The Longest Silence

Unfounded Opinions

EVERY FLY FISHERMAN has an unreasonable view of fly rods, and I am no different. Generally, we’re united in the belief that all rod design has been progressive and that the thinking about fly rods in the past was so bad as to make it amazing that people were able to fish at all. This is based in good American fashion on the belief that angling is perfectable and chiefly concerned with efficiency. “I stepped into the water,” a fly fisherman was recently heard to say, “and proceeded to empty the pool.” We, his listeners, were bowled over. The trout stream as modern toilet. Now I understand that this sort of hyperbole is part of the fun, but its humor is based on a crackpot idea.

I don’t think bamboo rods, for example, are as efficient as glass and graphite. But I like the smell of varnish when I open the rod tube! I like the human hands that made them. I had a graphite tarpon rod whose hook keeper wouldn’t take anything larger than a number 10 dry-fly hook, an understandable mistake when you realize it wasn’t made by a fisherman but someone who looked with equal interest upon golf shafts, tennis rackets, riding crops, skis, and umbrella handles. Yet I dearly love graphite for helping me put some poetry in my loop and for relieving the tennis elbow I acquired from steer roping.

Anglers have begun to crave conformity. This has not always been the case. Now some of us long for leadership, someone to tell us whether we should have a fast action rod or one that loads with less line. Fast was the mantra until recently, but slower, softer rods have claimed the moral high ground.

Evaluation is subjective. The dream is of the perfect rod and there is no such thing. A fly rod has to meet too many criteria, of which many are contradictory. Think of a rod for western rivers that require delicate presentations in high winds. Is the rod matched to the fish, the fly being cast or the atmospheric conditions? The rod suited to casting large streamers in the fall is as big as some people use for tarpon. But the fish haven’t gotten any bigger since August. A five-weight easily handles the sparsely dressed flies we use on bright sand bottoms for tarpon, but it would never land the fish. Though the perfect distance for a trout rod to load is probably around twenty-five feet, who wants to try out a rod down at the fly shop with twenty-five feet of line? And while no rod casts nicely with split shot, some tolerate it better than others. In a perfect world, fishing with split shot on the leader wouldn’t be fly-fishing at all. Neither would monofilament nymphing, and maybe even shooting heads. Lee Wulff said that the fish is entitled to the sanctuary of deep water. That’s where most of us used to set the bar in trout fishing. We fished on top and tried to devise ways of catching big fish that way, fishing at night, fishing with greater stealth, hunting remote places that rarely saw an angler.

So many rods are now designed for micro-niches, with extreme line sizes and weird lengths. It is a great pleasure to use some of these rods when the conditions for which they were designed are perfect. Unless we begin using caddies, it would be useful to remember that conditions are rarely perfect in angling. Long ago, when I started fly-fishing, the standard trout rod was an HCH, a six weight, eight to eight-and-a-half feet long. After four decades of evolution in material and ideas, I have concluded this is still the case, especially when you consider what it takes to make an all-day rod in most places. The rod might have grown to nine feet. A full day in one of my local rivers might require the angler to go through five sizes of dry-flies and three of wet. The wind will range from zero to forty. A five-weight rod is not enough and a seven is too much.

In my view, fly rods have some mysterious ergonometric range of length that is hard to explain. The same is true of hammer handles, oars, tennis rackets, and golf clubs: the variations in length are surprisingly small. A trout rod significantly under eight feet is too short, and significantly over nine, too long. If it’s too short, it leaves too much line on the water for good drag control and speeds up the casting cycle. Too long and the rod becomes a handful in the wind and helps produce tailing loops. I had a ten-foot summer steelhead rod that I loved until the wind came up, then I wanted to swap it with someone unwitting enough to obsess about line control, just as I had. A rod better have a great reason for being over nine feet or under eight. Nine is a wonderful length for trout, tarpon, or billfish. It’s a length the human body likes. Just today I got out an old favorite, a seven-and-a-half foot trout rod, and fished half a day with it. I hadn’t used anything shorter than eight-and-a-half for so long that I was unpleasantly surprised to discover the extra drag problems posed by the lower angle between rod, line, and water, not to mention the hurried casting cycle. The speeding technology of fly rods has finally just emphasized some basic truths. Even in the days when bamboo was king, light and fast were the ideals, sometimes called “dry-fly action.” Describing a rod as having a “wet-fly action” was tantamount to admitting that it was a clunker.

I know that I’m not going to stop anyone out there from acquiring a bunch of overly specific niche rods. I’m probably not even going to stop myself. I sure haven’t so far. The dream of fly-fishing is one of simplicity, and most of us pursue it in the same way: acquire a blizzard of flies and gear in the belief that you are casting a wide net and that, at some point, you will get rid of all but the few perfect items and angle in the dreamed-of simplicity. For most, this pile grows until death brings it to a stop. If fly-fishing weren’t still more or less esoteric, yard sales would never recover from this epidemic.

The biggest problem with fly rods is that they must not only meet all the physical criteria for the fishing you do but also inspire “love.” For example, I have a six-weight rod that is far and away the best trout rod I have ever owned. It is fast, light, and has the quickest damping stroke imaginable. It was designed by probably the greatest fly caster of all time. It is also cheesily built, with porous cork in the handles, disco guide wraps, and decal graphics that include bar codes to distinguish this rod from other recreational products from the same company. I’m going to have to work at loving this, the best trout rod I’ve ever had. I’m going to have to almost wear it out. Its ultramodern decor will have to sink into history and become sort of campy. I may have to break it, or use it to defend myself during a holdup or to stand off a bear. Right now it’s a yuppie artifact with as much soul as a paper clip. It casts a thousand times better than the beautiful old Garrison I have which takes the same line.

I think we can work it out. But this great new rod is made of materials that are part of a rapidly evolving technology and thus might be obsolete by Thanksgiving. I could be given cause to worry that its modulus of elasticity may be trailing the next generation of rods. I’m actually capable of thinking about crap like that; I kind of like it. The other day, I put this soulless wand away and, instead, fished with that fine old bamboo I’ve had for several decades. By comparison, this beautiful wooden shaft with highly individualized handwork and matchless esthetics was a dog, and I was reminded that someone likened the classic action of a bamboo rod to a cow pulling its foot out of deep mud.

Gough Thomas, the English gun writer, warns against the vice of “polygunning,” which means using too many guns and becoming master of none. I could point out that this same malady afflicts anglers, but what’s the use? We’ll always have too many rods.

Returning to my topic: a trout fisherman can do it all with a nine foot for a six line. A nine foot for an eight-weight line will cover most of the rest, including bonefish and small tarpon. I’ve seen tarpon of more than 125 pounds landed on eight weights, also ideal for snook and redfish. For repetitive casting, as demanded in steelhead and salmon fishing, it’s as much as most of us want to cast all day long, and plenty of people use their six-weight rods for steelhead.

I know, nobody’s listening to this excellent advice. Is it because I have about twenty fly rods?

Let’s see what my excuses are. I have an eight-foot Garrison for a size-six line. I keep this and still use it because it is so full of fishing memories. It was owned for years in the middle of its life by my former brother-in-law; I had to buy it back and he did well in the transaction. I also keep it because I remember my consultations with the builder and the giddiness of those years when there were relatively so few of us fly-fishing.

I have a six-foot three-inch Bob Summers Midge because it reminds me of my first significant fly shop, Paul Young’s, where Bob originally did his beautiful work. Also, recalling the follies of A. J. McLane and Arnold Gingrich and Lee Wulff when they were promoting these impractical “flea rods,” it suggests that even great men are prone to foolishness.

I have a four-weight nine-foot Light Line Sage, which is the most exquisite use of graphite I’m familiar with in a spring creek rod. With this one I caught my best public water dry-fly trout, after forty-five years on the job: a twenty-five-and-a-half-inch male brown, on a size-20 Pale Morning Dun, from Silver Creek near Ketchum, Idaho. I’m convinced the rod kept me from breaking the 6X tippet and from suffering an avalanche of grief.

I have an eight-and-a-half foot Winston for a number-five line, a rod I’ve followed throughout its evolution of materials. This one is of IM6 graphite and in my view is the five-weight trout rod against which all others are measured, although the Scott of the same size is right in there. These are the best for the small freestone rivers of the kind that I often fish.

I have a seven-and-a-half foot bamboo rod for a five line built by John Long, a gift from a builder I’ve never met. A fine piece of work and an extremely pleasant small-stream rod.

I have a seven-and-a-half foot Payne, two-piece, for a five line because I always wanted a Payne and even named the hero of one of my novels after this maker. I consider Payne to be the finest cane rod builder of all time. When you pick this rod up you can tell everything you need to know; it’s startlingly good.

Now, the rod I discussed earlier: a nine-foot six-weight Loomis GLX, a tremendous fly rod designed by Steve Rajeff and otherwise a thoroughly impersonal artifact. The guides are single-footed; there is glitter thread in the windings; the reel seat is air weight spun nylon. It’s the fly rod as pure idea. It tracks perfectly, dampens perfectly; the action seems to progress through infinity without ever hitting bottom. You forget about the rod and think about the line. I don’t believe it weighs three ounces. I can fish big western rivers for ten-hour days and never want for another rod.

I have an eight-foot nine-inch Russ Peak Zenith for a seven line. Russ Peak was a genius who understood better than anyone what could be done with glass. He was the ne plus ultra rodmaker in the seventies, when I was fishing two hundred days a year, so there is sentimental value. By today’s standards it’s a deliberate number that requires the angler to recalibrate his timing somewhat. But once I’m actually fishing with it, usually on the Yellowstone in the fall, I quickly fall back into its rhythms. It is perfectly built.

I have an eight-foot nine-inch Winston cane rod, for a seven, goes best with a Wulff 7/8, that was built by the great Glenn Brackett and was a gift of the Winston Rod company. I enjoy fishing this rod enormously, for it is entirely in the spirit of the West Coast glory days in steelheading when Winston and Powell were kings. I can accept the extra weight of the rod because of the time between casts in steelheading. It is a great roll casting or single-handed Spey casting rod.

I just traded for a nine-foot two-piece Payne light salmon rod for an eight line, beautiful with a detachable fighting butt, ferrule plugs, case, and canvas overcase. It weighs the same as a thirteen-weight billfish rod. What will I do with it? I’m bound to come up with something.

The eight-weights and the age of excess: my Sage eight-foot nine, an outstanding, wind-penetrating bonefish rod, doesn’t seem much good for anything else I do. My Sage nine-foot for an eight-weight, the 890 RPL, as much of a classic as the old Fenwick FF85. My Loomis four-piece nine-foot for an eight, designed by Steve Rajeff and Mel Krieger, is an outstanding travel rod, the only rod I know of better in the multipiece than in the two-piece.

My faithful permit rod, a nine-foot for a ten-line Winston graphite, though somewhat sluggish by current standards, seems to absorb the vagaries of big, heavy permit flies better than stiffer rods. It’s a good all-around striped bass rod, too.

A nine-foot for eleven-weight Sage built for me as a gift by George Anderson. I use a twelve-weight line on this rod and it is a rod which, when used carefully is adequate for big tarpon. It won’t wear me out on active days the way the twelve does. It is simply built, no fighting grip, and full of happy memories. I couldn’t retire this rod, even though the twelves and thirteens are nicer once the fish is hooked.

Perhaps it would be wise to leave out my three Spey rods. I have good single-handed steelhead and salmon rods but I may never go back to them. The Spey rods just work too well. The English are not pleased that we call them “Spey rods” at all, in the conviction that “double-handed rods” is the correct form. All the English anglers I know feel this way and all are using American made rods. It perfectly symbolizes the relationship between the two nations.

I subject the reader to my inventory for two reasons. First, I myself love to read this sort of thing, sniffing around the author’s tackle room; and second, to suggest that what’s at work here has nothing to do with necessity but rather with the elaboration of the dream that is fishing.

MOST REELS are sold to the public by suggesting some unheard-of emergency involving a running fish and guaranteeing that this reel is the only available product capable of bringing the trophy to a standstill before it changes area codes. Right now, a large variety of magnificent reels is available to choose from. Most have one thing in common: they’re far better than they need to be. Reels evolve slowly: the ninety-year-old Vom Hofes are still among the best. I have a number of Pfleuger Medalists made in Ohio, and even in the most awful conditions they have never failed me. There were Japanese knockoffs of these reels and they’re great, too. Though built to appalling tolerances, they keep on ticking.

The backing on a trout reel usually dies of old age before it sees the light of day. Rarely does a salmon or steelhead go a hundred yards, yet most reels designed for this purpose carry a quarter-mile of backing. If a tarpon, permit, or bonefish gets more than a hundred yards from you, your problems have nothing to do with your backing. The last time I got spooled was on the Henry’s Fork when a big rainbow got downstream where I couldn’t wade after it. It didn’t matter how much backing I had, I was meant to view the spindle.

I’m not sure about the great drag systems, either. I don’t believe any freshwater reel needs a drag at all. A good, strong click will suffice. Anyone who is not enough of a hand to palm the reel or put a couple of fingers through the arbor is already fighting a fish too big for him.

Leader strength is based as much on margin of error for nicks and abrasions as it is on real breaking strength. Many anglers feel that the ultra-thin leader materials now available do not equal their breaking-strength counterparts because the thin stuff weakens steeply if at all abraded. There is a very long list of things which can quickly change the breaking strength of tippets; touching bottom, hinging at the knots, scraping on teeth and gill plates, and so on. The real reason why many anglers, especially steelheaders and salmon anglers who cast a lot between bites, stick with the low-tech stuff is this: it doesn’t have to be terribly heavy because there are few rods which are comfortable to cast that can break anything over a ten-pound test at all.

As to flies, I asked the greatest trout fisherman of my era, who is himself an out-of-control proliferator of equipment and technical doodads, what percentage of his annual catch would remain if he were reduced to Adamses and Gold-Ribbed Hare’s Ear nymphs. His answer: “Certainly over ninety percent.” When pressed about the staggering variety of patterns available in his fly shop, he said, “I don’t sell flies to fish.”

I’ve become fairly avid about my fly-tying because it is, as I do it, a modest craft that I can master. More importantly, it enables me to tie flies that look exactly right to me, which means I will fish them with conviction. For example, my usual searching pattern combines several favorite traits: moosehair tail, because there’s something that feels right about those crisp black fibers; the body is wrapped turkey quill barbs as on my first favorite fly, the Borcher Special, a Michigan favorite; white calf-body hair wings, à la the Wulff flies; brown and grizzly palmered hackle as on an Adams. When looking at it, I believe I’m going to catch a fish. That feeling affects the way I cast and read water. You have to have that feeling, wait-and-see being an approach preferred by losers. If you are anxious to kick major butt on your local stream or lake, try my fabulous fly. It turns blank days into bonanzas, depression into jubilation.

In fishing, many traits separate the men from the boys, but in my opinion, one thing we should all work toward is what I would call, for want of a better term, smoothness. Many of the great anglers I have fished with have had this trait above all others and it is the one thing that I continually strive for. This is the trait that unites sportsmen as diverse as the Grand Prix driver Juan Fangio, who was so smooth he rarely strained the cars he drove, golfers like Bobby Jones, and baseball players like Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio. There are always a few anglers blessed with genius and inspiration: towering casters, lead-footed deep river waders, anglers with astounding vision, and so on. But the angler who accepts both his gifts and limitations, who recognizes the importance of keeping his fly in the water, who abjures tackle tinkering once he reaches the river, and who strives to fish coherently throughout the day will usually, finally, succeed. Steelhead and salmon fishing exaggerate the importance of this. And sometimes, relatively unskilled anglers who are otherwise persistent and capable of sustained focus will outfish flashier types, better casters and even more experienced companions. I have seen steelhead rivers act with great leveling effect, rewarding the scrupulous-if-limited anglers and penalizing mere technicians, tackle nuts, distance casters, and fishing experts. A great angler like Bill Schaadt was a tremendous caster, an outstanding schemer and intimate with the rivers he fished, but what impressed me about him the few times we fished together was that he was tougher and more persistent than anybody I’d ever seen. He kept the fly in the water longer than anyone, ever. He was smooth and efficient. All of his strength and talent — indeed the overall design of his life — was at the service of keeping the fly fishing, which begins with casting a straight line. There are armchair anglers who can cast four kinds of curve but never a straight line except in dead still conditions. A late start in the morning prevents the fly from fishing; a crooked cast delays a fly from fishing; fly changing, leisurely meals and a forgotten bailing can all play a part in separating the fly from its job. Schaadt’s term was “lost motion.” Every angler should strive for its elimination, not so as to become an automaton but to facilitate smoothness.

Why do fishermen lie? This interesting question ought to be dealt with because it’s the single thing we are most famous for among the general public. I have a hunch that most anglers do not wish to compete but have found no successful way to avoid competition when fishing with others. I, for example, do not wish to compete and therefore do most of my fishing alone so that I may better absorb its mysteries, poetry, and intimations of mortality. On many occasions, however, I find myself fishing with others and it is then that I helplessly find myself competing, crowing at hookups, admiring some great thing about my tackle when I really mean myself. The lone angler, or even the one who just scooted around the bend from his companions, may fish and dawdle as he pleases, take in the migratory birds, the soaring hawk, the hunting mink, the glancing light on the riffle, the sound of a hollow bank. He may even catch fish. Moreover, upon meeting up with his retinue, he may dispense with matters of competition by lying about his results. How did he do? “Major poundage. A semi-load.” The most incredulous of his comrades have probably come by their disbelief honestly: they’ve been lying, too. So, all is well. A day in the life has been suitably taken in, and in this avalanche of lies, a kind of truth has been served. The only people any the wiser are the general public.