Why?

Since the inception of The Rusty Spinner, I've been asked many times over why I go through the trouble of maintaining a blog. Why do I burden myself with all the links and videos, with photographs and with writing? Is it vanity or exhibitionism? Do I feed on the little bit of praise I occasionally receive? Am I a collector of followers? Am I self important? Do I hope the blog will somehow magically morph into magazine articles or a book?

The truth is that The Rusty Spinner has been around in this form and others for over a decade - the blog began as a website devoted to the history and chronology of the Orvis CFO series of reels - and in that time I haven't received even one nickel for my efforts. Any reward I've received has been intrinsic and intangible to anyone but myself. Why do it then? When I think about it, the answer to that question almost certainly stems from the years I spent working in a fly shop.

Make no mistake, being a fly shop flunkie is hardly a glorious vocation. First and foremost, fly shop work is retail work, and sometimes no better than making minimum wage in a second hand clothing store that caters to tweens and hipsters. Stop for a moment, and imagine that special hell.

"Where can I find your free range, organic, "Like a Boss" belts?"

"I was wondering ... do you stock Hello Kitty socks in a men's large?"

"I don't believe this, Margot! They're out of henna hair dye."

"Why isn't there a bike rack out front? I ride my little fixie everywhere, and I have to say ... it feels so good to be part of the solution rather than part of the problem. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Excuse me ... you seem to be out of "I Heart David Sedaris" graphic tees, when will you be getting more?"

What must it be like to be subjected to that kind of inane patter all day, every day, for less than $10.00 an hour? Just thinking of it makes my ears bleed, and as difficult as it may be to believe there are those days when working in a fly shop - a shop packed with all the latest and greatest rods, reels, flies, and fly tying material - is only marginally better than eight hours of selling black rimmed, lensless glasses to people with 20/20 vision.

"Do these waders come in an antique ivory taupe?"

"Will this line make me cast farther?"

"What do you mean you don't sell nightcrawlers? I thought this was a fishing store."

"Where do you fish?"

"My rod broke ... spontaneously and through no fault of my own."

The single saving grace is that this type of chatter was the exception, not the rule. Most folks - men, women, and children - were relatively well informed and comported themselves with a modicum of sense.

"These waders only come in olive? Perfect. One less thing to think about."

"I wish they'd make a line that casts itself because I just can't double haul with a flask in my line hand."

"I know this is a fly shop - and when I'm alone I'll definitely be back - but right now there are four kids in my car - four kids who want to go fishing. Any idea where I could get a tub of nightcrawlers?"

"If you had only two days to wet a line before you left for home, where would you fish?"

"I broke my rod. Like a chucklehead, I left the freaking thing laying across the truck of the car. Smashed her good. I may have had one too many IPAs ..."

And this is what I most enjoyed about working in the shop. Most of my day - each and every day - was spent talkin' fishin'. My customers and I talked bass and steelhead, trout and pike. We talked tarpon in Florida and kings in Alaska. We talked line and tippet, knots and rigging, double hauls and single speys. We talked about the Spring Hole, the Bat Hole, and a river whose name we never used. Working in a fly shop was my opportunity to be immersed in a lifestyle that I thoroughly enjoyed. When life led me from the shop into a teaching career, the one thing I genuinely missed was the opportunity to chat with like minded folks. Hence ... The Rusty Spinner.

The Rusty Spinner is my opportunity to continue the conversation. This blog isn't about marketing. It isn't about making money or getting free swag for ridiculously contrived and complimentary reviews. The Rusty Spinner is my way of throwing my thoughts out into the ether in the hopes someone might shout back. In that regard, my time spent at the keyboard has been time well spent. I've met folks from all over the world through this blog, including a few who live nearby and have become friends, confidants, and fishing partners.

The Rusty Spinner is my way of remaining on the periphery of a world that I've long since left. Writing about fly fishing is likely as close as I may ever again come to my time in the shop and the conversations I had there. As time passes and technology changes, I suppose I am likely to lose this outlet and my connection to that world. Still, I can't help but think that the time I spend here at this keyboard - uncompensated as it may be - is time well spent. Next to the riffles and pools of one very special river that shall forever remain unnamed, there are few places I would rather be than sitting here ... talking to you.

The Salmon River: A Trip Report

PRELUDE

By four p.m. on the afternoon of the 7th of November, the car was packed - items loaded and arranged with double and triple redundancy. For only two men, we had packed three vests, thousands of flies, four pair of wading boots, three sets of waders, eight reels, and six rods. Gloves? Check. Extra wool socks? Check. Fleece? Check. Fly tying odds and ends? Check. Thermal underwear, two sets per man? Check. We were ready to slay some steel, and as luck would have it we were scheduled to leave just a few hours ahead of what was forecast to be the first serious winter storm of the year.



Of course, we left late, and our scheduled five o'clock departure dragged on from five to six and then from six to seven. We finally rolled out of my driveway at 7:15, and counted ourselves lucky that the meteorologists who had earlier warned of an impending nor'easter were once again forced to wipe egg from their faces. The drive to the river was uneventful, but filled with excitement and the nervous energy that is so much a part of steelhead fishing. Two plus hours passed quickly, the time filled with minivan air guitar and the misremembered lyrics to classic metal, including a lengthy course of Iron Maiden.

Photo: Mike Healy

We arrived at the Fox Hollow Salmon River Lodge shortly before ten, where we met the rest of our group at what was to be our home for the next four days. We spent the remainder of the night tying flies, prepping rods and reels, telling lies, and trying to determine where we should set up camp the following morning. Before signing off for the evening, I tacked to the wall for luck a pair of pictures my daughter had drawn for me. Written across the top of each in her best kindergarten script was a hopeful message, "I hope you have a great trip, Love Madison." Before I nodded off for the night, I looked to those pictures and thought, "Thank you Peanut, so do I."

Baby-Girl's mind is in the right place.

DAY ONE

There's no secret to being successful on the Salmon River. The simple rule is to fish water that hasn't been trampled under the stampeding hooves of over-zealous anglers. If we choose to fish the more popular runs, then we have to be prepared to lay claim to the water well before first light.In practical terms, this means a 3 a.m. wake-up, a frenetic flurry to load the cars, and four headlamp-adorned chuckleheads stumbling along a well worn trail, praying for that first cup of over-boiled coffee to cut the morning's cold.

Coleman Cooked Deliciousness

Four o'clock turned to five and five to six. By seven we had finished our first pot of "organically grown, free trade, wake-the-flock-up dark roast," and were well on our way to finishing a second. Eventually, dawn cut through the darkness and low hanging clouds, and spread her smile on the water. We spaced ourselves evenly along the run's course - each man had about 100 feet of water in which to swing his flies or drift his nymphs - and we started our rotation.

Bennie was the first to hook up, taking a respectable fish at first light. Stinging a fish as quickly as he did gave us all hope for a very fruitful day, but our hope ultimately proved unfounded. Several hours passed before Shawn had his first pull, a fish that was there and gone in no more than a heartbeat.

One in the net

The day continued in much the same fashion. A cold front that had rolled in during the early hours of the morning lingered throughout the day and made fishing difficult. Near noon, Shawn eventually managed a second tug. This time the fish stayed put, and in fairly short order, Mr. Brillon was hefting a colored-up buck for a quick photo.

Hiding behind the tail, he looks a little like a steelheading gremlin - don't ya' think?

By the time Shawn hooked that fish, I have to admit that I was feeling a little underwhelmed by the day, and I suppose such a feeling is one of the dangers of steelheading. We bug chuckers have a tendency to build up in our minds our too-few trips to the river. Every time we hit the water we dream of glory, but more often than not we fall short. We aren't necessarily disappointed; it's just that most days could not possibly live up to our overly hopeful expectations. This is especially true on steelhead water. Of course, it is equally true that as soon as we begin to assume the worst - at times when we allow our minds to wander off in a funk - we're often caught off guard and sometimes even pleasantly surprised. Such was the case in the hour or so before our first day came to an end.

I followed Bennie in the rotation; I had been following him for over eight hours. My legs were tired. My shoulders ached. My mind drifted off to thoughts of dinner and drinks. If I had been expecting the universe to come unglued the way it did, then I suppose it would not have happened at all. But it did happen. My cack handed cast dropped the fly - a four inch monstrosity that was gaudy as a prom dress - a foot or two off the far bank. Ten feet of T-11 quickly dragged under the feather duster; she swung slightly slower than the river's current and drifted into the heart of the lane.

Tap. Huh?

Tap. That had to be a fish. Maybe?

Tap .... Bam!

Any attempt I might make at describing the struggle that followed would be inadequate. For the sake of brevity, I'll only say that I had no control over the fish - not until the very moment when I guided its head into Ben's waiting net. Twice I was into my backing. Twice he took me downstream to the edge of the tailout only to change his mind and run just as far upstream. After touching the fish just to make sure he was real and snapping a few photos, I watched him swim off into the tanic water and discovered I was absolutely content with what had been - only moments earlier - a rather difficult day.

Funny, isn't it? The effect a fish can have on a man ...

To Be Continued