After 37 years of uninterrupted marital bliss, my wife recently made a stunning announcement.
“I want to learn to fly fish,” the ripples of which could be heard from Coldwater to Hamlin.
I began fishing as a child, have never stopped and never intend to. And while I do fly fish with moderate success and limitless enthusiasm, I am not a snob about it. I also enjoy slinging a spinning rod or baitcaster, whipping a hand line, casting a net, or just slogging through the mud searching for crawdads. I love all of it. My wife, who openly supports and readily enables my angling habit, has never herself displayed any real interest in fishing.
Until now.
I considered my response.
“OK. Why?”
“I thought it would be something we could do together.”
It would. And nothing would be more pleasurable. I thought through the most reasonable way to make this happen. The solution seemed simple: gear and lessons.
“You’ll need a rod, reel … vest, waders and some gear,” I said, thinking aloud. It’s an open and somewhat shameful secret among the fly-fishing community that half the fun is all the superfluous gear and gadgets that no one needs but everyone carries.
“Can’t I use one of your rods? I thought you have several.”
“I do. And yes, of course, you can use any of the rods I have. But you’ll want your own rod.”
“OK. But why?”
This is easy to understand but hard to explain, and I decided to save the rod conversation for a later time. I rifled through my rod stash, which essentially is a corner of my office that is stacked with rods; some broken down and cased, others not; a few in varying degrees of repair. This is in addition to the pile stashed in the closet, the ones in the antique trunk that I’ve converted to a fishing chest, and those stowed in the car. I do own several fly rods—part obsession, part occupational hazard.
I landed on an 8-foot, 3-weight, 4-piece Helios mid-flex. The mid-flex is a beginner-friendly action. It weights 2 ounces, is a pretty rod, and is a treat to cast. And it’s covered by the Orvis 25-year guarantee. If you break it—regardless of cause or reason—the company will repair or replace it with a handling and shipping fee. It’s a service I’ve used more than once.
I located a matching reel that’s spooled with 3-weight, weight-forward floating line.
“Let’s try this one,” I said. “The handle is a little stained, but it’s a really good rod.”
“What if I break it?”
“You won’t. But if you do, it has a good guarantee.”
“A guarantee? They guarantee fishing rods?”
“Fly rods, yeah.” I ran through a shorthand version of the Orvis guarantee, which basically says that, for 25 years from date of purchase, the company will repair or replace your rod, regardless of how it was damaged. The customer pays for shipping, and there is a handling fee ($60 last I checked). Turnaround time can be slow, but it’s a good deal.
Katy uncased the rod and began to join it.
“It’s really better not to twist it that much at the ferrule.”
“How are you supposed to do it?”
“You push it together and twist it slightly.” I offered a demonstration.
She held the assembled rod before her. I watched, thinking, “A woman who can turn roving into yarn and the yarn into a sweater won’t have any trouble with this.”
“Will you teach me?”
This is a minefield of a question. I decided to hedge.
“I’m really not a very good caster. [This is true. I once sat in on a fly-casting lesson as part of an editorial project. The instructor—a world champion distance caster—handed me his rod and said, “Let me see you cast.” I made one false cast before he stopped me. “That’s enough.” His lessons helped but didn’t completely stick.] I thought we could get Tim to give you a couple of lessons.”
“Who?”
“My friend Tim Tipton. He’s a former fly-fishing guide [in Bullitt County] and an excellent instructor.”
“I want you to teach me.”
“OK. But I’ll need Joan’s help.”
“Joan? Who’s Joan?”
I scrounged through an office bookshelf until locating a CD with a fading cover and timeless message.
“Joan Wulff. Joan will tell you everything you need to know. Let’s watch this; then, we’ll practice.”
Later that evening, we shelved Thursday night football for Joan, the “First Lady of Fly Fishing.” It had been several years since I’d viewed the video. I’d forgotten how good it is.
The credits rolled.
“Well?” I ventured.
“This is going to be great!”