My pals. A few of them, from the old days. My hair was jet black.
We used to have gatherings at the late Phil Snyder's house. Gentle Phil, Goodwin Granger man, a Mormon but who allowed the heretics into his immaculate abode, and onto his dicondra. We crushed it. We caught his award-winning roses. He fed us hearty meals.
These date from spring, 1994. I can date them because I am in-cast with a ruptured right Achilles tendon. No big deal, you don't cast with a leg. No more hoop for me. Hope you enjoy putting faces to names you may know.
Phil's yard wasn't ideal, but we found room casting diagonally toward his walkway. We got off short casts, enough to tell how a rod worked and felt. There I am with my cast and crutches, while pal George, talented rodmaker, points out something or other to me. The fella casting is Oregonian Dwight Lyons. Dwight casts one of the finest forward loops I'm privileged to have seen. Looks like it's rolling out on top of an invisible table, flat on the bottom, rolling out perfectly like a candy cane. He used to play point guard too. Looking on in the blue shirt is our own jz2.
This group shot is from the end of the day, after dinner, just before we bade each other goodbye. These gatherings occurred once a year, springtime, and we all looked forward to them. Phil is on the couch next to me. From left is George, Dwight, myself, Phil and Chris. Chris, who I haven't seen in years, has built and repaired rods, knows something about everything in the world, works in politics and loves the E.C. Powell rod.
Phil and Art Warner were known for their rod list. They sold bamboo rods and reels and all manner of assorted gear to collectors and fishermen all over the place. Some went to known names, others to regular fishin' Joes. I'm looking over the list, while George and Dwight discuss the finer points of the marvelous form of grass we love. The list always began with a piece of writing, Phil handled that part, being a retired professor of history, and it was usually nostaligic. I was going to contribute a short fictional essay. It was to be about a Japanese soldier in occupied China, a fisherman who doesn't like war, who's assigned to interdict river and general barge traffic in southern China. The story begins with him surveying the river from a high bluff. His mind wanders. His binoculars pick up a junky river boat navigating downstream. It's loaded with amber stalks of arundaria amabilis. Phil died suddenly of heart failure.
Spring, in the Southern California sun. Perhaps April, probably mid 70s, a nice day. A bunch of bamboo nut cases. And we're all younger. From right to left, me, jz2, Dwight, George and Art. We all have a rod in-hand -- could be an Orvis, a Payne, or whatever someone brought to show around. This was the gathering that featured a rod Dwight brought to blow our minds. It was an 1890s (perhaps) 8', 3/2 Leonard. Wrapped in red silks. It had floppy ring guides. It looked vintage and beautiful, it flexed deep but wonderfully in the hand. The rod was strung up. We took turns casting the old thing. And we all about fell on the ground with its fantastic stroke and wanted to kill Dwight and steal his damn rod. It cast just beautifully. The rings didn't collapse as we all predicted. They seemed to stand out perpendicular from the cane when casting, the line didn't bind at all. And with about 30' of line the rod flexed and felt perfect.
I've never forgotten that rod. There are times when it still comes up in conversation.
Phil has passed on to his reward and the list is no more. His widow seemed oddly at-ease at the memorial. Phil lay in an open coffin. There wasn't anything somber about it. I later learned how Mormons believe they will be reunified, for eternity, so really, this isn't the end of it all.
Looking back at the lists and their prices and their offerings gives one a great big tug in the gut. I've kept a few. Lots of 2 9/16 St. Georges, 7' Grangers, a Montagne, a Garrison, several Leonards, Thomases (that went to CO), etc., etc. Art is having two knees replaced, we last fished together two years ago near Lake Tahoe. It was a small stream but chock full of wild rainbows of good size. In fact, Art landed a 22" monster on a 6'9 Brandin splice job. He won't be fishing for a couple of seasons. George is terribly ill but at last visit appeared to be recovering. Dwight and I stay in touch with emails, as do jz and I. Saw him a month ago, and he showed me some more fine Brandins. So fine he'll never fish them. He's thinking college for his kids.
I'll end with this shot of this 7 1/2' Goodwin Granger. Phil helped me purchase it. He bought it, and I paid him in installments. No interest. He liked to get rods into the hands of guys who really wanted them.
It's a pre-1938 Special.
It's fished from the Catskills to the Yellow Breeches and Gunpowder back East, to around the Western states and everywhere in Calfornia, north to south.
The thing has caught a lot of trout. I fish it now with a DT3, preferring the lighter feel. Here it rests -- me too --on the dark basalt of the San Joaquin
(the San Walk In I call it) near Mammoth Lakes in the Eastern Sierra. It is fall, the water is perfect for wet wading and the air temp is warm. On this day I
moved upstream from pocket to pocket, fishing a bushy attractor. And the browns and rainbows came up with smacks. I had the place to myself. And a memory of
Phil.
But this bigger boy came up on a
lower river, the windswept Upper Owens, middle of the Long Valley caldera. Scene of a super volcano explosion that tossed matter all the way to Kansas. But we
like that volcanic geology, it's the richness thing. That afternoon last fall the caddis were swimming, and I fished the pupa with no success. The fish
were swirling, thought I had the pattern nailed, but no. I went to the soft hackle. I tied on a #18 somewhat-olive flymph. There was instant interest. And I
fooled this fellow. The Granger throbbed. It was a good throb.
That's it, that's my report. My advice: fish now, give your pals a hug, now. None of us gets out of here alive. Fish those rods as often as possible.
Added bonus shots:
Pal George's Los Padres rod, a beaut of 7' 3/2 for a DT3. I think it's his best rod. And he gave it to me. Pictured here on an outing into a So. Cal. canyon, against the blossoms of the Spanish broom. Fragrance was strong that warm, late spring day. And the trout were on the fin. For anything.
End of the day. That's all, folks. Hug 'em -- rods, fish, friends.
