A Fly Fisher's Sixty Seasons

by Steve Raymond

  Next day I had a different guide, this one with only three years’ experience. He was pleasant and could spot fish fairly well, but it was obvious he still had much to learn. We saw lots of fish—or rather, the guide saw them—but they didn’t seem in a taking mood. I lost one and hooked another the guide said would have gone four pounds, but he bungled the landing and broke off the fish. He also insisted on tying knots for me, although I could still see well enough to do that, and two of his knots failed on other fish.

  We finally reached a spot in the main lagoon where we could wade along a bar and see bonefish coming in from both sides—even I could see them. I landed three in quick succession and lost a very large fish when the hook pulled out. Then the outrigger pulled up with Naurio and Randy aboard. I told the guide to yell at them to go away, but Naurio, the senior guide, insisted it was time for us to go, so we had to leave the best setup I’d seen—wind and light at our backs, lots of fish, and I could see them. Instead, we motored through the maze of islets known as Y Site and got onto a flat where there was no water—the tide had gone out—and trudged for what seemed like miles until we reached an edge where occasional fish were cruising past in deep water. By then I was tired and my back ached, but I still managed to land two more small bonefish and three small trevally.

  By the next day my backache had escalated into debilitating spasms around the site of an old fracture, so while Randy went with the guides I climbed into the back of the truck, stretched out, and tried vainly to sleep, bothered not only by pain but also the irony of how critical I’d been of the guides for napping in the truck on my first trip to Christmas Island. Now I was trying to do it myself.

  That night Randy came to the rescue. An Eagle Scout with advanced first-aid training, he always carries what appears to be a portable pharmacy. It provided a variety of pills, rubs, ointments, and other remedies that eventually drove the spasms away, and for the next few days he kept me dosed up so that I was able to resume fishing. For that I was most grateful, especially since my ailments had forced me to conclude this would probably have to be my last bonefishing trip and I’d better make the best of it.

  Next day we had a new guide who told us his name was Mike, probably so we wouldn’t massacre the pronunciation of his real name. He’d been guiding twenty-five years and knew his stuff. He also brought with him a young guide-in-training whose name was such a complicated assemblage of vowels it looked like it had been encrypted. We never did learn how to spell or pronounce it.

  Mike proved very good at seeing fish in less-than-optimal conditions, and with him calling the shots I hooked nine fish in the morning, including a couple around four pounds each. One was tailing in a small circle and I cast five or six times before it finally saw the fly and took it. After I landed it, Mike hugged me and said, “You a good fisherman.”

  But he probably says that to all his customers.

  In the afternoon I fished with the trainee. He was very young—around twenty, I guessed—but very friendly and accommodating. He also was totally lacking equipment. He waded barefoot, and although he had tough, leathery feet from a lifetime of going barefoot, he still could not escape cutting and scraping his feet on the sharp coral. The soles of his feet were crisscrossed with angry wounds which must have been extremely uncomfortable, but he never complained or slowed down. He also had no Polaroid glasses and had to rely on his own unaided vision to see fish, which he did amazingly well under the circumstances, although I don’t remember if we caught any.

  Randy generously offered to accompany the trainee next morning and I went with Mike. At a place called Lone Palm I hooked sixteen bonefish in less than two hours but landed only nine. Most of the others just came unpinned. Then I hooked a very large bonefish that started toward New Zealand and kept running until the tippet knot ultimately failed. Later I hooked and landed another good fish that Mike estimated at six pounds. I would have said five.

  Randy hadn’t had much action with the trainee, so we swapped guides in the afternoon. I hooked another very large bonefish that ran a long way before it finally straightened the hook and went on its merry way. That was all.

  Our last day was perfect, with bright sunshine and only a little wind. I was with the trainee when I hooked a fish that quickly escaped when the tippet knot failed—a knot the trainee had tied. I remembered Randy had said he’d lost three fish the day before because of the trainee’s badly tied knots, so I told the youngster I’d tie on the next fly. Eager to learn, he watched closely as I did so. Before the day was over he asked me twice more to demonstrate the knot until he finally seemed to have it down and was tying it himself. After that his knots held.

  After lunch we went to a flat I remembered fishing on an earlier trip. This time I was with Mike, who could usually see fish if there were any to be seen. When I told him I thought I saw one he hadn’t sighted, he looked around wildly and asked “where?” Instead of replying, I cast to the fish, hooked it, and landed it. “Don’t ever do that again!” Mike said. “Only the guide is supposed to see fish!” He was kidding and we both laughed, but afterward I noticed a little change in his attitude; he was more respectful of someone who could at least occasionally see fish, even with only one eye.

  We finished the day on Paris Flat, another place I remembered fondly from earlier visits. For more than two hours we stayed in the same spot near the edge of the snow-white flat and watched fish approach in growing numbers. Most were small, but I landed one that was a good five pounds—my estimate, not Mike’s. For the day I hooked eighteen and landed twelve, while Randy landed thirteen, one of his best days.

  When it was time to head back, Mike and the trainee both thanked us respectfully and said it was their honor to have been our guides. We assured them the thanks and the honor were ours. In four trips to Christmas Island I’d fished with guides who were good and others who were mediocre, but Mike surely was high on the list of the good ones. His young sidekick was very green with much to learn, but he was so likeable, enthusiastic, and eager that I predicted a bright future for him.

  After we returned to the Captain Cook Hotel I tried to give the trainee an extra pair of Polaroids I’d brought. He seemed shocked and at first refused to accept them. “Then what will you use?” he asked. I pointed out I was still wearing the Polaroids I’d worn the whole time. Satisfied at last, he accepted the glasses like he’d just won the lottery.

  Then I fetched an extra pair of flats boots I had, planning also to give them to the trainee so he’d no longer have to leave a bloody trail across the flats. But Mike, as the senior guide, glommed onto them first. He’d been wearing an old, tattered pair of boots that were nearly falling apart, so his feet had hardly any more protection than the trainee’s. They also were about three times as wide as my feet, a result of Mike also having spent a lifetime going barefoot, and I didn’t see how he could possibly get those huge feet into those flats boots. He seemed to think he could, however—or maybe he planned to sell them and use the money to buy a pair of boots that would fit, if they make them that large. Either way, I hope he was able to make good use of them.

  With only one good eye and a trashed back, I regretfully figured I wouldn’t be needing those Polaroids or flats boots in the future. I trust I left them in good hands—and feet.

  YOU CAN’T EVER HAVE TOO MANY FLY RODS

  IN THE corner of my office is a jumble of metal and plastic tubes that looks like the wreckage of a pipe organ. It’s actually my arsenal of fly rods, all kept in tubes to protect them from grandchildren speeding through the house on tricycles. There were thirty-seven rods last time I counted, including seven of cane, twelve of fiberglass, and eighteen of graphite. Some I built myself, others I purchased, and a few were gifts. Several more were won in fly-fishing-club raffles. One was inherited.

  Thirty-seven rods might seem like way too many for one fisherman—after all, if you’re casting a fly, it’s an inescapable fact that you can use only one rod at a time—but I’ve heard it said, and firml
y believe, that an angler can’t ever have too many fly rods.

  Why? Well, for one thing, I suppose there’s pride of ownership, and that applies to at least several of my rods. A few also have historic value, which is reason enough for keeping them. A few others have sentimental attachment.

  None of those include rods I built. I’ve kept them not because they are works of art but for the opposite reason: They were made in a hurry and, with one exception, the workmanship was so sloppy I’m ashamed to have anyone else see them. A couple are graphite, the others fiberglass. Most were built in the late 1960s or early ’70s. When I look at them now, which I do rarely, I’m astonished at the thickness of those fiberglass shafts and the stiffness of the cheap metal ferrules I used to join them together. I’m equally amazed at the thickness of the varnish I slathered on them in a futile effort to hide the gaps I left in the windings (it’s hard to achieve perfection when your only method for keeping tension on the rod-winding thread is to run it through the pages of a dictionary or a telephone book, with several volumes of an encyclopedia piled on top).

  Some of my rods are seldom if ever used. One is the old Goodwin Granger three-piece, nine-foot cane rod I inherited from my father. As a young angler, I used it often before fiberglass rods came along. By then the Granger was showing the signs of many years of hard use, so I decided to refinish it. At the time I had no experience building or refinishing rods, but it looked like a simple enough job.

  It wasn’t. I soon found I had no idea what to do, or how to do it, so I put the rod away with the intent of resuming work after I’d acquired some experience and skill. Somehow, I’ve never gotten back to it, and the rod still stands forlornly in its tube, showing the ugly evidence of a would-be craftsman who didn’t know his craft. I could have it refinished professionally, but Grangers are not classic rods. So many of them were made that they now have relatively little market value and it would likely cost more than the rod is worth to have it refinished. I may yet do it anyway, just for sentimental reasons; the rod surely deserves better than I have given it.

  Another rod I’ve never used, and would never even think of using, is extremely rare, a Stimson-Lambuth two-piece, nine-foot, spiral-built bamboo rod. It was the fifth such rod built by my late friend and mentor, Letcher Lambuth.

  Letcher was one of probably only two rodmakers ever to build spiral rods. He devised his own formula, which called for the rod to be “twisted” one-sixth of a turn between each guide, with six guides—or one full turn—for each rod section. To achieve this, he mounted door locks on a long, heavy plank, then positioned each freshly glued rod section on the plank, twisted according to his formula, and locked it in place so the twist would remain after the glue set. He used casein glue, the only type then available, reinforcing it with narrow thread windings spaced an inch apart over the full length of the rod. His theory was that the spiral shape of the rod increased the surface area of the bamboo’s power fibers, giving the rod more power than a conventional six-sided bamboo rod glued up straight.

  The result, at least in the rod I have, is a strong, even, fluid action unlike that of any other bamboo rod I’ve ever seen. But the rod was more than forty years old when I received it as a gift from Letcher’s widow, and given the nature of the old glue holding it together, I have never dared put a line on it. I’ve only flexed it to test its action, and haven’t even done that very many times.

  Diabetes robbed Letcher of his sight in the early 1940s, putting an end to his rod-building days, but during the 1960s and early ’70s I spent many pleasant hours in his basement workshop where the rafters were still stuffed with culms of Tonkin cane that would have become fly rods if he had still been able to make them. We both knew I wasn’t cut out to be a bamboo craftsman, but I still learned a great deal from him about the rodmaker’s art, as well as his philosophy that a truly complete angler is one who makes all his own tackle, including flies, lines, nets, creels, fishing vest, and everything else.

  The name “Stimson” that appears with Letcher’s name on all his rods was to honor his friend Harold Stimson, who made the steel planing form Letcher used to shape his bamboo splines. After Letcher passed away, our mutual friend Al Severeid and I sent the planing form, the plank with the locking mechanisms, one of Letcher’s spiral rods, and other paraphernalia to the American Museum of Fly Fishing in Vermont, where they are now part of the museum’s collection.

  His rod No. 5, now at home in its tube in my office corner, also belongs in a fly-fishing museum, and for years I’ve hoped we might finally have one in the Pacific Northwest to which I could donate it. We still don’t, but I remain hopeful. Meanwhile, the rod remains unfished and undisplayed, but certainly not unappreciated.

  Another rod in my collection is an eight-foot, two-section cane rod built by the R. L. Winston Co. The rod, made for a 7-weight line, was well used when I bought it from Walt Johnson, the legendary steelhead fly fisher, who had used it to land several hundred steelhead. Possibly that was why the rod had a “set” in its tip section when I bought it, a slight bend like an arthritic finger. I had the tip section straightened by a professional rod builder in British Columbia, then had the whole thing refinished by Doug Merrick at Winston’s old headquarters in San Francisco. When Merrick returned the rod, the words “Built for Steve Raymond” were inscribed on the butt section, erasing the original inscription to Walt Johnson. I had planned to fish the rod, but it looked so pristine and perfect in its refinished condition that I’ve never had the heart to use it in action. It still looks pristine and perfect in its tube, another candidate for a museum.

  Fly fishing has always been peculiarly susceptible to trends, and in the early 1970s the hot trend was to small rods. Lee Wulff was getting lots of publicity using six-foot “midge” rods to land big Atlantic salmon, and Arnold Gingrich praised them lavishly in one of his books. That was enough for me; I had to have one, too, so I built a two-piece, six-foot fiberglass rod for a 6-weight line. That’s a heavy line for such a light rod, but I had steelhead in mind. The rod even had a skeleton cork reel seat to save weight. The two sections were joined with a metal ferrule, but after I somehow managed to break the rod’s tip section, I replaced it with a new tip and a ferrule made of fiberglass, which saved weight and gave the rod a smoother action. It also enhanced its appearance, and it’s the only decent-looking rod I ever made. It was the seventh one I built, so I gave it the serial number 007, optimistically choosing a three-digit numbering system because I thought I might end up building more than a hundred rods in my lifetime. As things eventually turned out, I hardly needed two digits.

  I put No. 007 to work trying to emulate Lee Wulff’s success by catching a steelhead. I discovered it was easy to hook them on the little rod, but not so easy to land them. My fishing diary relates several unsuccessful hook-ups, including one fish I fought for a long time until it finally headed for a tangled network of snags on the river bottom and I snubbed it hard—too hard—and the leader parted. “I should have landed the fish, and have only my own ineptitude to blame for losing it,” my diary says.

  I hooked another one soon after. I was in open water with plenty of room and I thought I had a good chance of landing it until the fish started a long run and the hook pulled out. Later, in the same spot, I hooked another. It jumped once before I got it on the reel, then made several short runs and eventually settled down to slug it out at close range. Finally it was exhausted and I landed it, a fine, bright, six-pound female that I released. My quest to take a steelhead on a midge rod was complete.

  But the experience left me thinking that landing a big fish on such a small rod was more of a stunt than a legitimate angling feat, and in some ways it wasn’t fair to the steelhead; the small rod made it necessary to play the fish much longer than would otherwise have been the case, possibly endangering its survival. So after that I began using the midge rod for fish more suited to its size, mostly trout.

  One angry trout almost took the little rod away from me. I was f
ishing a lake in eastern Washington and had left my fly trailing in the water as I moved from one place to another—never a good idea. A trout suddenly smashed the fly and pulled the rod over the boat’s transom before I could react. No.007 disappeared under the surface, along with the precious Hardy reel attached to it, and for a horrible moment I thought both were gone for good. Then I saw a few inches of the rod’s tip section pop above the surface and begin moving rapidly across the lake like the periscope of a submarine. It was obvious that air had gotten trapped in the rod’s hollow tip section, keeping it above the surface. I started rowing in pursuit as fast as I could. The trout ran a long way with the rod in tow, but the tip section was still above water when the run finally ended. I caught up to it, grabbed the tip, pulled the rod and reel out of the lake, and started reeling in line. To my great surprise the trout was still on and at length I landed and released it, turning what had momentarily seemed a tragedy into a satisfying triumph. Rod No. 007 went on to become one of my all-time favorites. Even in this age of graphite and other exotic composites, I still use it now and then.

  In 1969 the Fenwick rod company asked me to ghost-write a casting book for Jim Green, their rod designer and a world-champion caster. My good friend Alan Pratt, chief cartoonist of the Seattle Times, was contracted to illustrate the book. Al and I went to West Yellowstone, Montana, to fish with Jim, observe his casting technique, and pick his brain. Lefty Kreh was there, too, and we also fished with him and observed his casting style, very different from Jim’s but just as effective in its own way.

  Also joining us was Hu Riley, a manufacturer’s representative for Fenwick. It was my first meeting with Hu and I was instantly taken with his friendly manner and sense of humor. He lived on Mercer Island in Lake Washington, just east of Seattle, my home at the time, and we became good friends in years to come. Hu also would add several rods to my collection.