“Why don’t you just try it? You’ll be amazed at the difference it makes.”“Nothing doing. Listen, when I bought this rod, I figured that unless I broke it, it would be the last rod I would ever need. It works just fine for me.”
This conversation happened on a day long ago when I was trying to convince my friend Gabby to use my fancy new fly rod. Gabby wasn’t interested. After that exchange, I dropped the subject.
That’s because at that particular juncture in our lives, we were both in the fishing guiding business where a perk was getting good deals on fly-fishing gear. So Homer and I had a chance to stay on the cutting edge of fly rod technology and fishing equipment gadgetry without having to part with our life savings. That meant we didn’t any longer own just one fly rod apiece. No, we had different rods for different stream sizes, water conditions, and kinds of fish sought. Sometimes, we were almost convinced we really needed that stuff.
Gabby and Gimpy are not acquisitive types when it comes to outdoor equipment. They get what they need and use it until it’s used up or broken. For years, Gabby used the same J.C. Higgins pump shotgun he had bought with his paper route money. For the last decade or so of its useful life, it was held together with electrician’s tape. Only when it finally became unsafe to shoot did Gabby replace it. And when the Birdsy Twins floated a river, it was done in Gimpy’s vintage raft that was more patch than original tube. The craft weighed a ton and was so ugly that it was hard to look at without wincing.
Now, here we were, two exquisitely equipped anglers arriving with a fancy inflatable with a rowing seat and swivel chairs, and the Birdsy Twins, looking like a couple of Dust Bowl refugees, with a lifeboat from the Lusitania. The first thing we did was draw straws to see who had to float in that tub. Gimpy and I lost, so we had the first turn.
Gritting my teeth, I climbed in and took the oars.
I quickly found that once the fishing started, I didn’t pay much attention to the boat. It went where I wanted it to and it floated. I even forgot to notice that I was sitting on a two-by-four instead of a padded seat.
I convinced Gimpy to give my new rod a try, and he did.
“Nice rod,” he said as he handed it back to me after one cast and reached for his own.
Later, when Gabby joined me in the boat, I didn’t even get that much of a concession. As I mentioned, he didn’t want to know how it felt.
But I also noticed that those fellows could put out the line with their old rods just as pretty as you please. As the day wore on, it became clear that success at the fishing end of things was not a function of who was casting or what equipment was being used. It was simply a question of whether a particular fish wanted to try an imitation grasshopper for lunch. We all caught some fish. Nobody caught many.
When it came for lunch, the fresh cantaloupe, the giant homemade pickles and the jar of sweet plums came from the cooler in the old battered scow, not from the one in our fancy new boat. As we lounged in a grassy spot along the bank I was transported backward in time, maybe 15 years, to when any boat was a yacht and any fishing rod would do the job. It was just as much fun then.
Finally, with evening shadows descending, the long day of sun, sky, wind and a few fish was over, and it seemed like we had only just put on the water. Already, the quiet talk, the boisterous ribbing at missed opportunities and muffed casts and laughter of old friends that had rippled across the water all day was fading into memory. Loading the boats to go our separate ways, it was impossible to tell the difference between the haves and the have-nots. We all wore the same tired, satisfied grin.
It has been a long time since Homer and I were in the front of the line for the latest fishing equipment. By now, our stuff is competing in the retro category, along with the gear that Gimpy and Gabby still cling to. But the allure of a day on the water together has a shine to it that is all its own.
Boys, if you happen to read this, let’s all get together soon. It’s been too long.
Greg Tollefson is a freelance Missoula writer whose column appears each week in Outdoors. He can be reached at gtollefson@bresnan.net.
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