11/07/2023
The Blue Collar Special. Lately, I find myself wading in a world within a world. I am adjacent to giants of our craft. The very best of fly tyers and whittlers of cane. The flesh and honor of individuals who have given their precious time to protect rivers. I have held the hands that held the hands. I have, quite literally, worn their clothing, cast their rods, and gazed upon the inner cogs of a history so well defined, that to err is to sin upon its very name. I rub shoulders with my idols and all the tropes that come with them. But still, I remain, or strive to remain, the humble angler.
After tying my silly modern nymphs amongst a crowd of dry fly purists on Saturday, I wanted to wet a line a step closer towards the romanticized angle. Which is to say, “the old way.” And so, I finally scratched a few firsts off my list with the humble gear I have at my disposal. Left behind were the ultralight everythings. The drag and the bead heads. The bags upon bags of nothingness.
My list of gear, from the top: Bean’s Double L Bamboo rod, “The Beanie” with the USA’s most popular line, Cortland’s 444 in peach… a 5-weight line that floats like cork… and if you need anything else, it’s likely a lesson. The reel that line is wrapped around is a very special one to me. An early Medalist with silver button and sculptured pillars, likely from the late 20’s or early 30’s - gifted to me by one of my mentors, John Hoeko. The drag is shot and it sounds like a dying turkey when you strip it out, but damn does it look good. The Eagle Claw net from the fishing counter of some now nameless hardware store on the banks of my Mighty E… sans nylon… and I’m dreaming the tale of two brothers forever changing the flow of my river. Their reputation sustains, all be it a bit tattered by modern minds… the Folkert’s made history and memories here. And as I pull stocked browns from fast waters of the now frigid Schoharie, I wonder the future of mine. The wrong river. Flick’s beloved beauty that sung sirens to Manhattanites until the Inn finally burned. It was an end.
I am softer when soothed. The river lapping my stride and step. And they… they are right there… always.
