Backcountry Notes

. . . FLY RODS

 

I have no idea why I was born with the desire to fly-fish; a mutant gene, perhaps, since I didn't come from a family particularly interested in fishing of any kind, much less fly-fishing. I had always thought of the cane pole as a "starter" fly rod, and beginning during the summer of my eleventh year I began hinting that I was ready to move up to a fly rod. My parents gave me the long-nagged-for fly rod for Christmas - - that being the socially-acceptable alternative to taping my mouth shut. The rod was a Heddon "Pal," an 8-foot fiberglass wand which came with a South Bend Oren-O-Matic reel. I still have both, but they are pretty much worn out, having been my fishing tackle of choice for 12 years, including summers on the Slack farm in Whynot, NC, when I fished religiously mornings, afternoons, and evenings.

My initial casting efforts in that summer of 1961 could best be described as "a fool whipping a mule." And author with Heddon "Pal" fly rodwere in fact so described. Not pretty. However, help was not long in coming. Our grandfather J. B. Slack was born and raised in Whynot and included among his kith and kin were a number of old-time Seagrove potters - - Walter Auman, a something-removed cousin, Dorothy Auman, and the J. B. Cole potters Phil Graves, Nell Graves, and Waymon Cole, whom he had known from childhood. As it happened, Phil Graves was not only a master potter, he was a master fly-caster as well.

In those years, a vernal pool formed beside the creek at the head of the pond during times of high water; fish would move into the pool to graze on the worms and grubs that were flushed out of the soil by the standing water and some of those fish were trapped when the creek went back to normal flow. I made it my job to rescue the fish in that vernal pool and was whipping the water with poorly cast fly line one morning when I saw Nell Graves' station wagon cross the dam and drive toward my grandparents' cottage. A few minutes later, the tall, rawboned form of Phil Graves came out of the woods and crossed the creek to where I was located. “Fly rod, I see,” he said. “Mind if I take a look at it?” I didn't, and he false-cast a few times and pronounced, “not bad.”

“Now,” he said, “can you cast your fly under that hanging branch across the pool and land it about four inches from the bank?” Said branch being only about six inches above the water, I admitted that I could not (and wondered to myself if Phil was putting me on). Phil false cast a couple of more times and then laid the fly in the exact spot he had indicated. “Well, this is a fly rod, not a buggy whip, and if something's worth doing, it's worth doing right,” he said, and proceeded to instruct me on the proper use of a fly rod. In the next 45 minutes, I learned 90 per cent of what I would ever learn about fly-casting.

After we had moved all of the willing fish from the vernal pool to the lake, we walked back to the cottage. On the way, Phil said, “Nell and I have some land down in the Sandhills with a blackwater pond; if you'd like to go with us, we're going down on Saturday to picnic and fish a bit.” I accepted, of course, and thus it came to be that I accompanied Nell and Phil Graves to the blackwater pond - - I had no idea what that meant, by the way - - on Saturday, bouncing down a dirt road in Phil's pickup with a john boat tied on top and gear in the back.

It turned out that Phil was every bit as accomplished a fly-fisherman as I had suspected from the day at the vernal pool; he fished a fine cane rod with the ease and accuracy that comes with years of experience. I did the best I could with my fiberglass Heddon “Pal” while Nell wore a red-and-white bandana - - no fishing hat - - and used a cane pole, with which she easily caught more fish than I did. It was one of those days when I had the impression that I was put on earth for Nell Graves' amusement, which I prompted with such antics as wrapping my leader around a tree limb and striking my first fish so hard that it flew into the boat. But Phil was a patient and determined man, and he advised me gently from time to time of the flaws in my technique, so that as the day went on I was casting passably well.

I realized at the time that Phil Graves had no overwhelming desire to buddy up with an adolescent; he simply couldn't bear to leave a job half done and knew that I would need practice. And saw to it that I got the practice. With the ability to properly false-cast and knowing the double-haul, I could now cast big, deer-hair bass bugs with both distance and accuracy. I spent many happy afternoons catching bass and bluegills. Later, I learned about trout fishing, and the ability to cast with accuracy became even more important. Even now, so many years later, when my casting technique gets sloppy, I can hear Phil Graves at my side - - "Keep that wrist steady, boy; keep that elbow straight; cast from your shoulder, from your feet if you can; don't watch the line; put the end of the rod where your eyes are looking, and the line will follow . . . . "

* * *

Fly rods have progressed from wooden sticks to split cane, then to fiberglass and more recently to graphite, a modern marvel which makes for a very light, very strong rod.  Lines for flycasting have gone from braided horsehair to braided silk, and then to dacron coated with plastics, which makes for a virtually worry-free line.  Leaders are now made of modern plastics so strong that the "test" of the leader tippet is now less important than your ability to tie a sound not.  Yet for all of that, the experience of fly-fishing remains largely unchanged, an experience of the wild and the primitive practiced in the manner of traditions stretching back centuries.

In general my ways of fishing have never progressed much past the Backcountry traditions of cane-poling and fly-fishing. Although there are some big reservoirs within easy driving distance of my house, I have never fished in them. In fact, I have never even sat in a "bass boat," much less taken one out on the water. I prefer john-boats and my canoes - - made of modern materials, of course, but in size and shape not all that different from what the Backcountry settlers had. I enjoy bank-fishing in ponds and wading in creeks. Not only is it traditional, it provides an up-close outdoor experience which a power-boat full of electronic gadgetry cannot match.

Vintage rods.  On the bottom, a three-piece cane rod, found in Washington County, Virginia, and made in the early 20th century.  This rod may have been used for either fly-casting or bait-casting; it came with twisted-wire guides which have rusted away.  In the center, a three-piece split-cane fly rod, early 20th century.  This rod was custom-made or kit-made; the original silk windings have deteriorated and most of the guides have been lost.  The rod was owned by Noel Walker, Jr., of Tazewell County, Virginia.  On the top, a three-piece split-cane fly rod with an extra tip.  The reel seat is aluminum, indicating manufacture after WWII.  A commercial rod made by the Shakespeare company, it had been refinished at some time with red nylon windings and new varnish.  This fly rod belonged to Bowen Johnson of Tazewell County, Virginia.