A New Concept in the Rod Shop

Last summer Jacob began the endeavor of designing fiberglass tapers. Applying the same thought and considerations as he would to a bamboo rod, and focusing on the fishing and places that have left their mark on him. Growing up in the mountains of Western North Carolina and then migrating to the high desert of Southwest Colorado, brook trout and cutthroat are the commanding inspiration for these rods.

The S Glass series is inspired by a bamboo Payne rod. It’s smooth and responsive, with a nice “after burn” felt at the end of a back cast. The tip is designed to command an earlier engagement from the butt, although not something normally found in an S Glass blank, it derives power earlier in shorter range casting. The recovery is quick, allowing for a rapid casting stroke. Almost perfect for those back country, western creeks.

The E Glass is a full working, deep loading, smooth, close range rod. The progressive nature of these butt sections, unlike most E glass, stops the flex ahead of the grip and pushes the majority of the power into the mid section. These rods are neither fully parabolic or progressive, the middle ground between the two drastically different actions. These rods are designed for a day of chasing brook trout, from dry flies to soft hackles, in the tightest of quarters.

All of Jacob’s rods come with his version of a modified forward wells grip. The design is one that he employs because quite frankly, it’s comfortable. The ergonomic design allows the caster to apply the right amount of forward pressure from the thumb, while also reducing wrist fatigue.

These rods are also equipped with hand-twisted guides, made in house on 3/4 hard nickel silver wire. Not only does this add an extra personal touch, it allows the guide feet to be made proportionate to the blank diameters, rather than a ‘one-size-fits-most.’

The aesthetics of these rods, as with most others, feel traditional. Perhaps reminiscent of a bamboo rod or a vintage fiberglass found in your grandfather’s basement. Best not to drift too far away from what you know.

This is a very limited run. Please be on the lookout for more lengths, line weights, and colors in the coming months.

Conversations

The other evening I found myself in the depths of The Overstory by Richard Powers. When I say the depths, despite it being a collection of short stories, I do mean the depths. Thinking that doesn’t just graze the shallow surfaces of your mind, rather it weaves it’s way into the very recesses of your soul. Hence, the Pulitzer.

I’ve often told this tale in rather short, slightly humorous way, but I think it’s finally time to tell it in greater detail.

At the very beginning of my fly-fishing journey while once again, reading a book, I discovered the illusive bamboo fly rod. To say the thought of owning, or building one of these works of art consumed my mind is a slight understatement. I wanted so badly to be the master artist, the creator, and wielder of one of these fine weapons. It took some time to understand that as much as I desired this, it simply wasn’t my path. Rather, I was not meant to be the protagonist in this tale.

I remember very clearly the day that I mentioned my desire to the old curmudgeon, Charlie, at the local fly shop. A seasoned builder of these fine creations he seemed less than impressed that I had set my sights on his craft. However, it did spark a conversation between he and Jacob. A conversation, as it turns out, that has lasted a decade.

It began in a way that most mentor/mentee relationships begin. A nudge here and there, sometimes a word of encouragement, but more often than not a “son, you’ve just got to do it for yourself.” I suppose the do it for yourself worked out best of all. At least for Charlie and Jacob. For me, not so much, as I was often subjected to the emotional aftermath of a failed experiment.

One Christmas I scraped some money together to buy Jacob a Grainger bamboo rod, his first. I realized that the obsession had not consumed him much more than it ever had me. It was too heavy, probably a bit too long, and in retrospect I’ve come to understand terribly overpriced. In my mind, I determined that it was better to join in than to fight it. What a terrible enabler I turned out to be. Jacob still fishes with it to this day, despite the drawbacks. I’d like to think that counts for something.

A couple years into this building journey Charlie moved back home to Kentucky. A few years after that Jacob and I began our journey out to Colorado. As many miles were placed between the two, the conversation continued.

There’s a corner of Jacob’s workshop filled with all sorts of rod building paraphernalia; everything from partly finished rods to fabric (which I believe may have made its way here via the Mayflower). It all came from Charlie. The rods are being worked on, final touches added, completed in the best way Jacob knows how. Some other things wait; tucked away until the right project comes along, not to be wasted on anything subpar.

Last fall Jacob decided that for all the lessons and conversations and stuff, it was time to pay it back, in the only way he knew how, a bamboo rod.

I’m not quite sure how the conversation went when the rod finally made its way across the country. That’s okay. Like I said, I’m not the protagonist in this tale, just an observer. Because perhaps my job is to simply tell this story, in the best way I can.

I think I just heard the phone ding in the living room. It’s probably a text from Charlie.

Grief Is a Funny Thing

Grief is a funny thing. There’s really no other way to describe it. You never quite feel “fine,” but there are moments when you do feel a little more whole. As if maybe, just for a second, you can forget about the emptiness. But then it hits you in the most unpredictable ways, while completing the most mundane tasks, reminding you that the world still turns. Your pain doesn’t matter to the sun, it will still rise, the seasons will still change, and life must go on.

The smell of spring in Colorado is possibly the best smell. I’ve often wondered what it would take to capture the scent of clean, rushing water and warm pine, bottle it up and keep it with me always. Take a whiff in the depths of winter to remind myself what’s right around the corner. That’s the first thing I notice when I climb out of the car for a fishing trip, that warm, comforting smell. I’ll stand there for a moment, taking it in as deeply as I can, to remember it for as long as possible. Grief is a little like that, too.

Unfortunately, it’s still wader season here. As I fought with the bulky, while also constricting necessity, I reminded myself that this was good. Getting out, falling back into a pattern of living, was good. Necessary. Runoff may be in full swing, but there are rivers to fish, and this would be my first trip of the year. And so, with rod in hand and a fluffy dog by my side, Jacob and I headed towards the river. As this was our first ‘real’ attempt to catch fish this year, the determination to make it worthwhile was real. I think that a lot of the time, we’re in it for the experience. We choose flies based off of biases, often opting for dry flies on the off chance that maybe, just maybe, the stars will align, and a fish will eat off the surface, even just for a second. But, yesterday was serious, determined business; none of that bamboo racket, instead we opted for graphite rods, split shot, nymphs, and even those damn bobbers. As I said, we were bound and determined. Here’s the thing about determination, it doesn’t work well without will, and will requires heart. Despite my lack of will, the universe decided that perhaps what I needed was a fish. A fish with so much life and beauty and fight that I would soak it all in and remember it for as long as possible.

I’ve learned most of my important life lessons on the bank of a river. I think most people who fish have. Hell, there are a thousand books and magazine articles on the subject. I’m pretty sure I’ve read most of them and written a few, too. After the incredible joy that follows a fish like that comes the inevitable contemplation. As I sat on the bank, watching the water and listening to the humming birds wiz by, I realized that I had (to paraphrase Pam Houston) ‘lived through the thing you thought you might not live through.’ So much of our lives is being gifted something, but only for a while. Sometimes it’s a mere moment, as is the case with fish, and other times it’s years. And so, you make a place in your heart to hold all of it, bottled up to remind yourself, in the darkest of moments of goodness and love.

As I watched that rainbow slip away, back to the comfort of an eddy, and I felt just a bit of sadness slip away with it. As I said, grief is a funny thing, but so is life.

The Unfamiliar

Jacob and I are both creatures of habit. Our everyday lives revolve around a constant set of norms. Jacob wakes up to a certain number of alarms, and I have turned on the local NPR station immediately. The coffee maker started, the woodstove readied for the day, morning walks are taken. It’s almost always the same. These patterns and comforts seep over into our work and play. We find our comfortable spot, where we know where to go, how to get there, the road conditions, and even have a few of the local trout named. Most folks tell me how they’d love to fish a local creek from beginning to end at least once. Jacob and I tend to do this every summer.

There are some mornings you wake up with an overwhelming desire to get out and do some fishing, and if you’re lucky, the stars align, and you decide to go for it. And, when I say the stars align, I mean that you conclude stacking wood, sewing some bags, making a few guides, even washing the dishes can wait until tomorrow. Jacob and I decided that we were going to have one of those days.

The truck always heads East and then North for fishing trips, it knows the way. That’s the direction of the fish, most days. But, when we pulled out of the driveway, we headed Northwest. To an unfamiliar, uncomfortable stretch of promising trout water. I’d say that both the truck and the dog were confused, evidence of the latter being the small pile of vomit that landed in the back floorboards soon after departure. The weather seemed as perplexed as we were, a peculiar combination of rain, sleet, and possibly snow, pulled together with periodic glimpses of sun. We drove further and higher, mesas and oak shrubs giving way to spectacular aspen and snow-covered mountains. While the route was foreign, this was precisely the familiar experience we were in search of.

The pull-off was uninhabited by any other vehicle, a reassuring sign to any angler. Any cars that sped by had out-of-state plates, more than likely leaf lookers that would only bother us momentarily to look over the ridge, point, and say, “Hey, look, they’re fishing” if they even stopped at all. I bundled into my outer layers as the temperature hung around 40 and the precipitation continued; cleaning out unnecessary fly boxes to hold a vest or jacket later. If you’ve ever fished out west, you know that the moment the sun comes out, it seems to increase a good 20 degrees. Luckily, these changes in temperatures don’t seem to bother ‘The Bern’ much. He’s still going to get in the water to chase a bubble or knock over a rock.

I’d like to tell you that Jacob and I had such a fantastic day that we have changed our ways, that we’ve gone out to far unknown places many times since this trip, but we haven’t. Old habits die hard. There’s not much better than knowing where all the good ‘butt rocks’ are along a familiar stream.

I looked around while perched on a rather uncomfortable ‘butt rock,’ Jacob fishing behind me, the sun fighting to make an appearance, trying to piece together just how lucky I am to be and to be in this place. There’s something about those great mountains with their white caps that can make you feel so small and so safe all at once. The way that the light dances across the water and reflects the orange glow of the aspens can warm you on even the coldest days. The smell of warm pine mixed with cold water is, easily, the smell of home. This stretch of water may have been different, but the feeling was just the same, and that was the feeling we were after.

We eventually got around to stacking the wood and washing the dishes. Jacob is working on wrapping a rod, and bags have been sewn, shipped, and new ones have begun. I woke up this morning and turned on my radio, poured a cup of coffee, and went out with the dog for a brisk four miles, all of our mundane tasks. But, amid all the day-to-day, I think back on our Northwest adventure, planning our next probably more familiar excursion.

It's Been a Minute

It’s been a minute, folks! A three month long minute to be exact.

How are ya? Doing good?

A few months back I got a new dog, an ESH (emotional support heeler) to be exact. His name is Bernie, but he mostly goes by ‘The Bern.’ For months he’s forced me out of the sewing room and into the great outdoors, so he’s very much achieving his ESH status. Yesterday we took him on his first fishing adventure. I’m happy to report that he neither pulled me into the water or tried to eat a fish. In fact, he could care less about fishing. He was just really stoked to be out there. 

And, I’ve got to say, I was, too. It’s been a long few months with no time spent on the water. 

I’ve recently picked up a new mantra, “it’s only fly fishing.” I’m trying to apply it to my work life, and my river life. It’s not likely that I’m going to save a life with a rod bag, nor is anyone going to die without one. There are also going to be days where the ‘big fish’ gets away, I’ll get skunked, or I may not be able to fish for three months (guilty). All of that is okay. 

My goal this year is to remember why I got into all this in the first place. It wasn’t for social media or rod bags. It was the pure joy of being outside, on the river, waving a stick. 

When Time Stops

Most early afternoons, I grab a camping chair and force myself outside to sit in the sun. I hear it helps with seasonal depression, and I find it also keeps me from resembling a sickly ghost. It's in those still, warm moments that I can remember the feel of summer fishing and the warmth of the sun peering through the trees, the crisp air, and the clean smell of mountain water. I think back on how it feels to jump freely from rock to rock, not constrained by bulky clothing or cumbersome boots. How liberating it is to walk through the forest in search of that specific stretch of river, away from the sounds of a city or children's playground, away from the smell of the stagnant river and sewage treatment plants. Summer will always be my favorite time. There's simply no changing that.

In the cold of winter, I find myself almost lost. Stretches of the same river that I've been to time and time again feel distant and unfamiliar. It is at this time that I perceive myself the most fraudulent in my identity as an 'angler,' too many clothes, too many things, too much trouble.

But something happens when it snows. I can't quite place my finger on it, as it amazes me every time it happens.

It wasn't supposed to snow, the sun should have been out, but it began to fall anyway. And, in that instance, time began to stand still. The bitter cold wasn't so bitter, and the silence seemed to spread out forever. I began to notice the things I had missed in my longing for warmth. The sight of tracks and the formation of icicles along the river's edge. The sound of a fly entering the water, the slight splash made by mending the line. All small details that my mind refused to take in until now.

As with most winter fishing trips, the catching of fish was still slow, and they all seemed to be a variety bred at the hatchery up the road. Identical rainbows, lacking in any distinguishable characteristics, void of any wild spirit, but fish nonetheless. I suppose their one redeeming quality was their willingness to consume flies that resembled the midges crawling about on the rocks. A sign that perhaps the wild was changing them into the creatures they're meant to be.

I can't remember how long that time stopped. The sun began to peek out from behind the mesa, pushing the small snowstorm up north. I noticed that my feet weren't just cold, but the feeling was gone completely. A short buzz in my waders, an email, reminded me that there was work to be done.

The sun is out right now, warm and peaceful, reminding me that the Vernal Equinox will be here before too long. I'll have to get my Chaco's fixed in the next couple of months. But, this week it's going to snow again. Maybe I'll get another timeless day.