight in the line was elongated. This weight was within the guides the whole time, adding to the rod load. The rod was not just loading from the tip, but was flexing smoothly and continuously throughout the rod, making the rod design, or ‘action’ transmit or communicate directly to the casting arm what was happening in the load. Interesting.

I was afraid that the DT line would be a limiter in distance, and it was to some extent. However, I found that I could, with some adaptation of my casting stroke, throw 50 to 60 foot casts with ease. That is all anyone would need on small Wisconsin spring creeks. In fact, 50 feet in most places will see one fishing the next run around the bend. I expect that if I make it back to Belize some day, that for long-distance casting in tough situations A DT line might not be my first choice, but for a small trout stream, Eureka!

Another little epiphany occurred in changing fly sizes. The DT line simply turned over everything from size 20 Olive dries, to cone head size 4 streamers. All one had to do was futz with and adjust the leader a bit.

On our trout streams here in Wisconsin, the best friend an angler can have is a good roll cast. Nothing, and let me repeat this, nothing… roll and spey casts on a trout stream like a DT line. It was made for it. On tiny overgrown ten foot wide creeks with boulders and in-stream obstructions that would make a goofy-golf aficionado run screaming, the DT line worked magic. Enough weight was outside the tip of the rod that I could make roll casts to targets 12-15 feet away with accuracy. Later, when we fished a pool a friend named ‘Salmo Mofo’ for it’s recalcitrant browns, the DT line could reach the lie with a spey cast 50 feet away and with amazing accuracy.

At least for one angler with newly opened eyes, the Double Taper line is back. At least for trout fishing. You can teach an old dog a new trick. And.... those old-timers knew a thing or two...

Off the beaten path

There is something about exploration that satisfies the soul of the angler. We spend a lot of time trying our best to come to an understanding of a familiar stretch of water, and often lack the simple fortitude to go off exploring an unknown piece of river or stream. Part of our unwillingness is due to habit, and part due to the uncertain reward at the end. What is over there in that field stretch: a 20-inch brown, or an angry bull? What is back there in the woods: a swamp, ticks, mosquitoes, brambles, or… all of the above and fish that have never seen a fly?

The other day I drove a ways to a spring creek, only to find the parking areas and pullouts each contained a vehicle. I rigged up anyway, and decided that instead of following another angler, I would go downstream into the woods and explore. A small deer path lead into the tangled undergrowth. As I progressed slowly, the ground turned to a morass and sucked at my boots. Wild rose bushes and black raspberries scratched my arms, and I scrambled over fallen trees and branches. I began to perspire. After only a couple of hundred yards, the woods became impassable. I crossed the stream and progressed at the edge of a farmer’s field. Much better. I should have thought of that before! I re-entered the woods where a rusted hulk of a tractor was slowly returning the earth, and spotted the stream. Riffles and microstructure were everywhere.

One thing kept crossing my mind: there were no footprints. The mud banks lush with skunk cabbage and the occasional trillium were untouched. Nobody had been here. Sitting on a rock to take it all in, it became apparent why. The stream was choked with fallen wood, and the bank side bushes and trees reached out to create a maze of hazards over the water. Perfect! I heard a rise as I strung up the little seven-foot rod. Looking ahead into a tiny rock-jumble and riffle, the trout were eating something with gusto. They were coming unglued and jumping out of the water for a few sparse hatches of March Browns and Blue-Winged Olive mayflies.

I tied on a big size 12 Catskill style March Brown and began to have a ball. These fish had never seen a fly. They would repeatedly hit and miss the fly until they became hooked. This little stream is fished to death. In any other section, a single mistake would put down the entire pool. I had found a piece of paradise.

The fishing was not that easy though. With the tangled mess overhead and around me, I had to take inventory before each stroke. Roll casting and little spey casts proved the ticket. The fish were not big, but they made up for it in spirit. All this and not another soul, and yours for the taking but for a little mud, sweat, and briars.

Pride of ownership

As fly fishermen (and women), we tend to somehow reach a stage where the aesthetics of equipment becomes important to us. There is something about releasing a well-earned fish, sitting on the bank and taking it all in while looking at our rig and thinking “What a damn fine sport this is!”

The rich history of fly reel makers is overflowing with little gems. Hardy, Pfluger, Young, Sharps, Abel, etc, etc. Commercial makers have wowed us with winches both big and small; complicated and simple as a spring and pawl. I was lucky enough to view the reel collection at the American Museum of Fly Fishing in Vermont a year ago, and just about lost it in a romantic and nostalgic overload while looking at Vom Hoffe, Bogdan, Walker, and early Orvis reels, including the original unfinished CFO prototype designed for Orvis by Stan Bogdan.

These works of mechanical and functional art have been disappearing as manufacturing cost rise, and the consumer tastes change to high tech reels. Some major manufacturers such as Hardy still offer high-end reels such as the new perfect that are still made in England, but the costs of making small batch productions have driven the price up enough that the major players are now competing with the cottage bench-made craftsmen.

Last year I received my first hand-made reel directly from the maker, and right at riverside. William Olson presented me with a long awaited bench-made S-curve salmon reel with gear and pawl drag. My hands shook as I opened the leather reel pouch and looked at a complete beauty. The machining marks were carefully hand polished out of existence, and every surface was lovingly rounded. The extra care he takes and his pride in producing a reel that the owner will cherish was evident in every curve and surface.

Then I turned the crank. This reel does not just click, it barks. The simplicity of the system of gear and pawl and the wide chamber for sound guarantee the owner that he or she will be heard when a fish pulls out line. I got to hear the reel (number 36) sing multiple times last fall when fishing with William, none more memorable though then the last evening of the trip before I had to pack up my gear I hit a nice wild hen steelhead with my full dress Argyle salmon fly and old #36 played out a wild little concerto to send me on my way home.

There is just something about a hand-made item that speaks to us. Human hands touched, designed, formed and finished the piece. It is personal in some way. That makes a difference to some of us.

So, here is a toast to all the craftsmen who, like William, place a bit of their souls in each and every creation.

Cheers.

A Battenkill idyll

It is a river of legends. Flowing from Vermont’s Green Mountains and into New York, it trickles and meanders through history and our fly-fishing souls. Its valley is gentle and serene, and its hatches of mayflies and caddis and tricky trout underlay much of what makes eastern American trout fishing what it is.

All this flowed and eddied through my brain as we Orvis fishing managers set out for an afternoon and evening of fishing this storied river on an unseasonably warm day in April 2012. The strange warm spring had seen the high runoff water blow through early this year, and the river was low and clear.

It is difficult to pin down the emotions and thoughts as we separated and rigged up our rods and lines, chose flies, and donned waders. I guess the closest I can come is that I felt a part of history. I thought of Art Flick, Theodore Gordon, and other Eastern greats.

Our party of five, (Dan, Shannon, George, Trent, and myself) were one group of a total of over 40 skilled and trout-obsessed fly-fishermen and women that would test their skills on the waters that day. It was my first time on the river, and my hands shook a bit as I pulled off line from the old Hardy Perfect reel and set up the little superfine 7 foot 4 weight rod. The ideal setup would include a longer rod and a nymphing rig or a streamer, but being the romantic I am, I thought, “When on a river so steeped in legend and tradition, why not follow the lead of the great anglers before me?” Thus, I tied on a size 12 Hendrickson dry fly, and greased the leader. Trent and I separated and walked downstream. We walked far farther than we intended to, mesmerized by the structure and flow of the river and their possibilities. When we entered the water bugs were sporadically hatching, and we soon determined them to be Hendrickson and caddis; perfect. The sun blasted down and warmed the bottom rocks as I struggled upstream against the flows, flicking my first concentrated casts here and there, hearing voices and music deep in my subconscious: Mahler and Marinaro.

Trent quickly located a rising brown in an impossible lie under a tangle of brush and protruding twigs, and quixotically played with it for several hours. The fish was taking flies with spirit, spitting the water in splashy rises, but never venturing out of his cover. Trent would later hook and lose that fish. His perseverance was amazing.

Advancing upstream, I spotted a huge brown rising in mid-river. Although I did everything I could think of to get a presentation to him, casting a 7’ rod upstream 60 feet in fast current against a wind with a dry fly and my back against the wall proved next to impossible. I finally took to spey casting the tiny rod and finally put the fly directly in the right place for a drag-free drift. The fish just swam off. Welcome to the Battenkill.

Then a little fish made a sloppy splashing rise just upstream. After a botched cast or two, the fish ate my Adams (The Hendrickson was lost in a tree behind me). A wave of calm joy warmed my soul as I landed and cradled a wild brookie. I had done it; my first fish on the Battenkill.

As the afternoon progressed and waned toward a serene and calm evening, and the sun caressed the tops of the Green Mountains, the mayfly hatch went insane. Clouds of Hendricksons covered the water advancing up the long riffles. I have never seen so prolific a hatch. However, rises were nearly nonexistent. Trent patiently cast a dry to a brookie that George had seen rise. I made ten casts to it without a rise and moved upstream. Trent then caught that fish after more perseverance. Amazing.

Dusk was upon me when I stumbled through a deep piece of water at the bottom of a large riffle with calm water on the edges and a cobbled bottom mixed with fallen conifers. A fish rose, and I quickly hooked it: another small brook trout. As the fish wiggled off my hook before I could cradle it, another much more defined and energetic splash marked a rise under an overhanging tree limb in the soft edge of the river. I slowly made my way through the underwater minefield stepping on rocks and debris and waded through the waist deep water to put a sidearm reach cast upstream and to my left. The fly rode high on the water and bobbed tantalizingly as it rode down toward the spot that the fish rose. The resulting take left no doubt as to the hungry gourmet. A brown trout engulfed the fly and cut back under the rocks and logs I was bracing myself against and dove deep putting a nice bend in the rod and taking out line which made my Perfect reel sing its little heart out. It wasn’t big, but the little spirited fish made my whole day.

So, there are fish in the Battenkill. They take dries too. They just take a lot of heart and soul and patience to catch. It is not a numbers fishery, but each little gem of a fish should be savored.

I feel blessed. I fished the Battenkill the way ‘God’ intended it should be fished, and it rewarded me with a smile and memories. As the last sliver of sun sank behind the rounded peaks, I took a deep breath of the fragrant spring air and thought, “This moment is what life is all about.”

Thank you Battenkill.

Faith

Faith...

No, not that kind.

The other day, when giving a seminar on dry fly fishing, I was taking questions, and attempting, poorly as it was, to describe a feeling I sometimes get when on the stream that comes deep from the river or my soul that whispers “There, put your fly there.”

I had to close my eyes and pause for a moment to see in my mind’s eye the symbiosis of water knowledge and feeling which leads the fly angler to that simple confidence of ‘just knowing.’

The spring creek bubbled, projected on the back of my closed eyes, and I saw not the water, but the spaces in-between. Not the obvious riffle, but the soft spot just past the protruding stick.

This little spring creek had beaten up on me so many times that I started doubting my own quixotic self-torture at fishing it at all. I would place my fly where I knew in my mind that there would be a fish, but my sense of feeling was seldom rewarded. Was it the creek? Was it me? What was I doing wrong?

What this one special day portended was a glorious proof-positive that indeed, where I thought there should be a brown trout lurking, there would be.

There were no hatches to speak of. The sky was cloudy, but no more than other days. Thinking back, I could not put my finger on what was different that day, but it was different, very different. As I made my up the pools and leapfrogged the riffles, I stubbornly used my little 7’ rod to place a caddis dry with precision in areas I had cast to a hundred times before with little or no success. Sometimes things actually do go right in fly-fishing. These days are the ones you hear about in stories and tales. Let me be the first to admit that for every tale of heroism and leaping trout, there are ten untold tales of defeat, frustration and humility, but not that day.

The first cast brought up a beautiful 10” brown who ate the caddis with sloppy abandon. The second cast went to the opposite side of the riffle against a root ball. A 12” brown sipped the fly in. For the rest of the afternoon the trout played out a concerto of affirmation, as everywhere I placed my fly, where previously there was an unanswered offering, now there were fish intoxicated with life and vitality. Like late-night diners at the last-chance café’, they ate whatever was placed before them. Upside down caddis, easy over caddis, caddis with gravy, blue-light special caddis, caddis with meatballs: it just didn’t matter.

The next week, in the same conditions on the same creek, I met with mixed results. The fish were not as glad-happy and reckless, but I found them in the same places. My mistrusted instinct had proved right all along.

This was what I was trying to put into words that day at the seminar. Sometimes, we just have to trust. Trust that after all the hours reading water, and saying to ourselves, “There just has to be a fish in that corner pocket,” that there is. We just have to trust. We have to have faith in our instincts. If we pass the spot up, we will never know…

Every year I fish slower and slower, and it has nothing to do with age. It has to do with thinking, with sitting and observing, and then trusting. The creek still beats up on me from time to time, but as I catch its rhythms and place myself in harmony, with no pressure to catch a fish. It rewards me. All it took was a little faith.

Conventional wisdom

Can be wrong…

Being a professional in the fly fishing industry often exposes me to contact with what can be termed ‘conventional wisdom’. This can best be defined as popular opinion or sentiment relating to the equipment, approach, or techniques of this little sport of ours.
The problem with conventional wisdom is that it is tied to trends and popular movements. These movements gain momentum and voice in online forums, magazine articles, youtube videos, and around the campfire, and are often promoted by tackle manufacturers and guides that want you to purchase their goods and services.

This can, and very often is a good thing. Innovation has played a great part in making this sport more accessible and enjoyable for all of us.

However, sometimes conventional wisdom and trends can become so viral that they obscure or mask the truth.

There are quite a few examples of this, but in the cause of brevity and clarity, I will concentrate on just one.

Conventional Wisdom: Using a 15’ spey rod with a longer belly line will tire you out. It is too much rod to be sporting. It is too difficult. It can’t be used when it is windy. It can’t be used when your back is against the wall and backcast room is limited.

Lets examine this.

First off, this sentiment comes from a trend toward lighter shorter rods using shooting heads and those who prefer to cast and fish with them. Often the conventional wisdom is repeated and proclaimed by those who, when challenged, finally admit that they have little or no precedence for their opinion. They are just repeating what the sheeple say. Going against conventional wisdom is difficult, especially in this day and age of internet informational access. Everyone gives advice and backs each other’s opinions. The trend builds until any one who questions it is laughed at.

Debunking popular opinions can also open up new doors to wisdom. Great inventors and thinkers are always asking themselves “Why?” “Where is the proof?” “Is there a different/better way?” We also have to consider the source of the conventional trend. Where is it coming from? Does someone have an agenda?

Conventional wisdom #1:“Using a 15’ spey rod with a longer belly line will tire you out”

The problem here is not that this is a false statement, but with the word ‘will’ instead of ‘can.’
Five or ten years ago I would have drank the koolaid and believed it. Now…. No.
I remember the shoulder pain and all the troubles associated with my 14’ 9/10 spey rod and an accompanying windcutter line. At the end of the day, I would rub ben-gay on my shoulder. People told me it was due to the rod. It was too big a rod. Lifting it into position and sweeping it back to form the D-loop was just too tiring. So…. I bought a shorter Scandinavian shooting head rod and line and used it for a few years, and was happy with the distance and ease, but unhappy with all the tangles. I was looking for ease, or searching for the magic bean.

Then a few years ago, I tried the big rods again, this time with mid and long bellies and 15’ rods. I hated it. It literally drove me nuts. Then something happened: I learned to cast them properly. In the end, it was easy, with far less effort then any other style of two-handed casting I had adopted. See, it was me all along. Not the rod. Not the line. Me.
So, yes, it can be tiring, but with proper technique, it isn’t. Not at all. What IS tiring is all the practice I put in to get to this point, but I guess I have always taken the path with the most brambles; convinced that on the other side the grass will be greener. In this case, it was.

After all, a little voice in my head kept telling me, “All those old-timers at the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th cast rods that weighed ten times as much as mine, were they supermen? Was I and everyone else just too damn soft and wussy? How did they do it?”

I guess the answer is that with the tackle available back then, they just dug deep and learned to cast.

Then I brought shooting head lines down to the river and compared them to longer lines on the same rods. Guess what? What ended up tiring me out was all that stripping of running line on the shooting heads.

So there we have it. Conventional wisdom # 1 debunked. It can be more tiring, but with proper technique, it isn’t. In fact, it can be less tiring as the proper casting stroke makes the rod itself do 80% of the work. What is tiring is fighting the rod itself due to improper form. I still struggle with my technique. Casts are good and bad, but when things go right, it is as easy as buttered bread and as pretty as a sunset.

Conventional wisdom # 2: “It is too much rod to be sporting.”

Horse-hockey.

A long rod acts like the proverbial willow tree. It bends against the force of the wind (fish) and thus, through it’s long flexibility, is an ideal tool for fighting fish. I have had my hat handed to me by fish caught on 15’ rods. Bent to the cork with screaming reel and out of control cart wheeling fish, the rod was not at all overkill. Quite the opposite in fact. Stiff shorter rods in vogue these days offer the angler an advantage in power that has been known for years by musky and tarpon fishermen. Fish are not all the same. Some are logs and some go crazy, and I have caught both on shorter rods with shooting heads, and longer rods with long-bellies. The fish decides the fight.

Conventional wisdom # 3: “It can’t be used when it is windy.”

Poppycock.

I used to think this too. I swallowed the koolaid just like everyone else until a day on the river with a gale-force wind blowing upstream. I was fishing with a friend who was using a short shooting head rod. I was using a 15’ rod with a 90’ long belly line. My friend’s running line kept blowing upstream in a huge arc as the cast was made, effectively destroying the cast itself. My longer and more powerful rod was able to drive fishable casts up to 80 feet into the howling wind. The mass in the line lessened the effect of the wind to a great extent. A light bulb went off in my head. Eureka.

Conventional wisdom # 4: “It is too difficult.”

Once again, the problem is with semantics. What is too difficult? What is a challenging path of learning for one person may not appeal to a second person. Difficulty is in how we approach the sport. Some people choose to challenge themselves to the ultimate in fair chase, giving the fish or game an advantage. Others choose to use a difficult tool and enjoy the mastery of it and the challenging efforts that came with it. Some people just want to catch numbers of fish. I expect we could all agree that fly fishing is inherently more difficult than spin fishing or bait casting. Some of us took up fly fishing because we wanted an advantage. Others took it up for romantic reasons. People took it up because for a few years, it was the popular and cool thing to do. Some took it up for its beauty and refinement, and the way it puts us in touch with nature.

Difficulty is on a sliding scale for all of us. The sliding scale also extends to equipment.
Casting a long belly line with a traditional spey rod is NOT easy. However, saying it is too difficult is doing it an injustice. It certainly is challenging, but then, so is fly fishing itself.

Conventional wisdom # 5: “It can’t be used when your back is against the wall and backcast room is limited.”

Actually, a lack of backcast room is what spey casting was invented to solve. Admittedly, this differs with bankside environment. I will be the first to say that short shooting head rods excel over longer rods and long lines in tight quarters. However, that doesn’t mean that the long rods are useless here.

In rivers with overhanging brush and trees, especially deciduous flora, long rods can be a mess. I tested this theory and whacked my rod so many times on twigs and limbs that I came to the opinion that yes, a 15’ rod had no place here. Even 12’ 6” rods struggle in these conditions. However, I also fish wide-open rivers with steep rock banks where wading out even a step more to increase D-loop or backcast room will find one drinking river water. I simply changed the angle of my cast, shortened up my line, or placed my line anchor in a different position. In other words, with the rod in my hand, the fish out there in the river, my back against the wall, and a choice to fish or go back to the car, I chose to adapt and think my way out of the challenge. Was it easy? No. Was it possible? Yes. In certain situations it actually was easier because the long rod gave me much more control over the line.

In conclusion, debunking theories can be a great learning experience. It also can sound preachy due to inherent arguments and counter arguments. In the end we all fish the way we do because we find it fun. One person’s meat may be another’s poison as the old adage goes. One is not better than another. It is just with the endless promotion and justification of the superiority of one’s chosen method over another’s that we begin to mix the koolaid. I don’t care how someone fishes, or what equipment they choose. What gets to me is getting told that I “Can’t do something.” That triggers the curiosity gene and the obsessive-compulsive gene and gets me busy exploring and studying the argument.

Conventional wisdom is a form of dogma. I have found that avoiding dogma sometimes is a path that is worth walking.