There’s something magical about Old Guys, which is why I enjoy their company so much. I liken it to the baseball pitcher that knows he’s only got 90 pitches in his arm, and treats each without wasted motion, executing the delivery without the frantic movement of youth or temper, merely going about his business as thoroughly as his arm allows.
All of us are going to be one of those fellows at some point, it’s a matter of repetition and understanding – polished by wisdom and a life’s worth of experience.
I call it “Jedi Mastery” – the point in any angler’s career where catching and fishing are synonymous.
Fly tying has it’s own hellish struggle and eventual wisdom, and like fishing you rarely see past your inner demons until you can watch someone whose done it much longer than yourself. It’s frustrating as so much time is spent taming the unruly and expecting the worst, yet watching an older fellow whose materials meld in precise order, the unexpected taken in stride, and the outcome meticulous and preordained.
It’s Jedi Mastery, and after thousands of repetitions you learn you cannot tame an art form, rather it tames you.
A bare hook shank is staring at the abyss, your intentions are good and the execution practiced, only the outcome is in doubt. It’s the final frustrating phase that weeds out the unsteady, as your skills work against you; thinking the fly through a disciplined set of operations and when it doesn’t behave as expected, invoking the Mother of a Thousand Turns of Thread to teach it a lesson.
It’s simpler to watch an Old Guy.
I watched plenty in my youth, surrounded by them at the Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club in San Francisco. The 1960’s were playing out in a last gasp of LSD and Youth Movement, and the 70’s started ugly; Watergate and Heroin littered the park with the incoherent and disenchanted, and GGACC was a reclusive and sunny venue to commiserate over kids and family stress, a place to sun yourself on a park bench while retelling stories of a quieter time.
The presence of the Winston Rod Company on Howard Street, run by Lew Stoner, and interest in accuracy casting, personified by Jimmy Green and Jon Tarantino, begat the Rajeff dynasty. The supporting cast lining the sunny benches was both authoritative and vocal, and young casters like the Rajeff’s were clay forged in rod physics, technique, and old guy tradition.
Steve Rajeff and his brother Tim made “kids” fashionable again – and old codgers redoubled their efforts to mould those with the maturity to watch and listen, rather than talk. They may have thought they were saving a generation, if they could only promote some of the “good kids” the rest of the generation had brood stock…
My dad introduced me to both the casting club and addiction by gifting me with a fly rod on my 16th birthday. I’d take the bus or bike out through the park and linger on the edge of the ponds hoping to stay off the radar of them old codgers on the benches. They were tough old birds, vocal and impatient – and if some kid mangled a cast more than twice – they were grabbing your arm, bending it to impossible positions insisting on immobility, and waiting for the first hint of youthful rebuke.
“Jack” was a intimidating old fellow, big sausage fingers broken and knotted from a lifetime of hard work, voice box removed and a gauze bib covering the cavity in his lower throat. I lived in terror of his gaze, the rolling gait of a sailor, and a snow white shock of hair was your only warning of misdeed – he wasn’t shy about heading in your direction if you mangled more than your fair share.
It was a sacred trust, as the open throat meant his fishing days were done, a single misstep wading and his lungs would fill with water. Casting was the only thing connecting him to his life long passion, and he was determined to makeup for any deficiencies in your genetic material or degree of devotion.
Jon Ray was at the opposite end of the spectrum, a fastidious and pleasant man, detail oriented and enamored of the perfection and refinement of casting. He didn’t fish often, despite managing the Aberchrombie and Fitch angling department, and later the San Francisco Fly Fisherman Ltd. store, the last vestige of Winston Rod Company after they traded South-Of-Market for Montana.
He was the first person I saw that trimmed graphite rods, taking a half inch off the tip or butt section to make the rod cast as it should – it didn’t matter that to the untrained eye it cast just fine – competitive casting was inches and feet, and shaving weight or refining taper was your only edge. Designer drugs and blood doping would come later to the Sporting Fraternity, in the past only physics and artistry determined winners.
I never found out if it was Phil Miravalle or Jon that figured out to spool Amnesia onto a ten-speed rim, but watching the shooting head distance event always started with some out of town fellow unsnarling running line and the GGACC fellows looking either innocent or surprised, knowing they’d confounded the physics of it all.
Jon had a frail back and eventually had everything fused, preventing him from doing much of anything.
Old Guys and frailty are hand in hand, and I’m not sure whether it’s the mortality that makes a fellow receptive to passing on more than advice, or merely they’ve learned not to race us younger dimwits anymore.
In the last month I’ve acquainted myself with a new crowd of tough old birds, Shad chasers – fellows that cruise the American River river accesses looking for fish. Migratory fish and “crack of dawn” they’ll leave to young bucks, mortality and comfort takes a certain amount of visible fish to pry these fellows from the warmth of the truck.
Like the old guys at the casting club, the real event is to get out and mingle – leaving lawns uncut, petulant children asleep, and throwing enough gear in the back to categorize the outing as a fishing trip. Usually the only thing cast is cold coffee from a thermos cup – as the young fellows trickle back to the car after a morning of proving they’re tougher than the elements.
A friendly smile and welcoming banter, as they’re not racing us anymore – sullen and secretive is left to the young guys who’re are still vying for Alpha male – and the imaginary rep that goes with it.
Somewhere between the two is me, mostly I trudge back from the river under their watchful gaze, but I still listen more than I talk – so there’s a cup of coffee in it for me.
I remember the lessons of my youth, and never know whether the unshaven fellow with the friendly grin owns a rod company, or manages the local fly shop – their demeanor and tackle won’t give them away.
A battered fiberglass fly rod that’s likely caught more fish than I ever will, paired with a 60’s-era Pfleuger Medalist with a silvery patina of use. I’m in it for the camaraderie and the occasional nugget of information; what happened last week and what did it happen on … and these fellows can cite chapter and verse with the last couple of decades thrown in as backdrop.
It’s nice to know that there’s still a place in this sport for advanced age. All outdoor activity is physically strenuous, and once started down the diminishing physical path – there’ll still be a half hearted welcome from the perfumed tarts that follow in our footsteps.
I think that’s why the “Xtreme Fishing” movement is lost on me, some fellow declares himself a singularity by taking a fly rod to Mongolia, but the real stud is the old Mongol that endures the hand-wringing and tears – how blow driers are wasted space, and the Pizza Chopper isn’t coming.
Brownlining is fine, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. Fishing anywhere in Northern California would be best described as “Brown Lunging” regardless of elevation and venue.
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Singlebarbed’s Chief Correspondent of Harsh Language and Hard Luck Stories, “San Mateo Joe”, reports back from last week’s Upper Sacramento foray.
“The Palisades” was about a mile above our access point, a manmade riprap of sofa pillows filled with concrete. It’s an awkward looking structure akin to a giant mattress, with metal pylons and heavy cargo net slung between – designed to slow debris or catch it, I’m not sure which.
But there was evidence enough – hard evidence that brooks little argument and gives the river its piquant bouquet.
TravelWriter and I threw an assortment of flies and stinging insults, but other than getting splashed by hormonally challenged fish – we had no action. I stung one fish and had a brief lift of spirit – but an examination of the fly revealed it’d been foul hooked. Note the size of the scale, and think about the bend that horse would’ve done to my anemic little 5 weight..
I was out the door before first light hoping to reacquaint myself with more Shad; I was laid up last week so I picked an access point at random hoping I could “slop” my way into fish…
It was the title that seemed out of place, “Escape to Montana’s Firehole Ranch for a Romantic Fly Fishing Getaway.”
