My One Rod

I own a lot of fly rods. Certainly not as many as a lot of fellows, but a lot. I have eight fly rods that are specifically for trout fishing, or trout-sized fish like bluegill and other panfish. I have four other rods that are for larger fish like bass and pike and steelhead and that would be suitable for light salt water duty as well, I suppose, if I ever get motivated, organized and close enough to the ocean to use them in that way. And like a lot of guys, I have a few more rods with broken tips that I never bothered to have repaired. One of these now has a four foot length of 1X tippet knotted to the highest remaining eyelet of the broken tip section. I tied a piece of red Christmas ribbon to the terminal end of the 1X and made a cat toy. Our cats love it.

I have rods made of fiberglass, the industry standard up until the advent of graphite in the 1970’s. And I have rods made of several different generations of graphite, from the earlier, slower rods to the stiffer, higher modulus “faster” rods that became popular in the early 90’s. I even at one time, had a boron rod, when they were supposed to be the next big thing. I fished it a few times. It had all the flex of a reinforced steel bar. It was an altogether ugly and unwieldy piece of equipment that always seemed to glare at me from its place in the rod rack over in the corner of the basement because it knew that when I came to pick a rod to go fishing, it wasn’t going to be the one. I finally got tired of all the glaring and donated it to a TU raffle. Maybe whoever has it now is happy with it or maybe they glued a red reflecting disk to the end of it and stuck it in the ground to mark the edge of their driveway. I think, all things considered, it was a better functional fit for that purpose than it ever was for fishing.

So, I have had a lot of rods over the years.

But I only have one favorite rod. One rod that has been with me almost from the beginning of my fly fishing life and has traveled with me from the tumbling mountain freestones of Pennsylvania to the stair-step gradient streams of the North Carolina Blue Ridge to the headwaters of Oregon’s Deschutes to the whispering Spring Creeks of the Driftless Region of Southwest Wisconsin and Northeast Iowa. Only one rod that, of all of them, brings a smile to my face each and every time I unscrew the top from its aluminum case and take it out to fish.

My one rod is a 1978 or 1979 vintage Orvis Far & Fine graphite, a 7’ 9” rod for a five weight line. Its like a feather in my hand, weighing 2 1/8 oz with its simple down locking reel seat that secures the flanges of the reel against the cork and without the superfluous rosewood insert that made later models of the Far & Fine a half ounce heavier and (in my opinion) more clunky. The action is the old style full flex of first generation graphite. On a long cast, you can feel the rod loading all the way down into the butt section. I like that. It makes me feel like part of the cast, like I’m sailing out over the water right along with the fly. I like that too.

The original case for my Far & Fine has an ugly V-shaped dent in it from being accidentally closed in the rear hatch of one of the Subaru wagons I’ve owned over the years. I’m lucky that a dent to the case is all the damage I did. When I first arrive at the stream, I’m usually out of control with anticipation and in a mind-blanking hurry to get on the water. I’m lucky I haven’t slammed my hand in there instead.

My Far & Fine is on its fourth tip. Twice I whacked it against the under sides of bridges setting the hook on a five or six inch trout. I have a violent hook set, especially when it has been a while since I’ve had a take. Another time, the tip section simply splintered when I was shaking the rod to try and dislodge a stuck fly on a small tree branch. The vigor of my shaking to free a loose fly is second only to the violence of my hook set. So, the rod makes regular trips back to the Orvis rod repair shop in Manchester, Vermont and since its date of manufacture preceded the institution of Orvis’ 25-year guarantee on rod breakage for any reason, I pay through the, umm, zinger for each new tip.

Every couple of years, I get conscientious and scrub the cork grip of my Far & Fine with an old toothbrush and a baking soda/water paste. Clean it up. Peel away the years of grime and darkening from the hundreds of thousands of casts I’ve made over the life of the rod. And every time I do this, I look at the product of my work and decide I won’t do it any more. It makes the rod seem a bit like a stranger to me for some reason. Too clean and too new looking. I like it better when its dirty and wearing all the battle scars of the time on the water. And besides, I don’t think it casts as well with a clean grip…

I don’t know how many trout I’ve caught on my Far & Fine. 20,000, 30,000, 50,000 or more perhaps. I just don’t know and it doesn’t really matter. There have been a lot of days on tough water when all the rod did all day was dislocate air as it moved back and forth in the casting stroke. No fish, or very few anyway. And there have been a lot of days where was a fish willing to take virtually everywhere I put the fly and my palms looked like prunes from releasing trout. Every day on the water is the same in a way before the first cast is made. Anything is possible, the best day ever or one of the worst. This is one of my favorite things about fishing, the limitless nature of the possible at the beginning. We don’t know until the day is done and we look back on it. And in that sense, every day is different.
Only one thing is constant. Me and my One Rod, battle tested and scarred, but always eager for the case to be opened, the cloth sack removed, the reel mounted and the next round to begin. We’re the oldest and best of friends.