God it was ugly.
An historical fiberglass fly rod leaned awkwardly within the forgotten nook of a classic/junk store. It appeared like a seven-footer; clearly home-built by somebody both simply studying their craft or maybe giving up on it. Uneven wraps and too few guides clung to a rust-colored clean. A dozen dirty cork rings had began to unglue, dropping their battle to remain unified as a grip.
I picked up the rod, extra as a distraction whereas my spouse ferreted across the store. It felt mild. Surprisingly mild. Intrigued, I gave it a tentative false forged. As a substitute of the anticipated wobbly, limp-noodle motion of junk glass, the rod snapped to consideration as if reporting for obligation. I false forged once more, this time with somewhat extra punch. Catalog clichés of “crisp” and “responsive” flashed in my head. This worst-in-show rod, with its bedraggled guides and free-spinning grip, was, the truth is, a lightsaber in disguise. A $79 lightsaber, in response to the tag dangling from the off-center stripping information.
I continued to test-cast the rod. It felt like a five-weight; possibly six. The dusty junk store had remodeled right into a tumbling stream. A shelf of vintage glass bottles morphed right into a bough of rhododendrons leaning over a darkish and foamy pool. I pantomimed one other forged, capturing 25 toes of fly line in gradual movement. The imaginary fly touched down and a heavy brown slashed, hooking itself.
I might hear my spouse within the subsequent room negotiating one thing with the proprietor. In the meantime, I had moved onto bow-and-arrow casting Joe Humphreys model, hooking brookies at will.
I took just a few fast footage of the rod and texted them to 2 mates who instantly started speculating about its provenance. Considered one of them guessed it was a Winston clean constructed from a equipment. The opposite thought it was a Fisher. “Love the Bakelite reel seat!” Considered one of them wrote. “Supply them $25!” mentioned the opposite.
My spouse emerged from the again room holding an previous Beastie Boys promotional poster for my son’s dorm room. I informed her concerning the rod, and he or she handed me her change – a few twenties.
“Purchase it,” she mentioned.
I thought-about the rod with its numerous warts. I used to be positive I might speak the proprietor right down to forty bucks – possibly much less. Then I might convey it residence and restore it to its full glory: new guides; substitute the deal with with one thing much less cumbersome, a brand new set of ferrules – nickel would look good. Or possibly I might simply fish it in its present unwashed kind – a technique to stick it to Massive Sort out and their thousand-dollar hyper-specialty fly rods, one designed solely to nymph from a ship, one other simply to fish with indicators. Fishing with the junk-store rod started to sound very punk.
However then what? Would my punk (or restored) rod be a part of my different classic glass fly rods at the moment sitting of their rod tubes at residence wanting very fairly however doing little else? There’s the Phillipson Royal gifted to me by a buddy who acquired it from his father-in-law’s property. And the Sila-Flex, with its lovely seahorse emblem from Costa Mesa, California, initially owned by the departed uncle of a former co-worker. And let’s not overlook the LL Bean Featherweight found in what one other buddy thought was an empty rod tube he discovered cleansing out a relative’s attic. Once I opened the tube and confirmed him the rod, he informed me to maintain it (fortunate for me he doesn’t fly fish).
All three rods are pretty, however for probably the most half, they sit on the bench aside from possibly every year after I determine to play them, taking them out for just a few casts, typically simply on the garden. I typically take a look at the tubes, crowded amongst greater than a dozen others, and surprise simply what number of rods ought to one angler personal?
I made my resolution. With all of the self-control I might muster, I took this light-saber-in-disguise, begging to be forged on a trout stream, and put it again within the nook the place I discovered it. Maybe one other angler would uncover the rod, take it residence and launch its magic. For me, it was a case of unfulfilled love – greatest to simply stroll away.
