Our pleasant “field work” at West Yellowstone eventually led to publication of a vest-pocket-sized paperback titled Fly Casting from the Beginning, with Jim’s name on the cover as author, although I had done most of the writing. The book led to a continuing relationship with Fenwick, which accounts for the presence of so many Fenwick fiberglass rods in my collection. At that time they were state of the art, and eventually I think I had at least one of every model they made.
One was Fenwick’s own effort to capitalize on the midge-rod revolution, a two-section, five-and-a-quarter-foot rod for a 3-weight line, which is still the smallest rod in my inventory. More about that one later. Near the opposite end of the Fenwick product line was a model called the FF80, a two-piece eight-footer designed for a 7-weight line. It became my favorite weapon for steelhead in rivers and salmon in salt water, and I fished it so hard I wore one out and had to replace it with another. In fact, I used the FF80 so often that its timing became second nature, and it was the first rod I used to cast farther than one hundred feet.
The middle of Fenwick’s lineup included a seven-foot, two-section model for a 6-weight line, and this became my go-to weapon for dry-fly fishing in lakes. Like all my other fiberglass rods, it was eventually superseded by graphite, but I still carry it as a backup.
My introduction to graphite rods came with a phone call. Remembering our earlier collaboration on the little casting book, Jim Green called and invited Alan Pratt and me to visit Fenwick’s rod factory on Bainbridge Island in Puget Sound and try casting some of the first graphite rods the company made. He knew our casting styles and wanted to see how we would fare with the faster actions of the new high-tech rods.
Al and I took the ferry to Bainbridge on a nasty February morning and met Jim in a parking lot full of flooded potholes so big they might have been created by artillery shells. He had half a dozen graphite rods for us to try, but explained their final designs had not been settled and all the rods had guides temporarily attached with tape so they could be repositioned easily if necessary. Jim also had the equivalent models of Fenwick’s fiberglass rods on hand so we could compare them with the new graphites.
We stood in the parking lot under mixed rain and snow and began casting while Jim watched, listened to our comments, and asked questions. If we said a graphite rod seemed top heavy or unbalanced, or offered some other criticism, he would sometimes take the rod inside the adjoining shop and reposition the guides, or perhaps even shave a little off the tip, then bring it back and ask us to try it again.
When it was my turn to test the graphite equivalent of the fiberglass FF80, I made several casts of decent length but didn’t see or feel anything extraordinary about the new rod. Then I picked up the FF80 for comparison and immediately started throwing much longer casts.
Jim was startled. “You’re not supposed to be able to do that!” he said. He asked me to explain how I could cast farther with a fiberglass rod of measurably weaker strength than the new graphite. The only thing I could think of was that I wasn’t accustomed to the timing of the new rod but was so familiar with the FF80 that it probably wasn’t surprising I could cast farther with it. Jim seemed skeptical, but neither of us could think of another explanation.
After a couple of hours of casting we were all soaked from the rain and snow that kept falling. Jim led us inside where it was warm and dry and, as a reward for our efforts, invited each of us to select a graphite rod blank. I chose a seven-and-a-half-foot, two-section blank Jim said was designed for use with a 6-weight line. He wasn’t sure if the butt section was well matched to the tip, though, so he selected a second butt section and suggested I try both to see which worked better.
I mounted reel seats, grips, and guides on both butt sections and tried them. One didn’t work at all; it was far too stiff to match up with the more flexible tip section. But the other one matched perfectly, and I had a new seven-and-a-half-foot graphite rod, one of the first ever made. I was so anxious to try it that I wrapped the guides with the only rod-winding thread I had on hand, a miserable urine-yellow color, which eventually led me to nickname the rod “Old Yeller.”
I used that rod so hard and so often, in both fresh and salt water (for sea-run cutthroat), that I wore out one full set of guides and had to replace them. I still use it from time to time, although in consideration of its age—now more than forty-five years—I give it plenty of time off. Its full story is told in another book.
By now you probably have the impression that I prefer short rods and 6-weight lines. That’s a result of experience. For years I’ve advanced the theory that stillwater fly fishers would be far better off using short, 5- or 6-weight rods for dry-fly or surface fishing. The reasons should be obvious to anyone who understands the mechanics of casting: Shorter rods have shorter casting strokes and develop higher line speeds, both saving critical time when an angler is trying to deliver a fly quickly to a fast-moving trout. Casting—especially with a double haul—and playing fish also are a lot more fun with such rods. And a 6-weight is heavy enough to deal with all but the strongest wind.
But it’s obvious nobody has been listening to my theory. It’s now almost impossible to find a commercially made 6-weight rod shorter than nine feet. Did somebody pass a law requiring that all 6-weight rods have to be nine feet long?
One current catalog tells the story, offering listings from six rod manufacturers, including fifty-three different models made for 6-weight lines. Fifty-two of those are nine feet or longer. Only one is less than nine feet—and it’s eight and a half feet. There are no smaller 6-weights. You can look in other catalogs and find the same thing.
Just how many nine-foot, 6-weight fly rods does the world need, anyway?
One reason for the apparent popularity of longer 6-weight rods is that many stillwater anglers now fish from float tubes or pontoon boats and must use long rods to keep their backcasts from hitting the water. In my view, anglers who fish from such contrivances handicap themselves unnecessarily, not only because they can’t use shorter rods, but also because of their inability to stand up and see what’s really going on in the water around them. As a result, they not only penalize their angling effectiveness, but also miss at least half the pleasures and satisfactions of stillwater fly fishing.
Meanwhile, apparently as a minority of one, I continue searching for ever-smaller rods capable of casting 5- or 6-weight lines. I purchased one six-and-three-quarter-foot graphite made for a 6-weight line many years ago, when rod manufacturers evidently had more imagination than they do now. Another rod of the same length was made for me more recently by Don Green when he was president of Sage Manufacturing. I’d told Don my theory that shorter rods were more efficient and suggested that if Sage made some, it might find a market for them. His gracious response was to build a blank to my specifications. It’s a fine rod that has given me fine service, but I think it’s probably the only six-and-three-quarter-foot, 6-weight rod Sage ever made.
One day I happened to mention my frustrating search for smaller rods to Hu Riley. He said he had some demonstration rods in his garage and might be able to find one I would like. Several days later he came by my house with four or five rods and left them for me to try. I took them to the park next door and tried casting them on grass. None was exactly what I was looking for, but one nevertheless caught my eye. It was a two-piece, seven-and-a-half-foot rod for a 5-weight line, a little longer rod than I wanted. It didn’t cast well with a 5-weight, but when I tried it with a 6-weight, it cast beautifully. The manufacturer (not Fenwick) obviously had rated it for the wrong line.
When Hu returned to collect the rods, I asked what he wanted for the seven-and-a-half-footer. “How about some of your books?” he asked. He left my house with several rods under one arm and several books under the other.
A year or two later Hu showed me another rod he thought I might like, a late Fenwick “Iron Feather” graphite. A two-section six-footer with a skeleton cork reel seat, designed for a 5-weight line, it wa
s one of the sweetest little fly rods I’d ever seen. I tried it with a 5.5-weight line and from the first cast I knew this was exactly the rod I wanted. Hu’s more-than-generous price was $50.
The “Iron Feather” had probably been designed for small trout in small streams, but I had other purposes in mind. I started using it right away, casting dry flies to rising trout on a local lake. The rod had surprising strength and was a joy to cast. When a good trout took the fly, I felt an almost electric sense of connection with it; every one of the trout’s movements was instantly telegraphed through the rod until it seemed as if the trout and I were in some sort of dance, each responding to the movements of the other.
I took the rod to Hosmer Lake in Oregon and used it in similar fashion for the lake’s landlocked Atlantic salmon. Other anglers watched in amazement as I caught fish on a rod scarcely more than half the length of theirs. I couldn’t remember ever having a rod I felt in tune with so completely, or one I liked as much.
Naturally, I broke it. It was on that same trip to Hosmer. I’d overshot a cast and the fly caught on a tule. It wouldn’t pull loose, so I put down the rod and started maneuvering my pram to go unhook the fly, momentarily neglecting what was happening to the line. The line came taut between the rod and the tule and I heard a sudden terrible snap. The tule had proven stronger than the rod’s ultra-slender tip, which broke in half.
I was devastated. That I had nothing but my own carelessness to blame made it even worse. That single moment, that awful snap, put a damper on the whole trip.
When I got home I called Hu, confessed what had happened, and asked if maybe, just maybe, he might have another “Iron Feather” in his inventory. He didn’t think so, but said he’d look and let me know.
“You’re in luck,” he said when he called back. “I do have another one. The rod tube has a dent in it, but the rod itself is fine. It’s yours if you want it.”
I was willing to pay almost anything, but asked his price as if it were a matter of concern. “Well,” Hu said, “why don’t we just call this one a gift?” When I protested, he just said, “that’s the way I want to do it.”
Hu still lived on Mercer Island but by that time I had moved to Whidbey Island in northern Puget Sound, so we had to figure out how to get the rod from Hu’s hands into mine. It turned out his daughter also lived on Whidbey, so Hu said he’d give her the rod and I could pick it up at her home, and that’s what I did. The new rod was exactly the same as the one I’d broken, and I feel the same deep attachment for it.
Since we now lived far apart, on two different islands, Hu and I didn’t have many opportunities to see one another after that, so I was just as surprised as Hu’s many other friends the day his face suddenly appeared on television broadcasts and newspaper front pages all over the country.
The story was that historians had finally identified Private First Class Huston Riley of the US Army’s First Infantry Division as the wounded GI at Omaha Beach in one of the most famous photographs of World War II. The photo, by famed photographer Robert Capa, was taken as the first wave of troops splashed ashore on the morning of June 6, 1944, and appeared two weeks later on the cover of Life magazine. It has since been listed as one of the most important photographic images of the twentieth century.
Several soldiers came forward after the war suggesting they were the GI in the photo, but none could verify his claim. For many years, historians puzzled over the matter, researching service records and other archives in an effort to figure out the soldier’s identity. At last they found evidence it was my soft-spoken, amiable, generous friend Hu Riley. The distinctive profile of the soldier in the photo left no doubt of the identification.
Hu had been aboard a landing craft that struck a sandbar about one hundred yards from the beach, forcing him into the water. He stepped off the sandbar into water over his head and tried walking on the bottom until he could no longer hold his breath. Then he activated a pair of life preservers that took him to the surface. Under heavy German fire, he made his way slowly toward the beach and was at the edge of the surf when he was struck in the neck by two bullets. Another soldier and the photographer, whose name Hu never knew, helped him ashore, where he managed to make his way across the beach to rendezvous with other troops from his unit.
Hu was evacuated to England for treatment, but returned to action a short time later and saw more heavy fighting. In October 1944, he was severely wounded again, this time near the German city of Aachen. Once more he was evacuated to England, then to the United States, where he was discharged from the Army in September 1945.
All of which I hadn’t known—nor, I think, did most of Hu’s friends.
After the story broke, Tom Brokaw of NBC News interviewed Hu at his Mercer Island home. The television broadcast showed them standing on the dock in front of Hu’s home on Lake Washington, both casting fly rods.
On October 2, 2011, Hu passed away at the age of ninety. I miss him and think of him often, especially when I’m using my replacement “Iron Feather.” He was a true American hero and a great friend. I’m proud and privileged to have known him.
My collection of rods recently expanded to thirty-eight, again because I got lucky in a raffle. This time it was a nine-foot, four-piece graphite rod for a 5-weight line. I found a cloth bag that fit it and a rod tube of the right size and put it away along with the other “pipe organ” remains in my office corner. Maybe one day I’ll donate it to a worthy cause and someone else can win it. Or maybe it will make a good rod for one of my lively granddaughters.
As I said, you can’t ever have too many fly rods. Still, I think maybe it’s about time I stopped buying raffle tickets.
SINGLE ACTION
EACH YEAR fly-fishing catalogs display a flashy array of new reels. Some cost more than the first car I drove, but that’s mostly a reflection of my increasing age and the declining value of the dollar. I hope I’m in better shape than the dollar.
These glittering new reels are light years ahead of those I used as a young fisherman. Most were hand-me-downs from my father or one of my uncles, but they served me well until I started earning enough money to buy something more sophisticated (newspaper reporters traditionally aren’t paid very well). I hardly ever throw anything away, though, and now several of those old reels are on display in my office.
Most of my office shelves are crammed with books, but two are reserved for the clutter of my fly-fishing life—photos of old fishing partners, most now long departed, a couple of fly plates, a painting or two, some Canadian fly-pattern postage stamps, old fly boxes, other bric-a-brac, and the small collection of reels. In addition to the old hand-me-downs there are several newer reels, consigned to the shelf because they were tried and found wanting in some respect.
One of the old hand-me-downs is the centerpiece of a shadowbox display crafted by my friend Gil Nyerges, the most prolific fly tyer I’ve ever known and an artist at framing things. The reel is an old Pflueger Gem that belonged to my father, though I also used it a few years. It was probably made in the mid-1930s and I liked it because it had a loud click, which most of my other inherited reels lacked. I like loud clicks.
The reel shares the shadowbox with a photo of my father landing a trout in British Columbia’s Hi Hium Lake, sometime around 1940. An array of his old flies, artfully arranged by Gil, surrounds the photo and the reel. The display was Gil’s idea, and when I tried to pay for it he told me to buy him dinner instead and we’d call it even. I hope he enjoyed the dinner as much as I enjoy seeing his fine work every day, but I doubt it.
The other reels in my little collection are poised on another shelf. All are single-action reels, the only type I’ve ever owned or used (yeah, I know; these days “single action” sounds like an internet dating website). I’ve never seen a useful purpose for multiplying reels, and anyway, they seem too complicated for a simple guy like me. As for “automatic” reels, I don’t think any self-respecting fly fisher would ever be found with one in his or her possessi
on.
The reel occupying the front spot on one side of the shelf is an old Ocean City Model 306, known as the “Wanita.” The origins of this reel date to the 1920s, but it went through so many small changes in its long history that it’s now nearly impossible to tell exactly when an individual reel was manufactured, although the one on my shelf was probably made before World War II. It earned the front spot on my shelf through hard service in a role its designers probably never intended for it.
After I inherited it, the reel remained unused for several years until I began fishing for sea-run cutthroat in Puget Sound. Since that meant I’d be fishing in salt water, I wanted a reel that would resist corrosion and wouldn’t be a great loss if it didn’t. That’s why I choose the Ocean City; with a name like that, you’d think it was made for saltwater use.
Maybe it was. It’s ruggedly built, three and a half inches in diameter with a black finish, and both front and back plates are closed, without holes for ventilation. The only moving part is the spool, another reason I thought it would be a good saltwater reel—there was hardly anything that could go wrong with it. It also has the very simplest (and probably most reliable) form of check—a short, heavy spring around the base of the hollow spindle on which the pool rotates. A small screw holds the crank plate to the spindle, and when the screw is tightened it forces the inside edge of the spool against the spring, which then keeps the spool under tension so it can’t turn freely in either direction. That keeps the reel from overrunning when line is being pulled on or off by an angler or a fish (a check is not the same as a drag system, which is usually adjustable and designed to increase tension on the line when a fish is running; the Ocean City had no drag).
The average sea-run cutthroat isn’t very large—three pounds would be exceptional—and although they’re hard fighters, they typically don’t run very far, so the Ocean City seemed a good match. I loaded it with backing and a weight-forward monofilament intermediate sinking line, which I’ve always liked for fishing sea-runs because you can easily control the depth you’re fishing; if you want the fly to go deeper, you just wait a little while until it sinks farther.
A Fly Fisher's Sixty Seasons Page 16
