You Say Spey Rod; I Say Switch Rod

I wrapped up the 2012 Wisconsin fly fishing season with several days on steelhead water.  After much persistence that mingled with self doubt, frustration, and resignation, I finally managed to conquer the steelhead swing.  I came to the conclusion that I would prefer all my future steelhead to be caught by swinging a two-handed rod, which meant I would eventually need to procure my own rig. 

Being the frugal gal that I am, I hadn't minded borrowing friends' switch rods during my handful of steelhead trips the last few years, but after a certain point the guilt of being a moocher set in.  So when one of those friends (whose switch rod I had been borrowing) randomly sent an email suggesting he use his "good guy" discount to help me get a two-handed setup of my very own, I immediately took him up on his offer.  Either he believed I had become a "real" steelheader and deserved my own rig, or he was sick of loaning out his own steelhead rod to a sorry amateur.  Either way, the universe had spoken. 

 

I have very generous fly fishing friends.  If I were to list everything in my fly fishing arsenal that's been given to me by others, I'd appear to be a first-class mooch.  In most cases, people have had extra fishing gear or fly tying materials lying around and saw that I could put them to use.   My husband claims it's because I'm a girl, which I hope isn't entirely true; I honestly believe the people I fish with are just really considerate individuals. Fly fishermen end up accumulating a lot of fly fishing stuff over the years, and it probably feels good to spread the wealth--especially to an appreciative newbie. Hopefully I'll be in the position someday to do the same for another poor soul.

 

Back to the new steelhead rod........

The "good guy" suggested a new Redington rod and reel combo that he could get at a fairly affordable price, but as an alternative, I contacted another friend who keeps an eye out for used gear thinking he might know of some used switch rods that were available. He immediately sent me several links on some quality used switch/spey rods.  I like the idea of used gear; I feel I'm giving a second life to a rod that might be collecting dust in someone's closet or biding its time in the garage rafters.  After some research and contemplation, I settled on a real beauty of a used Beulah.  Beulah categorizes this rod as a "spey rod," though by most definitions it's a switch rod since it's under 12 feet in length.  Regardless, it's a two-handed 6/7 weight rod that should be great for swinging flies on Wisconsin steelheading waters. 

After deciding on the rod, the "good guy" ordered a new 9/10 reel that balances the rod pretty well, and I ordered some Miracle Braid shooting line and backing.  Once I had the rod, reel, backing, shooting line, and shooting head in my possession, I was then ready to start setting up my new steelhead reel.

I've set up reels before for my regular trout rods, but getting this particular reel set up presented new challenges.  All of my other reels start with an arbor knot to attach backing to the reel, then a nail knot to attach the line to the backing.  The line usually has a pre-made loop on the tag end, which makes the connection of looped leaders very simple.  With this new steelhead reel, I needed to create loop-to-loop connections between the backing and shooting line, as well as between the shooting line and shooting head.  I relied on my "Guide to Fly Fishing Knots" along with the handy-dandy internet.

 

I began by wrapping the Miracle Braid shooting line and the shooting head around the reel in order to estimate how much backing I would need.  I then cut the required amount of backing and used an arbor knot to attach the backing to the reel. If only all of the knots had been this easy.

I then had to create double nail knots on the tag end of the backing as well as on the end of the shooting line in order to make a loop-to-loop connection, which I had read was the best way to connect these two lines.  I haven't had to tie many nail knots--let alone double nail knots--so I ended up spending several frustrating hours attempting to get them just right.  I must have redone the knots over half a dozen times before I finally gave up.  The knots I settled with felt pretty secure, but I wasn't completely satisfied with them.  Luckily, the "good guy" had plans to stop by with his girlfriend for a weekend over the holidays, so I knew he'd fix the knots for me. 

My attempts at double nail knots.

Instead of folding over the end of the backing and using its own tail end to tie the double nail knots, he used a length of 1x tippet as the overlapping line. The knots ended up being much cleaner and tighter this way.  He repeated this knot on each end of the shooting line, which was then connected to the pre-made loop on the shooting head.  I still need to attach a sink tip and tippet to the shooting head, but the hardest part is over.


The improved double nail knots.

 

On a frigidly cold and sunny day in December, I rigged up the rod and trudged through the snow into the backyard. I spey casted on top of the 20 inches of snow that recently fell and visualized a cold, deep steelhead run.

 

Blue & Red Memories

With our greenhouse season in full swing, I don't have much time during the day to think about anything besides plants and customers. My days are so busy that I actually need to remind myself most days to eat.  Needless to say, the month of May does not afford time to relax and contemplate life like the month of January does.  The craziness of the past few weeks has actually been a welcomed distraction, though, because any fleeting moments of reflection I experience lately have been bringing pangs of realization that my Grandma Blue is gone.

I was luckier than most kids growing up.  I lived within a few miles from both sets of grandparents and spent a significant amount of time with them during my childhood.  My parents were barely into their twenties when I showed up, so I'm sure having my grandparents so involved in my upbringing was a huge help to them.  I greatly appreciate the fact that I was able to have four grandparents throughout the first three decades of my life. 

It wasn't until sixteen months ago that I lost my first grandparent.  My Grandpa Red suffered a fatal heart attack while trimming a tree in the August heat.  My Grandma "Blue" seemed lost without her husband and, after a stint in the nursing home this past year, passed away quietly last week. 

Death is so unbelievably final, but I'm very grateful for my memories.

My Maternal Grandparents--Blue and Red

My Grandpa Red grew up in Richland Center, WI and was the all-American type of teenager.  He was a standout athlete and student leader. He was one of the gentlest people I knew, and I miss him dearly.  I miss the way he always called his grand kids, "Dude," and how he would grip tightly to the top of my shoulder as a way to show his affection.  He could fix anything and had his garage packed with tools, spare parts, and coffee cans of miscellaneous screws and bolts.  He always seemed to have at least one black-and-blue fingernail, and I can still picture him sitting in a lawn chair cleaning his fingernails with his ever present pocketknife.  His eyes were the palest blue.

My grandma grew up in New Richmond, WI and graduated from UW-La Crosse with a physical education/history degree.  She was a high school phy. ed. teacher who took great pride in my athletic accomplishments.  She's the reason I became a tomboy at an early age, and she instilled in me the attitude that women can do anything they want to do--no explanation needed.  She was a strong woman with strong opinions who cherished her family.  I wouldn't be the strong, independent woman I turned out to be if it hadn't been for her.  She had a sun-kissed tan complexion year round, and I have her to thank/blame for my unladylike, large hands.

Both my grandparents were active individuals.  They maintained an annual membership at the local golf course and golfed at least three days a week every year that I can remember.  When we were kids, they would take my brother and I with them golfing throughout the summer.  We would ride on the back of their golf cart, and my grandma would toss a ball near the green for each of us to chip and putt.  As we got older, my brother and I carried our own clubs and golfed alongside them, with my grandma wearing her trademark pastel baseball cap with the pom-pom on top. 

My grandparents also taught me to swim.  Being a lifeguard in college, my grandma made sure I was swimming by the age of three.  I can remember quite vividly going to the local pool with her to meet up with her friend Doris.  The three of us would swim laps in the pool and steam in the sauna each morning before my grandma dropped me off at afternoon kindergarten.  My grandparents also took me to the local beach.  I clearly remember clinging to my grandpa's back as he swam us out to the dock in the middle of the St. Croix River.  His cannonballs made the biggest splashes.

During high school, both of my grandparents were permanent fixtures at all of my home athletic events.  Whether it was in the bleachers during volleyball and basketball games or in their lawn chairs along first base line, they were there cheering me on constantly.  I could do no wrong in their eyes, and my Grandma Blue and Grandpa Red were proud of everything I did. I know I took this for granted growing up, and I will miss having these two individuals in my corner through thick and thin.

It's funny how memories, ones that were tucked away in a brain's recesses, begin flooding your consciousness once a loved one is gone.  Anytime I get a quiet moment to think, my brain begins recalling interactions I had with my grandparents--ones I will never have again.  You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.   I am very thankful for these piles of good memories associated with my grandparents, but they make the loss harder to get over.

It makes me sad to think that any children I might possibly have will not experience such a close and long term relationship with their own grandparents. I am much older than my parents were when I was born, and every year I put off having children is one less year those children will have with their grandparents.  I owe so much to my Grandpa Red and Grandma Blue, and I can't imagine how my life would have been without them.  By putting off childbearing, am I making my future children's childhood less fulfilled because the time spent with their grandparents will certainly be much less than the time I had with my own? 

On the way home from my grandma's funeral, I took a few hours to fish a piece of water located a few miles from where I grew up.  It's hard to believe I had never been there before, and I greatly appreciate the directions provided by a friend.  It was just the type of fishing I needed that day; it was a quiet, solitary place.  The hike to the river took me down into a steep ravine strewn with limestone rocks, moss, and ferns.  The ravine eventually led to the water I was seeking.  The first trout I caught was a very nice brook trout on a dry fly, which fittingly had bright Red and Blue markings.

They would still be very proud of their granddaughter.

Tying

When I do things, I like to do them well.  I also have the need to soak in as much information as I possibly can about a topic before jumping in.  So a few years ago when I decided that fly fishing was to be one of my major hobbies, I began devouring information about the sport.  I hoarded library books on streamside entomology and knots.  I watched Internet video after Internet video on casting and reading the water.  Most importantly, I began weaseling my way onto fishing trips with seasoned experts.  At times I felt like a pesky little sister refusing to leave her older brothers alone.  Many thanks to Al, Tom, Eric, Tim, Joe, Bryan, and Matt for their patience with a beginner and their willingness to help a beginner stand on her own neoprene-clad feet.  (My husband continually wonders why I don't find a couple female fly fishers to tag along with, but lucky for me he's a pretty understanding guy:)

So when it came time to tackle fly tying, I once again devoured information on the topic and found a group of seasoned experts to learn from.  These experts were found in a free tying class offered through my local TU chapter last winter.  The class met every Wednesday night from January to March, and there was nothing I looked forward to more during those ten weeks.  I was immediately taken under the wings of two gentlemen who, though they may deny it, were both old enough to be my grandfather.  Each class consisted of Barry introducing a new tying technique followed by his demonstration of a new fly pattern or two.  The students would then have time to practice the new patterns under the supervision of the instructors and volunteers.  Bob, a volunteer in his eighties, always sat close to me in order to critique my tying and provide pointers while I worked.  There were two other women in my class, and every week Bob and Barry would have little gifts for us.  One week Bob brought packets of fly patterns he recommended, which he printed off his home computer.  Another week he handed out new fly boxes.  Barry passed out extra books on fly tying that he no longer used.  Most coveted of all, they often brought extra materials, which were always neatly packed and labeled in small zip lock bags.  Some girls get excited about new shoes, but I get excited over new hooks, thread, hackle, dubbing, and beads.  Between each tying class, I studiously practiced tying the assigned patterns at home.  As the next class neared, I would be giddy as a schoolgirl to show Barry and Bob my finished flies.  Witnessing their excitement and pride over my work was truly priceless.

I've always been a pretty crafty girl, so fly tying has come relatively easy to me.  Given a fly pattern, I can follow it fairly well and even improvise if needed.  My resulting fly will look like it should, and most importantly, it will catch trout.  But being a left-brained person, I will not be designing my own patterns any time soon.  I am entirely happy using other people's patterns and will leave the creative side of fly tying to the right-brained thinkers out there.

I think the most important things I learned in last year's tying class were: 

1. During most situations on the water, a variety of flies will catch fish, assuming there's good presentation. 
2. When tying flies, old men are extremely good at substituting household items for the expensive store-bought materials.

When I began learning to tie, I was at a point in my fly fishing journey where I was overwhelmed by the huge variety of different fly patterns regularly used for trout.  How could I possibly carry enough fly boxes to cover all my bases?   Acquiring a supply of flies that matched all possible hatches throughout a season in the Driftless, not to mention streamers and terrestrials, seemed quite daunting.  It was through my tying class that I realized trout may not be as picky as I once believed.

My tying mentors also revealed the wonders of material substitutions. 

• So, you don't have the ParaPost material for a BWO parachute on hand?  Why not use the grey fibers of seat belts cut from a 1980 Buick found at the junkyard? 
• So, you don't have sheets of the new wing materials sold in all the fancy fly tying catalogs?  Why not use cuttings from candy wrappers? 
• So, you don't have any scud backing left to tie your favorite super scud?  Just cut out the clear rubber straps now commonly used for hanging women's shirts.  

I've tied a lot of flies since last year's class ended, and I've caught many trout on my own creations.  This year's class is just weeks away, and I'm very much looking forward to it.  Though Barry and Bob will not be instructing my class this time around, they deserve all the thanks I can possibly give them for their generosity and time.  They gave me the instruction I needed and showed me that fly tying doesn't have to be as serious as some people make it out to be.

Instead of meeting my girlfriends for drinks on Thursday nights this winter like some young women, I'll be faithfully meeting up with a bunch of old men for two hours of lying and tying.  What could be better than that?

Continuation

My Grandma Bonnie sent a little piece of herself home with me this Christmas. 

Growing up, it was not unusual for my brother and I to spend most nights after school at my grandparents' farm while my dad helped my grandpa with the nightly chores.  Some nights we'd follow Dad outside, but other nights we'd spend in the house with our grandma.  It was with Grandma Bonnie that I learned to bake chocolate chip cookies, to cross stitch, use a sewing machine, and to crochet.  This is the grandma who wins blue ribbons at the county fair for her quilting, as well as the grandma that donates homemade baby blankets to families in need.  She's also the grandma that tied her hair up in a blue handkerchief when she needed to head to the barn in the middle of the night to bottle feed the lambs that failed to nurse themselves.  She's also the grandma that planted zinnias in her garden so her grandkids could use them in bouquets, which they'd place in the neighbors' mailboxes.  Grandma Bonnie is also the one who'd make batches of soup to send over to the ninety-year old bachelor farmers living down the road.  She's the grandparent that insists every Christmas, ignoring the half-hearted protests from everyone, for family photos on the living room couch, which seems to get smaller and smaller each year.  She's the grandma that was the oldest child growing up on a hard scrabble farm who responds with a genuine, "Uff-da," when the occasion arises.  Besides the skills she's taught me, I've inherited my freckles, blue eyes, and Norwegian pride from her.

After all the gifts were opened this Christmas and the day was winding down, my grandma went upstairs and returned with a shoebox containing balls of yarn in varying shades of green.  She also carried a bag of granny squares.  She had begun crocheting this granny square blanket some twenty-odd years ago and thought I might be interested in finishing the project.  Though I saw recognition in my grandpa's eyes as he watched on, I don't think my grandma realized what this half-completed project meant to me.

I've already begun completing my half of the granny squares, using the same pattern and size K crochet needle that Grandma Bonnie used.   Though it's hard to pin down exactly what makes them different, our finished squares are not identical.  Could it be because my grandma's squares were made left-handed, which adds a slightly different angle to her stitches?  Does my grandma crochet with a slightly smaller gauge?   Do I think too much about each stitch making them look less organic?

As I work, I find comfort in finishing something my grandma started.  I try to imagine what she was doing while she completed her own half of the squares.  Was I underfoot?  Was she thinking about a list of chores that needed completing?  Had she attached notes to the door reminding my grandpa to apply sunscreen before heading to the fields?  Did she have her very cliché "World's Greatest Grandma" coffee mug next to her on the end table, which she still uses today?   Was she worried about any of the same things that cross my mind and make sleep sometimes difficult? 

Once my half of the squares is completed, I'll join them all into a blanket; my grandma's squares intermixed with mine.  Grandma suggested donating the finished project to a local organization of my choice, but as my grandpa pointed out, it would be hard for me to give up something containing pieces of my Grandma Bonnie.  It will eventually get tucked away safely somewhere in my house; out of reach of a cat's stretching claws, coffee stains, or food crumbs.  It will get taken out on occasions when I want to feel close to my grandma, and though it may not be obvious to others that the squares were made by two different sets of hands, I will always be able to pick out my Grandma Bonnie's work. 


That will be a comforting thing for me.