It’s been nearly nine months since I started building a five-piece fiberglass travel rod at the small work bench in the corner of my office. I called the project Codename Bronco.

When I began last March, I had very little experience building rods. What I did have was a clear vision, enough confidence to get myself into trouble, and the stubborn belief that if I moved slowly and paid attention, the thing would eventually take shape.

I made the project harder by trying to document it as I went: filming, photographing, and writing through each step. Sitting here now, with the rod finished, I’m still not sure which part of the process demanded more patience: building the rod, or learning how to tell its story without getting in the way of the work.

On Waiting

Newer Hookswain readers may not have seen the early updates. The last time I wrote about Codename Bronco was April of last year. At the time, I had chosen the blank for its travel-friendly dimensions; a 7’6” four-weight, broken into five pieces that pack neatly into a 20-inch tube. The plan was to complete the rod in time to take it with me on a trip to Kosovo and Albania, where I hoped to fish for small wild trout in the mountains.

That didn’t happen.

Life intervened. Travel with family took priority. The June heat made fishing impractical anyway. And when I returned home, a long list of house projects filled whatever creative margin remained. I spent the summer racing Vermont’s first snowfall, finishing just in time.

On rainy days when outside work stalled, or late at night when the house was quiet and work emails were answered, I returned to the bench. Completing the rod gnawed at me; taking months to complete, not weeks.

The Shitty First Draft

Writers talk about the “shitty first draft”, the necessary, imperfect version that gets the idea out of your head and onto the page. I’ve always struggled with that concept. I want things to match the picture in my mind immediately. After what feels like a lifetime of writing, I am beginning to appreciate the value of roughness, and how, with patience, it transforms into something you never could have imagined in the first place.

Codename Bronco was an exercise in applying that concept to craft.

At the outset of this build I decided I wanted to try and tough it out on my own as much as possible, stumbling through mistakes without the support of more skilled craftsman to guide me. Thought, I wasn’t totally alone. When I was confused or unsure, I opened the pages of Fiberglass Rod Making leaning on Clemens’ schematics and diagrams to help me along. When I was distraught at my lack of progress, or felt that my work didn’t meet my own standards, Clemens seemed to be leaning over my shoulder, offering wisdom posthumously through the page.

Much like writing a good story, things gradually came together, the spirit of the rod revealed in each swipe of sandpaper, turn of thread, and daub of varnish.

The Work

My previous updates covered the process of turning the reel seat spacer, gluing up the reel seat hardware, and fitting and gluing the cork for the grip. Once that was completed, I turned my attention to placing and wrapping the guides.

Guide spacing is one of those invisible decisions that determines how a rod feels long before it ever sees water. I relied on a spacing diagram from Fiberglass Rod Making by Dale P. Clemens, adapting his measurements to accommodate the ferrules of a five-piece blank. Blue painter’s tape marked each position. Adjustments were made by eye, then adjusted again.

In the end, the rod settled into its shape: two stripping guides, six snake guides, and a tip top. Each was taped in place, aligned, and wrapped.

The design language was lifted from a 1970s Ford Bronco I came across early in the project. Its dark brown panels broken by a tri-colored stripe felt unapologetically of its time and perfect for a funky little fiberglass rod. Translating that motif onto a fly rod meant inlay wraps, stepped carefully and intentionally along the blank.

The stripping guides received the most attention: three inlays—orange, yellow, and cream—nested into brown base wraps. As the rod tapered, the design simplified. Three inlays became two, and then one. The ferrules were wrapped in brown with a single cream accent to keep the visual weight balanced.

By the time I finished, I had completed thirty-five separate inlay wraps.

The further up the blank I went, the harder it became. The tip section, willowy and fragile, demanded steady hands and multiple retries. My fishing buddies like to joke that if there’s a hard way to do something, I’ll find it. Codename Bronco confirmed that suspicion.

The Second Craft

Somewhere along the way, it became clear that I wasn’t just building a rod. I was also learning how to record the work without interrupting it. Those are two different disciplines, and they don’t always cooperate.

When I tried to document everything in real time, the work slowed and my focus fractured. Camera angles mattered. Lighting mattered. Whether I remembered to hit record mattered. The bench stopped being a place of quiet concentration and became a stage, even when no one was watching.

At first, I filmed the build with an iPhone, balanced on a travel tripod or held in place with duct tape. The footage was bad. I blocked the frame with my head. Focus drifted. Important moments were missed entirely.

Over time, I learned that progress sometimes meant not filming at all. That some steps were better done in silence. Benchcraft isn’t meant to be exhaustive or instructional. It surfaces when there’s something worth sharing—after the work has had room to happen on its own.

Spending time on this project gave me a deeper respect for the creators who manage to build, record, edit, and publish consistently without burning out the work itself.

Codename Bronco

After nearly nine months, Codename Bronco is finished.

Like most of my projects, it took longer than planned, required more labor than expected, and cost more than I’d budgeted. Looking over my notes, it seems I spent roughly 100 hours on the build and about five hundred dollars on materials, tools, and consumables including the blank and hardware. The rod isn’t perfect. But that’s the point. The imperfections feel honest, evidence of time, attention, and hands learning as they went.

The funny part? I haven’t cast it yet. I haven’t strung it up or fished it. For all I know, it won’t throw a line worth a damn.

But sitting here now, looking at the finished rod, I’m not sure that even matters. The work exists. The object is real. And whatever happens on the water will be both a continuation and a beginning.

Beyond the Bench

Codename Bronco may be built, but the work needed to bring it to the water isn’t complete.

I’ve had a specific reel in mind for much of this build, one that feels authentic to its styling, mechanically honest, and well-suited to the caliber of fish it will some day land.

More importantly, I’ll need to pair this rod with a suitable line. This rod is designated as a 4wt, but finding the right taper and grain weight to complement it will be more of an art than a science. Those details matter, and they’ll be approached with the same patience that shaped the build itself.

These decisions mark the transition from object to instrument. And as Codename Bronco moves closer to the water, the next build will take its place.

After all, Benchcraft isn’t about projects. It’s a practice. One build simply gives way to the next.

Previous Codename Bronco Installments:

Quartermaster posts usually begin the same way: I stumble across something on eBay or Facebook Marketplace, go down a rabbit hole, and discover something I think is worth sharing. Sometimes it ends with a reel on my desk that I didn’t know I was missing. Over time, that habit has turned into a quiet pile of rods and reels acquired out of curiosity, nostalgia, and a general inability to scroll past good engineering when I see it.

The end of the year is a good time to take stock. And in doing so, I’ve realized that the pile has grown a little too large. So this time, instead of sending you outward, I’m opening my own collection.

Each of these Orvis reels comes from an era when fly reels were built to do a job — unremarkably, repeatedly, and well. They aren’t particularly rare or precious. They’re just right. The kind of reels that balance a rod properly, reward restraint, and bring a quiet sense of style to your pursuit. Too good to sit on a shelf collecting dust.

These reels deserve to see action. Consider this an invitation to put one back on the water where it belongs.

Late 90’s Orvis Battenkill 5/6 - Made in England

No reel speaks to a brand’s heritage more than the Orvis Battenkill. Originally introduced in the 1960s, the Battenkill line has served tirelessly as a simple workhorse model with robust build quality and classic good looks. And by the 1990s, the Battenkill was a household name among anglers looking for reliability at an approachable price point.

This specific Battenkill 5/6 hails from the late 1990s, when Orvis was still using the British Fly Reel company for production of their core models. During this time, the Battenkill was crafted from cast high-silicone aluminum — a process used widely in automotive and aeronautical manufacturing — and finished in a dark gray corrosion-resistant coating.

The unpretentious finish helps the chrome plating on the line guard, reel foot, and machined counterweight pop, giving this reel an iconic look that pairs well with everything from bamboo to fiberglass.

This era of BFR-made Orvis Battenkills is really compelling. More and more, I find myself fishing click-and-pawl reels, and am drawn to models that have adjustable tensioners, as is found in this model. Switching the retrieve direction is straightforward and requires no special tools: simply reverse the direction of the pawls. (The included original pamphlet has a simple diagram for future reference.)

I don’t think you could classify a ‘90s Battenkill as a collectible reel, but a quick scan of eBay reveals that finding one in top condition is hard. I attribute this to their all-around utility and reliability; Battenkills were fished hard and put away wet.

This one is as close to perfect as I’ve seen; I don’t think it’s even had line on it. Other than the smallest of scratches on the reel foot and a little discoloration around the base of the spindle, this one is like new. It came into my possession with the pictured green and beige Orvis zipper case. I have no idea if this is correct, but it’s clean, the zipper works, and it feels generally era-appropriate.

Inquire about this reel

Orvis BBS II - Made in England

BBS stands for Battenkill Bar Stock. A no-nonsense nomenclature for a no-nonsense reel that carried with it a reputation for being rugged, versatile, and reliable. The BBS line achieved this by its blend of classic and modern design and manufacturing. And while its production run was relatively short lived, the BBS series has its die-hard fans.

The BBS was milled from aerospace-grade 6262-T6 aluminum, an alloy which sits in the sweet spot between hardness and machinability. This gave the BBS significantly higher tolerances than other reels from the era while maintaining a hardy, dent-resistant build. Machined aluminum also meant the BBS was light — the BBS II clocks in at just 3.5 ounces (unlined) — while still offering ample line capacity.

One of the most impressive elements of the BBS series was the deeply adjustable click drag achieved through the tensioning knob on the main plate. While it wouldn’t stop an ornery fish from running, it does put a surprising amount of pressure on the line and gives off a pleasingly bright but slightly muted sound when it does. Changing the retrieve direction is as simple as lifting the central disc and flipping it over. No tools required.

Originally introduced in the late 1990s, the BBS line was manufactured in England for only a handful of years before Orvis purchased and later shuttered the British Fly Reel company in 2004, making these jack-of-all-trade reels a special footnote in fly fishing history.

This all-black version is in exceptional condition and appears as though it has never been fished. Examples in like-new condition are unsurprisingly difficult to locate as the BBS was a workhorse, sought after by devoted anglers, and most others I’ve seen show it.

Inquire about this reel

Orvis Madison IV - Made in England

I’m a big fan of underdogs, especially when they punch well above their weight class, and the Orvis Madison is one such item.

Originally produced for Orvis in the 1970s by Shakespeare, who, having had acquired Pfleuger in the late 1960s, leaned on the widely popular Medalist as design inspiration. Some old forum threads note that for a time, the spools of the two models were interchangeable, suggesting that the Madison was manufactured to nearly identical proportions.

The Madison always occupied an entry-level station at Orvis, to such a degree that over time, concerted efforts were made to make production even cheaper. By the mid-1980s, Orvis had dumped Shakespeare’s American production facilities in favor of BFR in Britain, a move that lasted until the line was phased out altogether in the ‘90s.

This example hails from that final era of production, and you can see Orvis’ attempts at cost-savings throughout. The reel was cast, not machined, and the guts of the click-and-pawl were fabricated from plastic. Even the central medallion bearing the model name was simplified to a printed sticker.

And yet, as a reel, it still performs. Last year, while fishing Yellowstone National Park, an angling buddy used his grandfather’s Madison reel on its namesake river just outside the park. Hearing its distinctly bright clicker fire off as he landed spunky trout was the best kind of time travel, and made me appreciate how little a reel actually needs to do.

This example is in like-new condition and comes with its original paperwork.

Inquire about this reel

Orvis Superfine CFO II Disc - Made in England

In 1874, Charles Orvis revolutionized the world of fly fishing with the creation of the ventilated fly reel, setting the standard for modern fly fishing equipment. Nearly a century later, Orvis tapped legendary reel maker Stan Bogdan to design a new reel in homage to the brand’s famous founder. That original CFO – for Charles F. Orvis — was manufactured by Hardy in England and introduced in the Orvis Christmas catalog in 1971.

Since its inception, the CFO has had many iterations. While Hardy made the first run, production was quickly moved to the British Fly Reel company which was responsible for the majority of the CFO manufacturing until 2004 when BFR was dismantled by Orvis.

This reel hails from the CFO’s final runs of British manufacturing, likely dating to the early aughts. A sought after model in its own right, this CFO II is finished in a gorgeous bronze and topped with a rosewood knob, an expression that saw limited production at BFR relative to the more iconic black and steel versions.

CFOs of this era also represent the last of the offset drag system, a design that began and ended with Orvis. This drag system is finely tuned, and allows for more drag pressure than is likely necessary for this small, standard-arbor reel. Still, the counterbalanced spool and rear-mounted drag knob, combined with its fetching color and classic good looks, gives this British-made reel an air of sophistication that is lost in the modern era.

This one’s in excellent condition with only a couple of imperfections on the knob side of the spool and a small scuff near the hub on the base plate. It comes with an era-appropriate Orvis zipper case.

Inquire about this reel

I have a complicated relationship with change.

As an angler, I relish change. On the water, a change in tactics can often improve my luck. I’ll change the fly, or where it sits in the water column, change the distance or direction of a cast, the speed of my retrieve. I change lines, leaders, and tippet — hell, even rods and reels — to suit my quests and the quarry that I chase.

In daily life, change rarely feels so grand. I cling to patterns, to ways of doing things, to beliefs long debunked. I tell myself these predilections — gin, up with a twist; swinging a wet fly in front of a rising fish; or that a new hat is unlucky until it’s sweatstained and dirty — are quirky, harmless signatures of who I am. But the truth is that consistency feels good. Reliable. And it soothes my innate discomfort with the unplanned and unforeseen.

Still, every so often, something in me itches for disruption. My resistance to change piles up and I long to cut loose, knock the rust off. Ironically, the only antidote to the self-imposed ennui is the very thing I try so hard to control. And for anglers, that means only one thing.

So in early February, in the midst of a particularly snowy winter, when my buddy Chris’s email dinged my inbox, the subject line —McCloud River Fishing Trip - May — read more like the antidote to my chronic malaise than an invitation.

Planning a fishing trip is like pushing a boulder down a mountain. You know it’ll reach the bottom, but you’re never sure how much damage it will do on the way down. Sometimes you just cover your eyes and hope for the best. That’s what I did, and before I knew it, I was standing in the sloped, dusty parking lot of the McCloud Market, watching sunlight ricochet off the snow-capped crater of Mount Shasta, wondering just how much of a mess I’d left behind.

As if on cue, a lanky twenty-something punted open the glass door of the market with a bang, shaking me from my musings. He grinned at me as he lashed a case of Miller High Life to the bench seat of a motorbike with a bungee cord.

I’ve always found it easy to covet the lives of perfect strangers when they live in such beautiful places, and although I’d waited months to fly three thousand miles, drive five hours, and play hooky from work and life to make this trip a reality, I felt a pang of envy when he revved the engine toward some happy-hour hang. I imagined his carefree life, shaped by the easy confidence of someone who still believes, as I once did, that the future is limitless.

A second crash reset my focus on the rider, who was now standing over the smashed case lying in a widening pool of golden, frothy liquid. In the hangdog scene I spotted a glimmer of my former recklessness and tried not to take it as an omen.

Chris and Adam exited the market, and we tucked the last-minute provisions into the bed of the rental truck we’d picked up outside San Francisco Airport. Chris’s Subaru was packed to the gills, duffels lashed to the roof like a caravan camel. We looked ridiculous, a rolling sporting-goods store cutting through Bay Area traffic, and agreed that the cost of a rental was a small price for peace of mind on the steep dirt service road that would drop us into the McCloud River canyon.

Every switchback of the access road ushered us deeper into the canyon, further away from our lives, closer to ourselves, and toward the river we’d traveled all this way to explore. We were here to fish, sure, but none of us was gunning for trophies or even really cared if we caught any at all. The narrow aperture through which we once viewed fishing has widened, the frame around it delightfully blurred. Fishing has become the medium, a chance to be alive, present and together in pursuit, but not obsessed or obsessive or wrapped up in anything but the moment and its unfurling.

At the bottom of the canyon we found the AhDiNa campground and picked a spot close to the water. We unloaded the vehicles and began pitching camp, each savoring the magnitude of our escape and fighting the urge to rig up a rod and head to the water. Somewhere in the jigsaw of camping gear, fishing equipment, and cooking supplies, it occurred to me that each of us, in his own way, was grappling with change.

If the world is an upland field of opportunity, Adam is like a birddog weaving, nose down, with the wake in the grass the only indicator of where he’s going. But this trip was only a few months before the due date of his firstborn, this undoubtedly the last great getaway before fatherhood and all that comes with it. I wondered how it might change him, and to what extent that new responsibility would shift his priorities. I had no doubt his child would someday join us on these trips, and as that thought set in, I realized we were experiencing the last days of Adam 1.0, and a part of me already missed him.

Chris was raw from the sudden loss of a loved one, still piecing his world back together in the fog of grief. Being here with us was clearly hard for him, if only because he thought he had to hide his pain from us, or perhaps that his muted demeanor might somehow detract from the joy we always gained from being in his orbit.

Death is the great magnifier. It shows us what remains when the people we love are taken away. But I’ve never experienced losing someone unexpectedly, and I can only imagine how disorienting it is. I watched him paw through the back of his Subaru and hoped that this trip — the actualization of years of planning on his part— might help him feel more like himself, even for a little while.

Some rivers are grand, poised in postcard vistas that tug the heartstrings of the modern human like the memory of a former lover. Others beckon like pristine oases to the nature-starved traveler seeking satisfaction in their simple, incomparable beauty. Down in the canyon, the McCloud runs wild and primeval, unbothered by its secluded and hardscrabble hermitage. Cliffs of limestone and basalt steppes foil even the boldest anglers, leaving stretches of its blue-green water unreachable and shrouded in ponderosa pines and stalwart oaks; a river unto itself.

And like most beautiful rivers, the McCloud is a technical fishery. Braided, meandering currents make long drifts impractical, and nearly any interpretation of an overhead cast will land your backcast in a tree. Wading is also tricky; the ancient lava over which the river runs is slick and prone to sudden changes in depth. Much of the river is rather narrow, the far bank reachable with a well-executed roll cast, but here the current is strong and the water cold.

My field notes from our first day suggest we’d collectively brought ten fish to hand by lunch on a mix of nymphs and dry flies. “It is rare,” I wrote, “to have such a productive and memorable first day on a foreign river, although not entirely surprising given our willingness to bushwhack through tangled and rocky paths, wade across slippery and fast sections of water, and work hard and methodically through runs and bouldery pocket water to find fish.” That first night we fell asleep to the sound of the river and the smell of a campfire and sausages clinging to our skin.

There are few rivers more integral to modern American fly fishing than the McCloud River. By the mid-1800s the majority of East Coast rivers, the iconic natural laboratories of Theodore Gordon, were showing the impacts of the wool trade, logging, and dams. Native brook trout and Atlantic salmon were choked out, and by the 1870s, most of New England had embraced fish culture-based restoration efforts.

In 1874, the first eggs were harvested from McCloud River rainbows and transported eastward, beginning a longstanding practice of planting rainbow trout in rivers across the United States and abroad. Rainbows, most originating from the McCloud, took root and helped keep the sport alive through the impacts of industrial expansion. Every angler that has hooked a rainbow trout, from Maine to Michigan, Argentina to Australia, owes a debt of gratitude to the mighty McCloud River and the unique genetics that it fostered.

I thought about these remarkable fish as we hiked east along the Pacific Crest Trail from AhDiNa our second day. From that vantage point, the McCloud seemed immortal, impervious to change. Ironic, perhaps, that the trout that evolved in such a rugged and remarkable environment have become ubiquitous to the extent of being iconic, and sadly, a commodity.

It is, perhaps, because of their ubiquity that few anglers target rainbow trout the way they might a brown or a brook trout. In some places, like the Lamar River watershed in Yellowstone, they’ve been relegated to an invasive pest undermining native cutthroat populations, and are sentenced to instant death if caught. The rainbow trout is undoubtedly the most well-traveled trout, but the cost is a reputation tangled up with our modern notions of native fish, conservation, and more than a century of agricultural fisheries management, the downstream effects of which are still being studied.

It’s easy to ignore the fact that McCloud River rainbows were selected precisely because of their hardy nature refined over tens of thousands of years in these remote and austere conditions. And while it may be fashionable to look down our noses at rainbow trout, something of which I was guilty for years, when you consider how successful these fierce McCloud River fish have been at proliferating in new and different environments, it’s hard not to be amazed at their ability to adapt.

Of all the rainbow trout I landed that trip, the aggressive sow that tackled my size 10 stimulator that afternoon was the prototypical McCloud River rainbow. It muscled between current lines, darted toward submerged timber, and managed several impressive leaps before succumbing to my five weight rod and an armful of side pressure. This fish was to the average stocked rainbow what a jaguar is a housecat.

Chris clicked away, capturing images of the fight and the fish we were sure would speak volumes about these storied waters and the magnificent trout that inhabit them. But weeks later, when he developed the roll, the whole thing came back ruined by a wandering light leak. Every frame was scalded and spectral, as if the sun itself had tried to erase the evidence of what we’d seen.

Hoofing our way back along the PCT toward camp that evening, I was forced to confront the change I’d been skirting all trip: I’m getting older. Not catastrophically, just the quiet, predictable kind of aging that is starting to show up more and more in the margins. Proof that my body is beginning to reject the kind of abuse I once shrugged off.

As I plodded along, I found myself performing a quiet calculation: How many more trips like this can I reasonably muster? Will I ever reach the other rugged rivers that fill my daydreams? When does this kind of fly fishing begin to slip out of reach?

On our final day, we ventured downstream to the section of conservancy water within the Kerry Landreth Preserve. This section, several miles of twisting runs and aquamarine drop pools, is limited to a maximum of ten anglers per day via a tag system. Half can be secured online, while the other is reserved for walk-ins, made available daily around 7AM. We found the little ranger cabin well before 6:30 and were pleased when we claimed the first three walk-in tags.

There is an unrivaled sense of ease in knowing you have more water ahead of you than you can possibly fish, and we delighted in stopping at only the best-looking spots. We retained only a vague sense of where we were, or how far we’d fished and occasionally pinched at the image I’d snapped that morning of the cartoonish, illustrated map posted at the ranger station with my signal-less phone.

Evening comes early in the canyon, and we welcomed the chance to replace the heavily weighted nymph rigs with fresh monofilament leaders, and dig the dry fly boxes from the bottoms of our packs. Instinct — and some recent experience — told us to wait and watch for rises, so we did, quietly pondering patterns and squinting skyward at hatching insects silhouetted against the diffused aura of twilight.

The rainbow that sipped Adam’s sparse emerger seemed more offended at having been deceived than at being hooked. It dropped into the deeper seam and tore downstream, drawing the fine tippet taut. Adam played it with the quiet respect of someone who recognized that the subtle, dimpled rise he’d targeted belonged to a full-grown fish.

We hadn’t come to the McCloud in search of trophy rainbows, but Adam had found one; a large wild McCloud River fish. Chris fidgeted with his camera as Adam brought it deftly to the net, coaxing the lens to embrace every photon of fading light. In the end, all we could do was marvel at its muscular tawny green flank, bold black spots, and the rusty band running down its lateral line. In its vermiculations lay a private message, an eons-old secret written in spots and scales that felt, in that moment, meant for us alone.

Watching it swim back into the darkening pool, I felt the first quiet hint of the lesson the river had been trying to teach me all week, and tipped my hat to the mighty, indefatigable, world-traveling McCloud River rainbow. Change comes for all of us eventually; the resilient ones learn to meet it with a little grit and a kick of the tail.

\\ Cover Story \\

Location: West Yellowstone, Montana

I snapped this late ‘50s Ford F-Series truck on my iPhone last September during my fortieth birthday trip to Yellowstone National Park. Something about it felt compelling — but haunting — as though this faded pickup and derelict cabin were the last vestiges of an era of the West I will never know.

Beware of Flying Ants

If you’re near water that remains fishable for trout throughout the summer, you may have found yourself stymied by an inscrutable hatch that for the life of you, you can’t seem to match. It’s maddening; trout rising in gleeful splashy takes yet avoiding even your most convincing trichoptera imitations. If you experience this, try tying on an ant pattern.

Now, let’s be clear. I am not referring to a black size eight Chubby Chernobyl or anything that even approaches the look and presentation of a hopper. The ant you want is small — size 16-18 — and should have distinct bulbous ends like a small dumbbell. Something like this:

You see, every summer, the Queen ant signals her male companions that it’s time to expand their species’ territory by flying the coop and setting up shop in a new location. Together they all sprout wings and swarm off, mating as they go. The males die shortly after mating and fall to earth, or, if the trout are lucky, river.

This “hatch” is impossible to predict; even entomologists don’t know what triggers a swarm, especially because the changes in rainfall, humidity and barometric pressure preferred by the colony can be hyper-local. The fleeting and unpredictable nature might explain why trout seem to zero in on ants when they are present, sometimes moving a great distance to snatch one.

Take my word for it; if you’re on a trout stream between Independence Day and Labor Day, beware of flying ants.

The Wild World of Dapping

I recently fell down a rabbit hole while researching the strains of Irish brown trout and found myself charmed by this video depicting an Irish fishing technique known as dapping.

Instead of a traditional cast, the dapping angler uses the wind to lift the line and deliver the fly. Very long rods — twelve feet and longer — help keep the line elevated off the surface of the water such that just the fly makes contact.

There is a version of dapping that exists in America, likely a relative of this style adapted from its original use on windy lochs to small streams and rivers. Here, the fly is lowered to the surface using the rod tip; again the line should not make contact with the water.

From what I can find, Don Miller seems to be (have been?) the expert on American-style dapping, with a 2014 book entitled Dapping. A Fly Fishing Technique: My Secret Method of Catching Large Dominant Trout.

Here’s an excerpt from the book description:

“His 40 years of learning how to catch that rare and elusive large, dominant, heavy-weight trout, [sic] that the ones very few fly fishermen ever catch, has been a never-ending pursuit– one that has caused him to endure many sleepless nights pondering: “If I was a large trout needing large meals to sustain life and energy, plus being cautious and wary, where would I reside?” Once I discovered the answers to that question, I concluded that dapping was the only method that would work. If you apply all the techniques and methods described in this book over time, you too will succeed.”

Color me intrigued.

#senditwithstyle

This photo of devout fly angler John Denver knee deep in a run wearing a pink plaid shirt and matching pink teashades is the epitome of not taking it too seriously. Or that ‘Rocky Mountain High’ is more than just a hit song title.

A Fly in the Ointment

On summer evenings, the air above a river should be alive with small wings flickering in the slant light, mayflies lifting like ash, caddis skipping in erratic arcs. There should be a hum, the buzz of the river giving birth to a whole generation of insect life.

But lately, that hum feels muted. The sky over the water seems thinner, the hatches sparser, the night settling in without its usual chorus. It’s a quiet you can’t quite name until you remember what’s missing.

A May 2023 study led by Notre Dame biologist Jason Rohr concluded that insects are on the decline nationwide, confirming the warnings we’ve heard from anglers and amateur entomologists for decades. But as with most things, the study revealed that the change in biomass and biodiversity was far more nuanced than just simple decline.

According to Rohr, there has been a shift in the makeup of America’s streams and rivers in favor of more disruption-tolerant species. Less tolerant species have disappeared, allowing the more change-resistant insects to proliferate. The result is a growing homogeneity of insect life.

The study looked closely at differences between rivers and streams draining forested and grassland regions, and those coursing through urban and agricultural lands. The findings showed that the existing differences between those stream communities has only gotten wider suggesting that over the past thirty years, water running through urban and agricultural lands have gotten less biodiverse and populated with ‘weedy’ taxa capable of surviving in harsher environments.

In June of 2023, Tom Rosenbauer hosted stream ecologist Mike Miller on the Orvis Fly Fishing Podcast. During their nearly hour-long discussion, Miller articulated the effects of popular pesticide – neonicotinoids, or neonics – on aquatic ecosystems. Miller’s research focused on waterways in Minnesota and revealed that not only is the dangerous neurotoxin being widely used, but that the effects of its use might just be materializing.

Neonics, explained Miller, are synthetic compounds similar to nicotine, and are highly toxic to insects. They operate by binding permanently to neural receptors in insects, overstimulating the insect’s nervous system, leading to uncontrolled nerve signals. This overstimulation causes paralysis, followed by death.

Chemical companies have now started coating seeds in an attempt to introduce the toxin even earlier in the process. According to a 2021 study, “abrasion of the seed coating generates insecticide‐laden planter dust that disperses through the landscape during corn planting and has resulted in many “bee‐kill” incidents in North America and Europe.”

It seems a sad truth that neonics and widespread insect decline are connected. What’s worse, we’ve been here before. Rachel Carson saw it coming in 1962, when Silent Spring warned that our chemical ingenuity could just as easily unmake the natural world as improve it. Back then, it was DDT and the robins that vanished from suburban lawns. Today, it’s a quieter crisis, happening in the water, measured not in the silence of birds but in the absence of hatches and the sameness of the insects that remain.

For anglers, the change is as much felt as seen: fewer mayflies lifting from the surface, fewer caddis dancing in the evening light, and the creeping sense that a river without its full chorus of insects is a river diminished. Carson called it a “silent spring.” If we’re not careful, we may find ourselves wading into a silent current.

~Tunes~

Of Mice and Men

Somewhere in the darkness, at a distance too warped by the quietness of nighttime and the wide open river and the cool air thickening into a fog, a toilet flushes.

It isn’t of course.

You know this.

But that’s what your ears hear.

There is only one other thing that makes that same sucking, gurgling sploosh and in the blackness, your mind completes the shape: the length and girth of the wild Delaware brown trout, a ghost that's just eaten like a king.

It could be 10:30PM or it could be 1AM. Out here, time loosens its grip. Drifting mid-current under a sky veiled in fog, you are neither early nor late. You are nowhere—and also precisely where you want to be: suspended in the hush, casting toward banks you can’t see but know by feel.

You fling the mouse out into the dark. The emissary of your camp’s shared delusion. It returns in a rat-a-tat of strips, small and sharp and frantic, a telegraph from the twitching edge of prey.

S.O.S.

The message, even in its caricatured translation of frenzied frantic fleeing, flirts with our wide-eyed imaginations of what lurks below.

Floating through the no-thingness, deprived of our eyes, we feel everything.

Grand.

Alive.

On the edge of something.

On the edge of ourselves.

Tuned into the shimmer of each vibration skipping up fried dendrites, half-dead from screens and sugar and comfort and the anesthesia of always-knowing and too much, too often.

And the mouse says: tap, tap, tap.

Don’t eat me.

Don’t.

Eat.

SPLOOSH.

MONOFILAMENT FM

“Trout Sermons: Night Run”

Entry ID: CX107  
Classification: [Parallel Dimension Memory Loop]  
Format: Intercepted Signal, Short Wave  
Origin: Unknown

Notes: Hiss-heavy. Likely recorded during solar flare. 

Warning: DO NOT REVERSE.

Our servers intercepted a transmission from an unidentified, untraceable source.

Despite repeated analysis, the origin remains unresolved.

Current hypothesis: one of several fragments from a collection of orations known as “Trout Sermons,” believed to have leaked through a time-space rift from a parallel dimension.

Playback is authorized. Proceed with caution.

On the Banks of the Lonely River

On the banks of the Lonely River,
the song of the world plays.
Not in words, but in vibration.
Not in noise, but in breath.

The great organ of life exhales through itself in tones immutable, delicate,
unseen. It sings in days,
in wind,
in the hush of water on water.

I am here.
In that I have always been here.
In that I was never here.
In that I am lost like you and found again in shards of sunlight slicing through fingers of trees.

I am a stranger, thick with summer, rootless.
Ancient wanderlust beads between my shoulder blades and runs
to rejoin the sea.
I am excised from the womb of my beginning,
naked before the night.

The Lonely River runs deep into the earth.
Through the lashing of pagan tongues.
Through sacrifice and scripture and the rituals of becoming.
Through itself, to become itself.
It has no form, no destination.
No origin.
No urge.
It is the medium.

I am here in that I have come here.
Itinerant.
In search of redemption,
apotheosis,
forgiveness.
Permission to be
broken.

Definition strains at the edges of perception.
My mind is rabid with stars but forms no constellation.
I come rejoicing.
I come penitent.
Painted in the lost umber of the wild.
A child of progress.
A violator.
Smog-swilled,
skin-bound,
worthless flesh.

I come to prostrate before the enormity of nature.

Others have come here in search of themselves.
Their trails meander through grass and vanish into pools.
I trace them gravely, hoping to glimpse them
still clutching the gray frock of morning,
backs bent with quest,
conquering restless hearts
in the squinting quietude.

But they are not here.
As I am not here.
Eidolons of the myth.
Blackened matchsticks burned in psalm.

Between us, the sacred stones lie
breathless.
Flesh firm in torment.
Vermiculated by time and painted by cosmic brush.
Devouring.
Defiant.
Undulating like unfixed appendages, beating with the singular heart of the river.
I watch them sing their silent ululations,
mourning the solemn honor of their propagation
sheltered in their temple
of abundance.

Anatomy of a Nymph Rig

Nymphing is a way of life for many of us. The recommendations below are purely based on my experience and preferences which have largely been informed by Northeastern trout streams. Some aspects may be applicable to your fishery, and others may have to be altered/evolved for fishing elsewhere. - JWS

Basic Nymph Rig Setup

Typically, I select a heavy leader for nymphing. Something like a 3X leader works well. The stiffness of the 3X butt helps turn the rig over, and I have found that anything less than 3X diameter allows the indicator to slip (I like Airlocks in WHITE) down the leader when casting etc. I have tried both mono and flouro on nymph rigs and I haven't really decided which works better. This is something I go back and forth on. But if pressed, I would go for flouro. More on that below.

On a standard 9-foot 3X leader, I typically snip off about 2 feet of the terminal end. This gives me a short, punchy leader that typically turns over well. To help make the transition from the heavy leader to tippet, I like a 30lb Partridge barrel swivel. I have tried tippet rings, and those work fine, but I prefer a swivel because it allows the rig to spin freely in the current and while casting. You'd be surprised how many tangles result from the rig twisting up on itself and creating coils in your leader.

From the barrel swivel I typically run a length of flouro -- typically around 24 inches. I use the heaviest flouro I think I can get away with. This is also why a swivel is nice (or tippet ring); it makes dropping to smaller and smaller tippets super easy and you don't have to fret about bloodknotting a 3x leader to 5 or 6X tippet.

Most often I will use about two feet of 4X off the swivel to start. If the water is cloudy or off-color I will size up to 3X, especially if I am throwing larger flies like stoneflies and streamers (more on that below). If I am using smaller flies, I start with 4X.

At the end of the 4X, I attach my point fly. Much ado is made about what constitutes a point fly; for me, it's the heaviest fly in my rig, regardless of position. Essentially, I think of it as the fly that is the point B to my indicator. I typically select a heavy point fly. That said, I don't like jig heads or heavy bead heads for my point fly. I've heard a lot about how trout (especially wild trout) can spit beadhead nymphs easier than ones without. Therefore, I like a heavily weighted stonefly (lead-free wire wraps on the body). Most often, that fly is a Pats Rubber Legs, AKA a Girdle Bug.

From there, I tie on the next step down tippet (if I am on 4X I use 5X, if on 3X, 4X, etc.) to the point fly. Depending on the depth of the run, casting room and fly selection, that tippet ranges from about 12" to 24".

One of my most used tandem rigs is a Pats and a small wetfly or soft hackle behind it. If the water is off color or up from rain, I will run a pats and a small streamer or a worm. If that fails to produce, I mix and match flies until I start getting strikes, progressively getting smaller each time until I am in the zone.

On Flourocarbon

Somewhere along the line, I started paying attention to the overall buoyancy of my rig. I now have a good sense of how much additional weight I need to apply to the rig to get it down at the depth I want at the rate that I need. Some fly combos have more action -- think: vibrating rubber legs and undulating maribou -- which tends to equate to more drag in the water making them sink slower. Others plunge fast to depth but ride fixed and relatively lifeless beneath the indicator.

Now, I have started to observe that monofilament leaders, especially those heavier sizes that turn a nymph rig over well, are quite buoyant. Mono floats and I have come to believe that it is impacting the sink rate of any of my favorite rigs by 1 or 2 seconds. It's also important to know that I carry a lot of split shot with me. Of various sizes.

So, in order to keep computations on the river to a minimum, I decided that a flourocarbon leader, which sinks naturally, would offer something close to neutral buoyancy to my rig. From there, I can tweak my weight to match my flies and not worry.

There is a catch or two. First, flouro is goddamned expensive. Second, you gotta really maintain your line throughout the drift.

The Drift

One of the most important pieces of the puzzle is a good drift. It's taken me a while to learn that every piece of energy I put into the line during the drift exerts an action on the flies which I can neither predict nor observe. So I have found that managing my line through the drift is critical to keeping the flies where I want them.

For starters, I cast upstream and across, attempting to place my flies at a distance upstream of the premium lie such that they arrive in depth where I believe the fish to be holding at the precise moment that it is optimal for the trout to eat them. This is, and perhaps obviously, an imperfect science.

But, with this in mind, I make every attempt to use my line to manipulate the flies only when necessary. The remainder of the time, I try to keep as much line off the water as possible, and if unavoidable, try and make sure it's not affecting the drift or impeding my ability to make a quick and accurate hook set.

This is where the flouro leader comes in. Since the flouro leader will sink, it can sometimes create a sunken spot between your indicator and your fly line which can, depending on the length of leader submerged, interrupt your hook set. It's for this reason that I often keep my leader section pretty short. Now, if you use mono, you won't have this problem. But you will have to sink the leader along with the flies, which can leave you riding too far above the strike zone.

Of equal import is managing slack line and keeping your rod in a positive striking position through the course of the drift. Slack line will cost you time between your hook set and the moment the hook sets in the fish's mouth. It also makes the first few seconds of the fight a crap shoot where the fish can gain the upper hand easily. For this reason, I keep stripping line in as the drift nears me, keeping the least amount of line between my rod tip and the indicator as possible. It's best if when I make my cast, there is no excess line off the reel. This reduces the amount of line to manage during the drift and will help you get back on the reel faster if you find yourself toe-to-toe with a bruiser.

Doing all of this well won't matter if you can't make a hook set. My mantra is to keep my rod parallel to the water with the tip of the rod no more than a foot or so above it. When you set, you'll make contact with the flies faster and you'll already be ready to put pressure on the fish (which is essential to landing big fish and fish in fast moving water).

I often hook set too hard and rip my whole rig out of the run. It's laughable. But I do try and think small on hook sets. The 9 to 10 feet of rod closes the distance fast and putting too much power into the hook set can break you off on contact, especially if you're searching for a predatory or instinctual eat where the fish often takes and turns.

Lastly, I always hook set downstream. I don't have a shred of evidence to prove this is more effective. But it is. And when a downstream isn't possible, striking straight up will be just as effective.

~TUNES~

Headin’ West

I think I’ll head west.

Shed suburbia like old skin and chase the sun.

There’s an old cabin out there that needs a fresh coat of paint and a few shingles, and shooing away the skunks that wintered under the porch. The old timer will cock his hat and crack a smile and hand me the keys and leave a cloud of blue smoke behind when he speeds off for Alaska.

A fair trade. One we both need.

Sure, there’d be an adjustment period.

It’d take a season or two to time spring runoff and tame the tigers of fear.

But soon enough my boots would have a spot by the door and the rod would sit on wooden pegs all summer and at night I’d tie shiny black beetles and grey drakes and salmonflies and plop them in my whisky to see how they float and laugh at the thought of getting the cutthroat drunk too.

I’d have a stool at the diner.

Sheila would fill a thick ceramic plate with fried eggs and toast and the bacon just the way I like it and slide it over the counter as I climbed on it and the coffee would be hot and black and bitter. We’d trade town scuttlebutt and I’d leave her a cash tip and take a coffee to go and maybe a sugar donut and tumble out of town before the breakfast crowd and the tourists show up.

Down the cool dirt road to the river damp with dew and half hidden by grasses heavy with summer and swaying to a light breeze and Nat King Cole as he croons through time and the cracked door panels of the truck.

No need for waders or a pack.

Just a little Perrin fly box and spool of tippet in one breast pocket of a heavy flannel shirt and a cheap pair of nail clippers from the counter display at the hardware store.

Barefoot and pants rolled up to my knees I’d find a patch of sand with my toes.

I’d tie on something fresh from the night before.

Bounce it off the bank.

Bingo, I’d almost say out loud.

Ease her from the gut of the run and slide her headfirst into my hand hidden in the clear cold water.

Fly’s out and she zooms back to hide in the undercut and for a moment it smells like fall and where did summer go?

Back home by noon to water the garden and split a few more barrowfuls of wood.

Sappy and sweet. Honeybees buzz around me and I am careful not to crush them as I stack.

And later, even from behind my desk and deep into another draft I can hear them droning on about how long winter is up here in the mountains.

IN A MOOD

A One-Scene Play

False Bottom

A bar. Dimly lit, but not cozy. A few guys are playing pool in the back, the clack of balls shattering across the table mixes with the buzz of a neon beer sign hanging over the bar which is worn and losing its varnish in places. Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer” starts playing from unseen speakers.

Outside a summer storm howls around the poorly hung door. ANGLER sits in a small booth off to one side, his coat on, drumming his fingertips on the table, not impatiently, but like something is building inside of him. He checks the time on his phone and slides it onto the table facedown.

The door swings open, a blast of cold air.

BIG WADER walks in, brushing rain from his shoulders. He spots ANGLER and smiles, all teeth. He strides into the bar, slowly, self-assured. The walk of a man who runs conversations like this for a living. He reaches the booth and shakes ANGLER’s hand – a little too hard – and drops into the booth opposite him. The faux leather seat wheezes under his weight. A waitress sees him enter and comes by the booth, ready to take their order.

ANGLER
(Politely, but with a kind of brittle finality.)
Two pints, please. Whatever your local seasonal is. Thanks.

BIG WADER
(Feigning concern but showing a touch of bother for having had to come out in bad weather.)
So what’s up? Your texts seemed a little curt. Something on your mind?

ANGLER
(Beat. Avoids eye contact at first.)
Look. I’m going to cut to the chase, here.
(He exhales, leans forward slightly, eyes sharpening.)
We’re unhappy with the way things have been going.
(Beat. He shifts in his seat, testing the tension.)
We appreciate everything you’ve done for us, but—

BIG WADER
(Leaning back, spreading his arms wide like a man who’s never had to take bad news seriously.)
Buddy. Let’s not be hasty, here.
(Chuckles, shaking his head as if this is just a misunderstanding.)
I know we had a rough Q4, but things will rebound in the spring. You’ll see. Besides, we’re such a good team.
(Leans in, toothy again.)
Remember that big buck brown in September? You remember. It’s the best performing post on your Instagram feed. Course you remember.
(Waves the waitress over without looking at her.)
Miss? Yes, hi. Can we change that drink order? Let’s do two single malts. The…
(Scans the bar’s top shelf like he’s shopping at Whole Foods.)
Lochrannach Sixteen. Neat. Water back. Oh and scratch the beers. Put it on this card, please. Yeah, thank you so much.

ANGLER
(Dryly. Not reaching for the performance.)
I’m not really into—

BIG WADER
(Overriding, chipper, with salesman gloss.)
Oh you’re gonna love this whisky. The peat is local to their distillery land and they still practice floor malting. They age it in casks on this island in the Hebrides for two decades. They say you can taste the salt of the sea. It’s like $50 an ounce but totally worth it. Costly, not expensive, you know?
(Leaning in now, more intimate.)
Anyway, let’s talk about what’s bothering you.

ANGLER
(Sits back, folds his hands once before unfolding them. Quiet.)
Can I be honest with you?

BIG WADER
(Smiling big. Full confidence. A man with no contingency plan.)
Of course you can! We’ve been together for forty-plus years. That makes us simpatico. You can tell me anything. What’s on your mind?

(The waitress delivers the single malts. ANGLER nods, smiles in thanks.)

ANGLER
(Leaning forward again, voice flat but not hostile.)
OK. Look. The bottom line is that we’re just not getting the bang for the buck that we used to, and with the price of everything going up, we feel like we have to get serious about where we’re investing our money.
(Shrugs slightly. Honest but firm.)
Let’s face it, the factory guarantee isn’t worth the thousand-dollar price tag, especially when you consider your fidelity rating…

BIG WADER
(Sits upright, tone clipped.)
Fidelity rating? This is the first I’m hearing of it.

ANGLER
(Nods. Calm, but a trace of bite under the surface.)
I’m not surprised. It’s a metric we’ve been tracking internally for about a decade now.
(He leans back now. Letting it land.)
The last few years have seen a steep downturn in reliability. I’ve got several reports on my desk right now of failures within the first week of ownership.
(Beat.)
Overall, your ratings are down, and our people are starting to look for alternatives. Surely you’ve heard about wet wading…

BIG WADER
(Chokes out a laugh. Disbelief.)
Wet wading?! Hah! You had me worried there for a second.
(Slaps the table gently, still laughing.)
What a joker! I should have expected it from you. You really had me.
(Suddenly pushes a glass across the table with a little flourish.)
Wow. Here, try this scotch. Prepare for your mind to be blown.

(Beat.)

(Pauses, watches ANGLER.)

(Voice drops slightly.)

You’re… serious? You can’t be serious. Wet wading?!
(Sits forward, more agitated.)
You know how cold that water is in winter. Hell, even the tailwaters in July are ice cold. I’ve seen you put foot warmers on in September.
(Points with his glass.)
Besides, you’re what, forty-five now? Wet wading is a young man’s game, and even then, those kids are all jumping back in with us when the mercury drops.
(Sits back again, gesturing to the scotch.)
Whaddaya think of that scotch? Smooth, right?

ANGLER
(Takes a sip of the scotch.)
Forty one.
(Nods once, then lowers the glass back to the table.)
It’s nice, thanks.
(Sits a little straighter.)
You know, I feel obliged to let you know that we’ve entered into talks with Hip Boots as well.

BIG WADER
(Recoils slightly. Then scoffs.)
Now I know you’re kidding. Hip Boots! A total has been. They haven’t had steady clients since the ‘90s.
(Snorts.)
Talk about out of touch. You gonna start fishing in jeans and a an old button-up again too?
(Leans in again, aggressive optimism.)
Gimme a break! Besides, we have some really cool things coming down the pike this year that I am sure you’re gonna like. We’ve got a brand new coating that’s going to revolutionize breathability and waterproofness. And we’re offering waterproof pouches with welded zippers again. Built in, sized to any smartphone. No more additional purchase just to keep your valuables safe.
(Speeds up, excited.)
And did I mention the new flexion knee design with ergonomic memory foam pads? Grip and grins for days with this new tech. All for a small uptick in pricing; those tariffs are really doing a number on us.

ANGLER
(Shrugs. Steady.)
I’m sure the new features are great.
(Beat.)
But that’s not really what we’re looking for any more.
(Hands open now, explaining more than accusing.)
We just want dependability. Most of us can barely justify the expense of fly fishing as it is, and spending more than a thousand dollars on something that might last you a season — two if you’re lucky — just ain’t cuttin’ it anymore.
(Slight pause. Lowers voice.)
And then there’s the other issue. You know the one I mean.

BIG WADER
(Interrupting. Fake casual.)
Ooo, I like this latest pic of you. Why didn’t you tag us? I am going to repost.
(Doesn’t look up from his phone.)
There.
(Suddenly perky.)
Did you see our blog post about teaming up with Winton & Blagg?

ANGLER
(Sits back, tight jaw. Controlled.)
They’re called forever chemicals for a reason.
(Quietly now, like saying it out loud matters more than being heard.)
And the board has gotten uneasy about the whole thing. We turned a blind eye to overseas production. We tolerated the all but nonexistent customer service.
(Beat.)
But PFAS are a tough one for us to get over. To be honest, we feel duped.
(Sharpening.)
Some of the guys are talking about greenwash—

BIG WADER
(Holds up a hand. Cuts him off.)
We don’t use the G-word. Or the P-word for that matter.
(Sighs like he’s explaining to a child.)
Look. We’re a large company. The fact of the matter is that whenever you try to do things at scale you have to make some concessions. We’re not perfect, but we’re always trying to get better.
(Suddenly chirpy again.)
Let’s talk about something positive; isn’t your big fall fishing trip coming up? We always have a good time on that one.
(Smiles.)
It’s all about the hang, amiright?

ANGLER
(Calling softly to the waitress.)
Miss? Hi, can we get the check?

BIG WADER
(Startled. Trying to reel it back.)
Woah, woah, slow your roll, hombre. We’re just getting started.
(Forced smile.)
Besides, I put it on the company card. Let’s get another round. I just have to tell you about our new Guide Series.
(Sits up straighter.)
Ripstop GORE-Tex. In urban camo. Optional front zip is just another $239.99.
(Muttering now, speeds up.)
Zipfer nrm covd hmmd wrrntee…

ANGLER
(Frowning slightly.)
Sorry, you mumbled that last bit. Zipper isn’t what?

BIG WADER
(Laughs too hard.)
And they come with a clip for your forceps so you can go super stealth!
(Puts both hands flat on the table, grinning.)
We’re calling them — wait for it — TROUTFORCE GX. Pretty cool, huh?

ANGLER
(Quiet. Final.)
Listen, I have to run back to the office. We’re standing up a new maintenance and repair department.
(Looks him square in the eye.)
I’m sorry it had to come to this, but things are changing. There just isn’t a compelling enough reason for us to reinvest with you this year.
(Beat.)
If things change on your end, feel free to reach out.
(Turns to the waitress, handing her cash.)
Here you go, miss. And keep the change.

BIG WADER
(Sits in stunned silence. Then calls out, voice rising.)
You can’t be serious.
(Beat.)
You’re serious.
(Leans back, trying to reassert control.)
Well, your call, chief. But don’t come crying to me in December when you’re freezing your ass off.
(Shrugs. Bitterness creeping in.)
You’ll be back!
(Softer now, almost to himself.)
They always come back. You’ll see.

A gust of wind punches the door inward as ANGLER exits. The pool players in the back don’t look up.

BIG WADER drains his scotch in one long pull. He pulls out his phone, thumbs something. Maybe a text, maybe a tweet, maybe a spreadsheet promising rebound and market share.

He laughs once; sharp, joyless. Half threat, half prayer.

From behind the bar, the bartender eyes him. Says nothing. Wipes down a spot that doesn’t need wiping. The neon buzz intensifies. One of the bulbs flickers, dies.

A truck engine outside sputters, turns over. Headlights sweep through the window and cast long, distorted shadows of antlers mounted on the wall. BIG WADER leans back. Alone now. The booth across from him empty. Still warm.

Fade to black.

Time Capsule

Some Like ‘Em Wet

Vogues of fly fishing come and go. Used to be that a swung wet fly was a sure way to break a slump. Sadly, most people don’t even know how to fish a wet fly today, and classic patterns like the ones pictured below are fading into oblivion.

Challenge: Go into your local fly shop and see if they have any of these patterns, or any wet flies for sale at all. I’d be surprised if they did.

Challenge #2: Go tie some up and fish ‘em. You might be surprised at what you find. Need a primer? Start here.

The Agony of Success

In his first book, Fly-Fishing the High Country, John Gierach wrote that the best anglers “try not to make the same mistakes over and over again; instead, they strive to make new and interesting mistakes and to remember what they learned from them."

As anglers, failure takes many shapes. It can be small, like a bad knot that fails when you need it most. It can be technical, like a sloppy cast that spooks your quarry.

Failure can plague a much anticipated trip and make all your planning seem pointless. It can drive you mad when they start rising and not a single fly in your box will solicit a strike.

Failure is the refusal, the ‘good fish’ that comes unbuttoned at the net.

Failure is the one that got away.

Fishing is a purposeful act. We go to catch fish. We can dress it up however we want — beautiful places, friendship, time for reflection — but even the most enlightened among us know that all the beauty in the world can’t match the experience of being tied into a fish. Fishing without catching is just casting, and you can do that in your backyard. Yet I don’t know of another pastime where the odds of success are so stacked against the practitioner.

Growing as an angler means wading through failure and keeping your head up. I call this the Agony of Success, the bitter teeth-cutting process of learning the hard way over and over again until that day where all those lessons fuse and you get it right.

Failure isn’t a four letter word. It’s the catalyst. We’d do well to remember that.

~TUNES~

At some point in every pursuit, our relationship to it mutates. We slide — sometimes suddenly, even violently — into collecting the objects that mark the milestones of our passion. Tools become totems. Gear becomes artifact. What started as motion becomes meaning. What began in the doing becomes a way of being.

Audiophiles have their vinyl. Photographers, their film-filled Leicas. Gearheads trade turbos for stick shifts and chase the sound of an air-cooled engine. Horologists hunt golden-era timepieces that still beat with mechanical heart.

Anglers are no different.

If you’re like me, you still want to fish, but you want to do it with soul. With style. With gear that says: I’ve been here a while.

Quartermaster is a curated dispatch of gear from across the web that deserves a second life.

Forget words like vintage or collectible. I look for items that tell stories and are ready to make some new ones. Things phased out by cost-cutting and offshoring. Stuff that stands up like a middle finger to the mediocrity of modern mass-manufacturing. Stuff that makes your palms sweat a little when you hold it.

Screw nostalgia.

Quartermaster is here to help you fall back in love with what hooked you in the first place. And send it, with style.

Late 1960s Hardy Princess with Spare Spool and Zipper Pouch

Hardy’s Princess debuted in the 1950s as a part of their Lightweight Series of reels which included the Flyweight, Featherweight, and LRH Lightweight. The series was something of an evolution in fly reel design, one that both reflected the shifting culture of angling in the postwar era, and came to define the next few decades. It marked a departure from the ornate legacy of the Perfect and St. George: stripped-down, modern, and built for the everyday angler.

Despite its delicate sounding name, the Princess was the undisputed workhorse of the Lightweight Series, ideally sized for 6-weight rods and boasting enough spool space for ample backing making them suitable for even light salmon fishing. All in all, it was a reel that helped Hardy shed some of its aristocratic image in favor of a more grounded, working-class appeal.

Like most reels that had a long production run, the Princess saw several variations. This example was likely manufactured sometime in the late 1960s and early 1970s, in what many collectors consider the sweet spot of production. Earlier production runs were marked by a ribbed brass reel foot which was swapped out in the early sixties for smooth, un-anodized alloy; the matte gray pebbled enamel finish is another hallmark of this era, a coating that was phased out by the 1980s. The use of engraving for the logo and model name is another tell of these ‘sweet spot’ Princess reels.

By today’s standards, the Princess is heavier than a typical 6-weight reel yet only spans 3 ½” inches across the face. But its weight, build quality, and styling make it an exceptional option for retro-minded anglers looking for something to pair with a fiberglass rod. And having most certainly been handmade in Alwick, it has the kind of understated, #IYKYK prestige that you’d find in a Leica rangefinder or Technics turntable. This one shows some honest patina and comes with an extra spool and Hardy zipper case, making it a really pleasing package for anyone looking to add some heritage to their lineup.

This one is up on an open auction on eBay with a starting bid of $225.

See the full eBay listing here

Like-New Loomis NRX 9’ 5wt Rod

Twelve years ago I left my Upper East Side apartment to visit the only independently-owned fly shop in Manhattan, Urban Angler. I was still green, but I felt my fishing had matured past the capabilities of the entry-level two-piece Orvis rod on which I’d learned the basics of casting. It was time for a real rod.

Ron, Urban Angler’s longtime store manager, met me with a smile when I stepped off the elevator, and upon hearing my intentions, wasted no time in walking me through their impressive lineup of rods. After a few hours of discussion and lots of wiggling of rod tips (mostly for show on my part), Ron packed up a brand new 9-foot 5-weight Loomis NRX and sent me on my way. I didn’t know it then, but I’d just purchased what would not only become my favorite rod, but the rod that would shape my entire journey as an angler.

Loomis was founded by Gary Loomis in 1982 in Washington State. Like many maker-founders, Gary fused his passions as a machinist and angler into an exploration of turning aerospace-grade graphite into high quality fly rods marked by fast recovery speed, sensitivity, and unparalleled power-to-weight ratios. By the 1990s, Loomis was a household name among anglers.

The NRX line was launched in 2010 under the leadership of celebrated rod designer and international fly casting champion Steve Rajeff. Loomis and Rajeff marketed the NRX as a quantum leap in graphite performance, pointing to a proprietary Nano Silica resin that bolstered the strength of their powerful, but brittle, graphite. The resulting NRX line was a marvel; a high-modulus stick that boasted incredible power while remaining exceptionally light for its weight class, winning both ‘Best of Show’ and ‘Best New Fly Rod’ at that year’s ICAST.

I didn’t know any of this when I walked out of Urban Angler that day, but in the decade-plus since purchasing it, my Loomis 9-foot 5-weight NRX has earned its place as my favorite rod. Over the years its landed everything from smallmouth and landlocked salmon, to Yellowstone Cutthroats and California Redbands. It’s happiest when overlined, yet can throw any kind of fly without flagging or overpowering the cast. Knock wood, but my NRX has outlasted rods from every other manufacture I’ve tried over the years, and dollars to donuts it will likely outlast me.

It’s because of all this that I considered gatekeeping this like-new example that’s on eBay with a buy-it-now price of $850 — $150 bucks less than I paid back in 2013. It’s no small chunk of change, but I couldn’t imagine my fishing life without my NRX, and would pay that and more to have a replacement waiting in the wings should my beloved Loomis meet an untimely end.

See the full eBay listing here

American-Made Abel No. 2 with Spare Spool and Pouch

The Abel No. 2 is one of those reels that feels like it belongs in the Hall of Fame of fly fishing, not because it won IGFA honors or industry accolades, but because it was the quiet best friend of the Saltwater Fly Rodders of America and celebrity anglers Flip Pallot and Lefty Kreh.

Where Abel’s No. 3, 4 and 5 were often the choice for trophy-hunting anglers chasing tarpon, GTs and billfish, the Abel No. 2 was perfectly positioned for lighter saltwater species like bonefish and striped bass. Rivaling Tibor’s Everglades model with both its burly design and sealed cork drag system, the No. 2 was an absolute workhorse model that would still suit modern saltwater and steelhead anglers well.

Perhaps the most recognizable feature of the Big Game series reels was Abel’s signature radial porting pattern with alternating spoke sizes and gloss black anodized finish, a look that defined early-to-mid 1990s reels and remains a distinctive aesthetic of the brand today. Thirty some years after its heyday, the porting pattern feels decidedly vintage without feeling quaint, like a set of Fuchs rims on an air-cooled Porsche.

The example featured here seems to have either dodged the hardworking life so many of these reels experienced, showing very faint evidence of wear throughout. The cork also appears to be in solid shape, and would no doubt function as new with a little cleaning and a light application of neatsfoot oil. The second spool is a rare bonus; being able to switch out floating and intermediate sinking lines on the fly, or species-specific setups throughout the season is made much more pleasant with a second spool.

At time of publishing, the eBay auction listing has only one bid of only $375 which is well below market for these exceptional reels. Especially when you consider that Abel doesn’t make them like this anymore—and maybe no one ever will again.

See the full eBay listing here

It’s the middle of summer, in middle of nowhere. I’ve got a buzz in the brain. Too much screen time, not enough sun.

Rivers in the Northeast are low and warm and I feel far away from the ritual of suiting up and heading out in search of something. So, I did what I do when I feel cooped up. I made something: Welcome to DROP\SHOT, your new weekly mainline into the Hookswain mainframe.

If you’re new around these parts, grab a toilet seat and stay a while. To my veteran eyeballs, welcome back to the melee.

So here’s the skinny:

Things are weird out there. The feed is full of noise, the algo is fornicating with AI slop in terrifying ways, and enshittification feels more like the norm than the exception. Even fly fishing isn’t safe from the deluge of drivel.

But that’s exactly why we’re here. To cut through it. To find signal in the static. And that’s my aim for DROP\SHOT. Unlike our other verticals, it’s casual, designed to be thumbed through in the edges of you day when you need a little mental protein.

Part notebook, part experimental depth charge.

Less polish, more pulp.

A test signal for half-formed thoughts, half-finished projects, and half-baked rebellions.

Welcome to the noise beneath the noise.

Mad Like You Are

Be careful when inviting guides to fish with you on their day off. They will out-fish you.

Good hearted, thoughtful ones, like Max Hogg, will take long breaks in between landing fish the size of which you only dream of catching. They might let you in on their secret setup, or even, in a bout of generosity of spirit, hand you a few flies and tell you right where to cast. But make no mistake. A guide is first and foremost a fisher, mad like you are, back-bent with the same primordial urge that short-circuits your underdeveloped brain, and will, if you let him, show you precisely why he gets paid to do what he does.

If this should happen to you, don’t feel sorry for yourself. Don’t let a butt-hurt ego muddy your mind. Stay in the game and watch him, study what he does. If it helps, remind yourself that he spends the lion’s share of his life in waders and has made a living helping hacks like you catch fish.

And when he sets the hook into the second twenty-plus-inch brown trout of the day, try to savor that part of you that splits with the sudden recognition that he’s earned something you haven’t yet.

Smile when you net it for him. After all, you invited him.

Long-time readers might remember Max from this June ‘24 installment of Wind Knots:

║ ASK YOUR DOCTOR ABOUT ROD BUILDING ║

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#senditwithstyle

A chic, classic Costner reminding us that hip boots over jeans deserves a serious comeback. This is angler sprezzatura at its finest, right down to the faded green canoe.

LOST & FOUND: First Tarpon on the Fly

Isla Holbox, Mexico - March 2023

A few years ago, I spent a day chasing tarpon with legendary saltwater guide Alejandro Vega Cruz — better known as Sandflea. His energy is relentless. His knowledge of the flats, generational.

I had hoped to capture the experience with my iPhone, but you can’t cast and film. So I did what I could: I hit pulled up the Voice Memos app, hit record, and let it roll.

The audio files from that day were lost in the Bermuda Triangle of the cloud for more than a year before inexplicably reappearing after a recent iPhone update. I excitedly waded through hours of audio, reliving the fits and starts that is saltwater fly fishing.

The resulting audio clip lands us on Sandflea’s panga just as he spots a school of juvenile tarpon along a mangrove thicket. You can hear it all happen, unvarnished and real; the breathless urgency, the casting chaos, the gentle-but-firm corrections. I’m sure I drove him crazy with how many shots I bungled, but in the end we came tight. It all made for a humbling crash course and an unforgettable day.

I encourage you to give the whole clip a listen; you might learn something too. If nothing else, it’s a sobering reminder to go practice your casting.

Hat tip to Hookswain subscriber Andrew P. for the tip about fishing in Holbox, and connecting me with Sandflea.

DOWNWARD DOG-EARS

Bend the spine. Fold the corner. Stretch your brain.

~ T U N E S ~

“There are too many ideas and things and people. Too many directions to go. I was starting to believe the reason it matters to care passionately about something, is that it whittles the world down to a more manageable size.” - Charlie Kaufman.

Jose Wejebe sits on a stool, his once-long hair cut short and showing some gray, skin tanned to the deep auburn common only to surfers and fishermen, unaware that he is going to die. Text underlay on the screen announces silently that it is April 5, 2012. Wejebe is talking about the tarpon he has spent the last two days desperately trying to catch with a fly rod. He is, as usual, spellbinding. “If there ever was a fish that was made for saltwater fly fishing, it’s the tarpon,” he tells you. You believe him.

Wejebe must’ve felt good about this, the third episode of the eighteenth season of his fishing show, The Spanish Fly. He was well-practiced at his job, smoother than most anyone in front of the camera, obviously unscripted, passionate — the perfect protagonist to hook any viewer, even one who’d never touched a fishing rod in his life. He had no clue that he was almost to his own end now, ticking through a timeline that had dwindled from days to hours to minutes toward the last fish of his life. Or that this episode’s name would be changed to Jose’s “Last One”. That it would open not with the first scene he and his crew had shot, but with a eulogy.

But that’s exactly what happened to perhaps the world’s greatest saltwater fisherman, and surely its greatest fishing-show host.

Jose Wejebe’s death would be the greatest surprise of his life, both to him and the people who worked with and loved him. But to those he left behind — his family, friends, crew and fans — there was another surprise coming. Out of Wejebe’s death would come his magnum opus, one of the single greatest episodes of a fishing show ever made.

You remind yourself as you watch him that he doesn’t know what’s happening. That the majestic way he sits, soaking up the Florida sun, stems from the fact that he’s doing what he’s meant to do, not because he knows these are his final hours. To Jose Wejebe, all that lies ahead is more fishing.

When I was a kid, Saturday mornings spent with my father in rural Pennsylvania, meant turning on ESPN2 to watch the only sports we had in common: hunting and fishing. Dad liked the hunting shows, big bucks and wild hogs and turkeys dropped from 100 yards by sharp-shooting good ol’ boys. I liked the shows about fishing.

The 1990s were a boom time for outdoors shows thanks to the ESPN Outdoors block, the first (and last) time that hunting and fishing landed on a mainstream sports network. Viewers tuning in a few hours before the first noon college football game got a heavy dose of rifles and reels. The quality of the shows ran the gamut. One, the Walker’s Cay Chronicles, hosted by bearded flats-hippie-extraordinaire Flip Pallot, struck me as cinematic and insightful. But more often than not the shows felt amateurish, with poor production values and hosts who ranged from slightly entertaining to difficult to watch. Creativity was not a strong suit. Nor was storyline, editing or nuance of any kind. “We made a lot of bad shows,” Jerry McKinnis, the producer of the Outdoors block and longtime host of The Fishing Hole, one of the earliest and longest-lived such shows, admitted when I spoke with him.

The truth is, making a fishing show is remarkably difficult. By the early ’90s, the formula had been set: Crews spent three full days shooting a host and his guest fishing in one body of water for one kind of fish, then strung together the catches and chitchat into 23 minutes of airtime. But throwing together disparate portions of a fishing trip produced no narrative arc, and most fishermen failed to be entertaining and interesting while they focused on catching fish. To narrate their catches, some tried to use voiceovers, which were inevitably dry or corny. Watching a stranger catch a few fish is a way to pass the time if you’re obsessed with the sport; it is not good television. It is certainly not art.

Some shows tried to compensate for these problems with alternate entertainment. Bill Dance famously staged falls from his boat and steep banks, spewing “gawsh dangits!” and bleeped expletives. Jimmy Houston kissed on the lips every big fish he caught. (Mimicking him became a craze among bass fishermen, despite doctors’ concerns about salmonella and the parasite giardia.)

I could tell The Spanish Fly was different, even at a young age. When it came on, heralded by a rambling flamenco guitar intro, I would stop whatever I had been doodling and become riveted to the TV. My dad, the hunter, might grumble, but he too would stop what he was doing and watch. For the next 30 minutes, we were overcome by the wonders of saltwater fishing, a sport we had never tried or understood. I was two hundred miles from the sea, yet I could smell it in the room.

Wejebe was the perfect character to change the fishing show’s formula. The host of The Spanish Fly was in fact born in Cuba in 1958, escaping to Miami with his family after his father and grandfather were jailed for speaking out against Castro’s revolution, and the family’s property seized. In South Florida, he and nine family members lived in a two-bedroom house. The saltwater playground of Biscayne Bay became his escape from reality. His stepfather taught him to fish, and he fell in love with all things aquatic. Stu Apte and Flip Pallot, two icons of American fly fishing and some of the first to promote the sport through writing, photography and video, became his heroes and, eventually, his mentors.

By age 18 Wejebe had his own boat and was guiding in the inshore waters of the bay; weekends, he worked with dolphins at the Miami Seaquarium. Eventually, he became a full-time guide. Speaking two languages helped, as did his natural sense of humor. In 1994, McKinnis, the producer of ESPN2’s Outdoors block, saw Wejebe guide during a celebrity bonefish tournament. He was looking for a host for a new saltwater show.

“There’s guys that’ve got it, and guys that don’t,” McKinnis said. “I could spot it. He was a really good-looking guy. His charisma was off the charts. He had a good voice, talked very well and was extremely smart. If you’re looking for a television personality, those are good starts.”

There was one more thing. “In the beginning,” McKinnis told me, “I didn’t know he would tell stories like he did.”

That would soon become apparent. Wejebe was deeply taken by The Walker’s Cay Chronicles, Flip Pallot’s fishing show, one of the first to follow a tight narrative arc and explore epic scoring to fighting big fish. But the voiceovers on which Pallot relied were carefully written and edited. Together, Wejebe and McKinnis decided on something else. Wejebe’s show would cut between Jose fishing with the episode’s guest guide, and a special sit-down interview conducted at the end of every trip. Wejebe kept scrupulous notes during each shoot, and used the sit-down section to fill in gaps in the narrative he had crafted during the trip. It worked. Splicing the interview into the episode created an extra layer of storytelling that no fishing show had ever reached.

There were other advancements. Wejebe would sit in on editing sessions — almost no host has done this, before or since — providing last touches of input to get the episodes just right. He became obsessed with the show’s cinematography, pushing his producers to use the highest-quality shooting gear. Wejebe wanted viewers to understand why fish acted the way they did, so he built his own underwater film gear and learned how to capture footage while diving himself. To show what trolled bait looked like from a fish’s point of view, Wejebe would dive into the water and tell his guest to drive the boat directly over him.

“That was the big thing that set my father apart from other guides,” said Krissy Wejebe, Jose’s daughter. “He got wet. What my dad used to do was get dropped off at a reef. He had his re-breather, and he would just sink to the bottom and watch the fish. Not what their behavior was like when there was a boat over top of them, but where they live, naturally. How they were eating. He was getting a different perspective, so he could learn how to apply that from above the water.”

The shots Wejebe captured were jaw-dropping to fishermen, and became so integrated with the series that you could know it was his show before hearing a word — any shot of a big, toothy saltwater fish chasing a ball of bait underwater meant you were watching The Spanish Fly. Later, when Wejebe built his own plane, he and his cameramen fashioned special camera rigs to use for aerial footage that could show viewers gorgeous shots establishing the big picture: small sandy islands surrounded by deepening shades of blue — the darkest rivulets highways for fish, the lighter flats their hunting grounds.

Then there was the final flourish: classical music. That was not Wejebe’s idea. “Jose said, ‘You want to do what?’ ” said Mike McKinnis, Jerry McKinnis’s son, who also produced the show. “He had this idea of Walker’s Cay, which used this dreamy, beautiful music.” Jerry McKinnis insisted. “We used anything we could get our hands on — operas, symphonies — and it worked perfectly for what he did,” Mike McKinnis said.

Classical music lent the traditionally arduous movements of fishing — poling the boat along the flats, throwing long casts, setting the hook when a fish attacked the fly — the air of a ballet. One segment features two minutes of Wejebe catching baitfish with a throw net, something almost no host had ever thought to feature — cutting between Wejebe on the shore, explaining how he found the spot because of its geography, to Wejebe on the boat, reeling drunkenly as the boat rolls in the swells and preparing to throw the net, to the fish underwater, schooling and flashing. It’s set to George Bizet’s Carmen Suite #2, Bohemian Dance, the editing perfectly in time with the music so that each character has its own theme: fluttering, playful flute for Wejebe on the boat and loud, angry woodwinds for the fearful baitfish. When Wejebe throws his net, the whole orchestra takes off, turning the fight, otherwise routine, into an epic battle.

In the end, these details were excellent bait; Wejebe himself was the hook. If his bodybuilder frame, dark skin and black mustache were drastically different from the look of other outdoor-show hosts, his demeanor was entirely familiar. His charm was irresistible. “He could’ve done his whole show in Spanish, and it wouldn’t have bothered me a bit,” Jim Kramer, an outdoor-show cameraman, editor and producer, told me. “I would’ve just read the subtitles.”

Wejebe wasn’t afraid to play the fool and goof around with his guests, but underneath, potent expertise lurked. (A love of slang and slouching friendliness makes comparisons to Anthony Bourdain surprisingly apt.) And he was no fly-fishing purist. In a single episode, he would often switch back and forth between a spinning rod and fly rod as each cast dictated.

Unlike other saltwater fishing hosts, who often used gaffs, killing the fish they caught, Wejebe was obsessed with the health of his catches and almost always insisted on practicing catch-and-release. In this way he verged on environmentalism, a bad word among sportsmen, most of whom insist upon the management and balance inherent in the word conservation. His episodes were rich with descriptions of ecosystems, and sometimes hinged entirely on the topic; in one, “Ghosts of the Everglades,” he and a friend visited a snook fishery a year after a massive fish kill to check on the recovery of the species. In one episode, he catches a permit. Holding it aloft, he declares “Now, this is what you call a palomita.” I assumed it meant “fat one” or “big mama” — the sort of thing other fishermen would say about a big fish. It’s slang for “little dove” — a nickname for one’s mistress.

It all made for a huge hit. The Spanish Fly quickly garnered the best ratings of any outdoor programming on ESPN2. Wejebe was an early adopter of Facebook and social media, which buoyed his fan base and gave him reach far beyond any other fishing show. It survived when ESPN canceled the entire Outdoors block in 2010, moving to the Outdoor Channel.

In 2012, for the show’s eighteenth season, Wejebe had secured new major brands as advertisers. He was considering launching a second show as a producer. Then, having spent three days shooting a show about fishing for tarpon in the Everglades with friend and fellow guide Jeff Legutki, Wejebe took off in his homemade experimental airplane from Everglades City airport in heavy winds. The plane veered sharply to the right, plummeted and smashed into the ground. Wejebe was pronounced dead at the scene.

***

There is an almost inexplicable link between fishing and death. It’s not always there for all fishermen. But sometimes we feel it, and the most eloquent are able to explain it. Norman Maclean is “haunted by waters” in A River Runs Through It. In The Old Man and the Sea, Hemingway gives the old man, Santiago, a melancholy thought while he fights the marlin: “Everything kills everything else in some way. Fishing kills me exactly as it keeps me alive.”

A fishing guide in the Catskills once told me that he never understood how much he loved fishing, and why, until his daughter was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Alone, on the stream, was the only place he could come to terms with the death on its way to his daughter.

When my grandmother died, I spent hours and hours, like that Catskills guide, alone on Spring Creek near Penn State University, pondering why we die and why we live. It helped to fish, somehow. Perhaps because I was witnessing a constantly cycling ecosystem that was both wholly beautiful and wholly vicious. Perhaps because when we stare at the fish we’ve caught, and decide whether to release them or eat them, we understand that the same ruthless greater power exists over us.

“The meaning of life is that it ends,” as Kafka said. He must have been a fisherman as well as a philosopher. It’s easy to imagine him sitting on an Austrian riverbank, rod in hand, waiting for a bite, pondering.

***

After Wejebe’s death, his colleagues and friends faced a nightmare. On top of that, they needed a final season, and their host was dead.

Their solution was a remembrance series spanning Wejebe’s career. They invited a cohort of his friends and fellow guides — fishing royalty — to tell their stories about Jose in sit-down interviews, which were then spliced among narrated segments from previous episodes. The result was stunning: thirteen episodes of a fishing show that were less about fishing and more about a man’s life.

It was an incredible feat for the show’s crew, who had just lost a friend. “It was definitely unnatural mourning,” editor and producer Tim Schick told me. “Usually when you have a loss in life like that, there’s those progressions of anger and denial and acceptance and the natural mourning period. For us, it lasted six months. It was extremely difficult, and it took its toll. I’ve never quite recovered from it.”

The final episode of The Spanish Fly shed the friend-interview format to show Wejebe’s last fishing trip, including the hours just before his death. Wejebe is fishing for tarpon in the murky waters where the Everglades meet the sea with Jeff Legutki, a pal and an excellent tarpon guide. For three days they are skunked — fish after fish after fish the size of a doberman swallows Wejebe’s fly, leaps once, maybe twice, and throws the hook. About halfway through the episode, it becomes clear, given how many fish Wejebe has lost, that this is really the quest to land the last fish of his life.

Jose’s “Last One”, as it came to be titled, is adorned with all the hallmarks of The Spanish Fly. It has a powerful narrative arc: the insane difficulty of tarpon fishing; how persistence, edged with tiny touches of expertise, can be used to tear open the toughest days on the water.

Expertly interwoven layers of footage — underwater shots of schooling tarpon, intricate fly tying that provides the backstory of the fly Wejebe will use — add depth and a sense of place that lives and breathes. Wejebe gives a master class on catching tarpon, with the usual focus on the little tricks that make a big difference: how to turn a cooler into a casting platform, following bubbles on the surface to guess where the fish has gone. And although the episode lacks the show’s trademark classical soundtrack in favor of more low-key, sober music, Wejebe’s energy is as unbridled as ever. At one point, when a tarpon throws his hook, he raises his rod in both hands above his head, the motion of an angry man about to snap a pole in half, and instead howls peals of laughter into the flats.

Then there are things that align in such a way that it’s hard to believe, that made me feel not so silly for forgetting that Wejebe wasn’t around somehow, editing from beyond the grave, having written the script knowing where things were headed. It’s his first and last trip on a new boat. His first and last time using a reel made by his good friend, fly-fishing legend Ted Jurascik — Wejebe’s name inscribed on it like an epitaph.

His last fish was the one he would’ve chosen himself. “People would always ask him, if you can catch only one fish, what would it be?” said Mike Torbisco, a cameraman and Wejebe’s protégé who was there that trip, filming the show. “And he would always answer that it was tarpon.”

Behind Wejebe as he conducts his sit-down interview, footage used throughout the episode, are two dry-docked boats, their hulls peeling with age. The name of one, seen just over his shoulder, is Last One.

The single best shot of the episode is set there. The boat sitting silently, broadcasting its foreboding message, whispering a future no one can hear. Wejebe’s chair empty. And then, like a ghost, he slowly appears again to talk about his last fish in a way that feels like he knows it’s his last fish.

“Some days it’s easy to catch fish,” he says. “But the ones that are really rewarding are the ones you really have to work for. The ones that you have to use everything you learned over the years just to make that one catch. And you take that one catch, and the sum of everything else you did, with a friend —” He pauses, and you think he’s about to say that it’s a great end to one’s life. Instead: “— It’s a pretty good few days in the ’Glades.”

Then, off camera, he asks, “We good?” He nods to himself. And like that, he’s gone again, this time for good.

“They happened to leave that camera on in the field during Jose’s interview and let it roll for four or five minutes after he walked out of the scene,” said Tim Schick, who produced and edited the episode. “I was watching his interview, and probably was in tears, and just let the tape keep rolling while I listened to him off camera. I was just wanting to soak up every last moment. When that camera stopped rolling there, that was the last time I heard from him. That’s where I got the idea to bring him in and then let him fade away.”

“It was just was one of the colors in the palette to paint that picture,” Schick said. “It felt like I was just doing what was supposed to be done.”

In the years since Wejebe’s death, no outdoors show has stepped up to fill the place left by The Spanish Fly as the uncontested greatest, Jerry McKinnis said. None has made non-fishermen feel so included and interested; none has taken the sport so seriously and elevated it with artistry; none has impressed so powerfully upon its viewers the precious and fragile nature of the environment they so adore.

But Wejebe’s legacy remains. His daughter Krissy runs the Jose Wejebe Foundation, which helps people with life challenges — kids with cancer, veterans, children in foster care — get out on a boat to fish and learn about the ocean. “My dad was always there to help whoever needed it at the time,” she told me. “If somebody’s boat sank and they needed a motor, he’d sell his to help them. That’s what we tried to do with the foundation.”

In Jose’s “Last One”, Wejebe finally does land that last fish, after a perfect cast and a long fight. When the fish is beside the boat, it becomes clear that at some point during the battle, the hook had come loose from the tarpon’s mouth and, in a freak accident, rehooked the fish in the dorsal fin. Wejebe plucks it loose like a flower petal and declares, “Did you see that? I barely touched that thing, and it just fell right out.” There is awe in his voice, like he’s just seen a miracle. When the fish splashes away, back into the dark water. Wejebe blows it a kiss.

“I’m so happy right now, you have no idea,” he says. “Life is good.”

Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in 2017 in SHIFTed Magazine. It has been edited for clarity and length.

Building a custom fly rod is not a terribly complex process, but it does require precision and attention to deta…

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Notice something I got wrong? Have recommendations for how to do it better? Let me know in the comments!

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Notice something I got wrong? Have recommendations for how to do it better? Let me know in the comments!

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Though not a terribly complex process, it required patience and attention to detail to ensure a clean, mess-free glue up.

Notice something I got wrong? Have recommendations for how to do it better? Let me know in …

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At its core, a fly rod is elegantly simple: casting a fly line and controlling a hooked fish. Structurally, it's a tapered spring that stores and releases energy with every cast, then gracefully shifts into a lever once you’ve hooked your quarry. Whether graphite, fiberglass, or bamboo, the mechanics remain unchanged.

I’ve always viewed fly rods as purely functional tools. But working on this rod has altered my perception entirely. Factory rods, efficient but often soulless, prioritize economies-of-scale over aesthetics and individuality. As I dove into the nuances of thread wrapping, a rich history emerged; one filled with meticulous craftsmanship, thoughtful design, and undeniable beauty.

Here were intricate color theories, material compatibilities, and painstaking handcraft that demands incredible patience. The kind of dedication that leaves you sore-necked, eyes straining, the true appreciation of which is earned only by those who've hunched over a wrapping jig themselves. Is this a lost art? An esoteric expression relegated to the past?

As I go deeper down the rabbit hole, dropping a grand on a mass-produced rod seems increasingly absurd. Almost dystopian.Have I been conditioned to overlook the "blanding" that's creeping through art, design, and architecture? Is it happening to fly fishing?

Possibly. But this realization has energized me to push further, to create something intentional, and genuinely unique.

Finding My Inspiration

With this renewed mindset, I returned to my original muse: late 1970s and early '80s American SUVs. The rich honey brown of my rod blank naturally drew me toward brown-bodied Broncos and Blazers.

A deep dive on Bring a Trailer led me to a gorgeous 1978 Ford Bronco adorned with striking tri-color striping known affectionately as "Montana Bronco Striping."

I knew instantly this was the aesthetic I wanted for the rod. Translating this striping into thread wraps would be challenging, requiring patience and finesse.

Guide & Ferrule Wraps

I’ve selected a deep, chocolate-brown thread as the base wrap, which will darken beautifully once varnished, contrasting nicely with the blank. To capture that Montana Bronco spirit, I’ll incorporate inlaid tri-color stripes. After some tentative practice wraps, I’m cautiously optimistic that I can achieve the look.

The wraps at the rod’s finer tip (S5) will feature a single, delicate inlaid stripe, subtly increasing in complexity toward the butt section. By the time I reach the stripping guide on the S2 section, I aim to include all three stripes, a kind of crescendo in the rod’s visual journey.

Ferrule wraps offer a slightly easier canvas, allowing me to consistently carry the triple-stripe motif throughout. If successful, it’ll deliver a cohesive, vintage look while stretching my skills just beyond their comfort zone.

Here’s a rough schematic of how it’ll look:

Signature Wraps

The area above the grip is often the rod builder’s true showcase. Historically, it's a space for creativity, intricate patterns, and personalized touches that elevate a rod from functional tool to cherished artifact.

I'm not entirely sure yet how I’ll use this space, and I think that’s okay. Perhaps I'll let the rod’s personality reveal itself as the build progresses.

In the meantime, I'd genuinely love your input. Fellow builders, artists, and design enthusiasts: what do you do to make your signature wraps special? What am I missing? Am I forcing the concept?

Drop a comment below; your ideas might just inspire the finishing touches on Codename Bronco.

First and foremost I want to thank all the paid subscribers for your ongoing support. This build project is funded directly by your membership to Hookswain and would not be possibl…

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A while ago I bought a hardcover book simply entitled Fiberglass Rod Making. It came home with an armload of others and found a home on the shelves in my office next to other fishing-related books I told myself I’d read someday. If buying this fiberglass rod blank was a spur of the moment indulgence, recalling that I had already accumulated reference material to help me build it felt like a deft piece of forethought.

Turns out the author, Dale P. Clemens, who passed away in 2014, was something of a fiberglass rod-building legend. Fiberglass Rod Making was his first of several influential books on the subject, and the start of a successful mail-order rod-building business he built from scratch and ran alongside his day job as an insurance salesman in Allentown, Pennsylvania. He later founded America’s first rod-building guild and traveled the country speaking about the craft.

Now that I’ve actually cracked Clemens’ book, I’m discovering what a treasure it is — not just for technical instructions, but also for his grounded observations about the craft itself. In Chapter One, “Why Build Your Own?,” he writes:

“The real thrill of fishing comes from outwitting the fish. It is something that you and you alone do...Many a fisherman has learned that his fishing thrill is enhanced when the fish is conquered on a fly that he tied. It is much better than on a fly he bought. Capturing your fish with a rod that you alone made provides an even greater thrill.”

Clemens goes on to discuss the pragmatic reasons to build your own rod, not least of which for him was the lack of access to the types of rods he wanted to fish; you couldn’t outfit yourself for a tarpon trip at your average Pennsylvania sporting goods shop in the mid 1970s.

Unlike Clemens, I was able to purchase all the parts required to build a custom fly rod in a matter of minutes, online, and have them shipped directly to my house. I wonder what he’s think about this project?

While you can buy premade reel seats, and hardware with integrated reel seats, I knew I wanted this piece of the rod to be custom. A reel seat is just a short cylinder, about four inches long, with a hole drilled down the middle. At one end, you attach a fixed hood to hold one side of your reel. At the other end, there's a threaded section with rings that tighten down to secure the reel foot in place. This ensemble is then glued to the butt section of your rod and becomes the base for your cork grip.

Not only did I want the creative control over such a visual part of the rod, but I wanted to construct it to the rod and hardware’s actual dimensions. But doing so would require some help. Lucky for me, my brother Reuben is a master furniture builder and a talented rod builder; and his shop is a short drive down the road.

There are many things I love about my brother, but his penchant for spotting and saving pieces of incredible wood is a kind of superpower that I truly admire. Tucked around his shop are piles of offcuts from previous projects, pieces of firewood that were too beautiful to burn, burls at various stages of drying and collecting sawdust. A project like this is catnip for him, and I love watching him bop around the shop retelling the stories of each piece like an excited museum curator.

When I briefed him on this project and explained what I was looking for, he disappeared into the annex and came back moments later with a piece of figured maple he’s been gifted years prior by a fellow woodworker and saved precisely for making reel seats.

Figuring is a deviation of the straight-grained cell structure of a tree caused by stress. We can’t see the cells themselves, but the figuring is readable as changes in luster or color. These striations are unique and when applied correctly by a craftsman can produce the type of stunning results that you might associate with a priceless Les Paul or Stradivarius.

We made our selection and nipped it from the source with a few passes through the bandsaw, cutting it first into a rectangle and then an octagon by trimming off the corners.

Reuben fixed the piece in lathe and in no time I was turning.

Clemens calls the reel seat the “heart of the handle section of a rod” and it quickly became apparent why. Precision is key here. The ends of the reel seat should fit inside the hardware with little to no wiggle room. The central bore should be as close to the diameter of your rod blank so that it rests snugly inside the seat. Turning the reel seat myself ensures that I get the aesthetic that I want in tight tolerances that I desire.

It took me a couple hours to turn the reel seat down to the correct dimensions. Another hour to carefully bore the central hole for the blank to slide through. None of this would have been possible without my brother, his experience, or the tools and materials he’s accumulated over decades of woodworking.

Up until this build, it has been really easy for me to disassociate the manufacturing process of a fly rod from the rod itself, an occurrence all too common in our modern consumer existences. For us, a product’s life begins when it arrives on our doorstep. We rarely stop to ponder how it got there.

This rod changes that. Years from now, someone picking it up might never guess the hours, mistakes, or conversations behind it. But I’ll know. And every cast will remind me of the story it carries, the story that’s only beginning to unfold.

But these things tend to take on a life of their own. One day you’re planning a trip and wishing you had a rod you could toss in a carry-on. The next, you’re thumbing through Instagram, see a 7-foot 5-piece fiberglass blank at a reasonable price, and click ‘buy.’ Pretty soon, you’ve got yourself a project.

To think that all that stands between me and a new rod is tens of hours of planning, designing, gluing, turning, measuring, wrapping, burnishing, finishing, and trying not to screw it up along the way.

Full disclosure: I barely know what I'm doing. That means, like most of my projects, I'll be learning on the fly, figuring things out as I go. And because I'm apparently a masochist, I thought it'd be fun to document the entire messy process and share it with you. I’ll be learning there too, unpacking Substack’s tools and features to bring you multi-media updates as the build progresses.

Why this Rod?

I’ve been wanting to fish fiberglass for a long time. There's something undeniably comfortable about it — like shearling slippers, jeans and flannel, a cigar on the porch, flipping the record, the temptation of another beer when you know you shouldn’t. Easy, indulgent, nostalgic.

A 7-foot, 4-weight rod won’t win any power contests, especially in fiberglass. But it’ll pack down into a tube less that’s about 20 inches long and, if my hunch is right, should beautifully deliver dry flies to little wild trout. I’m already picturing noodly casts, splashy takes, and flickering fingerlings putting gentle bends in the fiberglass before shaking off the hook. This is not a rod for trophies; it’s one for the memories.

To understand where my head is at you have to know that a whole other piece of my brain has been completely consumed with the idea of purchasing an original American SUV. I’m talking about a boxy, springy, velour-filled mid-era Bronco or Blazer. Something with a bench seat and a column shifter and big analog gauges, stainless steel bumpers and chrome mirrors.

It’s a silly obsession at the moment. One made laughable by the fact that these trucks have skyrocketed in value. The likelihood of owning one is low. But you can’t stop a man from dreaming.

In the meantime, this brown fiberglass blank is scratching the retro itch. And I’ve decided to lean into it. I’m going retro on this build, stealing design cues from the heyday of Motor City, building the fly rod version of my dream rig. Hence: Codename Bronco.

Where I plan to Fish It

In June, my wife and I will travel to Kosovo and Albania to visit family and friends. Her family lives in Gjakova, near Albania’s mountainous border. From her parents’ kitchen window, you can see jagged Alps rising above forested valleys threaded with tiny streams.

I still think about our last visit, when my in-laws generously spent a day helping me scout the banks of the Valbona River for trout. We barely scratched the surface. This rod feels perfect for exploring those small streams beneath snowy peaks — casting dry flies into unknown pools, never knowing exactly what's swimming below. And that's precisely the appeal.

We also plan to travel south into Albania, to Vlorë. Vlorë is a fascinating city with an incredible history of its own. But it’s also well-positioned to access to all manner of incredible-looking rivers, the most famous of which is Vjosë, which is currently one of the last un-dammed wild rivers in Europe. Vjosë is big water and probably won’t be on the menu this go ‘round. But from what I can tell from Google Maps scouting, there are lots of little spring-fed streams that drain into it.

Word on the digital street is that there are trout here. The internet is suggesting they’d be West Balkan Trout (Salmo farioides), but it’s impossible to know what’s there unless I wet a line. I can’t wait to start sleuthing and figure it out.

What to Expect From this Series

This series is an experiment for me and Hookswain. I’m not really a "content creator," and usually lack the patience to document projects step-by-step. But I've discovered there aren’t enough straightforward resources out there for building a rod like this. The few existing resources leave too many gaps and unanswered questions. I want to change that.

You’ll get supply lists, honest costs, wins, losses, experiments, and plenty of candid mistakes. Videos aren’t my natural habitat, but I'll invite you into my workshop anyway—showing exactly how this rod gets made. Expect lots of photos, quick videos, and step-by-step details.

Most of this stuff will live on the ‘Benchcraft’ channel. When you subscribe you’ll be automatically enrolled to receive updates. But you can always navigate to the homepage and navigate to the section to catch up on everything related to the project.

To keep things easy to follow, each update related to this build will be tagged [4wt Fiberglass Travel Rod Build]. Drop in, dip out, catch up anytime.

I'll also be asking for your help along the way. Experienced rod builders, I’m counting on you to point out when I’m about to screw something up. Everyone else, expect some polls and opportunities to weigh in on design choices as the rod takes shape.

Last but not least, I’ll take you with me to Kosovo and Albania so you can see the rivers first-hand and watch how the rod performs.

Next Steps: How to Follow Along

No part of this project is sponsored or underwritten by a brand. I’ve laid out the money to buy everything and have picked the materials and parts based on what was available online, what I liked, and what I think would make a cool build.

I'll be sharing plenty publicly, but deeper dives, detailed step-by-steps, and behind-the-scenes extras will be exclusive to paid subscribers. If you're into rod-building, retro projects, or just enjoy seeing someone else’s DIY adventures—missteps included—consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’ll help me do more of this kind of thing in the future. Subscriptions start at $5 a month.

If you’re not ready to bypass the paywall, consider subscribing as a free reader. There will be plenty of free stuff to enjoy too.

I’ll also be using Substack’s Chat feature to post quick hits, updates, short form stuff, surveys etc. Joining the Hookswain Chat will be a great way to follow along.

Looking forward to building this thing together.

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