Wedding bells

On Saturday, September 12 Barb and I were present at the wedding of Jean Gobillot and Per Brandin. Dozens of owners of Brandin rods were present. They came from far and near. The ceremony over, the couple marched out under an arch of bamboo fly rods. The oldest person present was 92-year-old Mrs. Sam Carlson.

Mr. Carlson was one of the old-time venerated fly-rod builders who had been a mentor to Per. After a Sunday brunch, a small number of male guests were given a tour of Per’s shop while the ladies took a tour of the old house that Per and Jean have lovingly restored.

I pestered Per with questions during the tour, which he patiently answered in detail. I now have a greater appreciation of the steps that are involved in the making of a fine fly rod. I also realize how much I do not know. The tour resembled a seminar on bamboo rods, with the professors being Per, Walt Carpenter, Dana Gray and Dennis Menscer, the fine fly-rod maker located right here in Hancock, NY. As Per described the techniques he uses to produce a fly rod, the others chipped in with the methods they used. Often a gentle dispute arose as to the efficacy of one way or another. I regret that I did not have a tape recorder to preserve these fascinating exchanges between these rod builders.

Dennis Menscer had the funniest line of the day. At one point Dennis slyly asked, “How many bamboo fly rods does a fly fisher need to own?” Several tentative answers were given but Dennis had the final word: “Just one more.” This brought a burst of laughter as we all recognized ourselves in the answer Dennis gave. As the owner of seven bamboo fly rods, I have to admit that answer fits me perfectly. Bamboo fly rod addicts buy rods the way women buy shoes. Yes indeed, just one more.

The past 10 days or so, Barb and I have learned why it is called fishing, not catching. If we needed to catch fish in order to eat, we would be starving to death. Ed Graham has caught a few little fellows while Jim, Barb and I have been casting to fish that have ignored our offerings. One cast and the fish ceased feeding. They called for the check and left the dining area, sometimes when my fly was still in the air. After suffering such scorn, I decided to spend time exploring. I wandered way off downstream to the end of the flat and found that an island split the flow at one point. I stood watching as one may fly dun after another floated helplessly past me into a riffle. The choppy water of the riffle promptly swamped them and they drowned. The water and air temperature were too cold for their wing muscles to warm sufficiently for them to take flight.

As I waded slowly back upstream, it occurred to me that I could rescue some from the watery grave that awaited them. Some of these flies were the Orange Cream Cahills, the males having very large black eyes, while two or three were the big Yellow Drakes. I gently scooped them from the flow and while they perched on my warm fingers, I took them over to the bank and blew them into the tall bank side grass. There they could take shelter until they molted into spinners, the adult sexual form of the mayfly. Tomorrow, after a wild sexual orgy that is accomplished in flight, they will deposit their eggs into the river. Then weary and exhausted, they will fall to the water, quite possibly to provide food for the trout. Thus, their cycle of life will have been completed.