https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/4fb3f05c51fee3d01d872821d61240f0.pdf f991aab3c249929532317973d805e86e PDF Text Text Woikifig Class Glass Chad Hanson By the time I tried fly fishing for the first time, it was the early 1990s, and by that point the fly rod had been through three transformations. Since the 1800s, fly rods had been built with split canes of bamboo. Then in the 1970s, we began to fashion them from spun glass fibers. But glass fell out of favor ten years later, and our staffs of fiberglass were replaced by graphite sticks. With the exception of a bamboo rod I received as a Christmas gift, graphite was all I knew, and I didn’t question it too much. I was comfortable with the status quo. That is, until eight years ago. 1 was struck by a notion in the spring of’97. As pan of the process of courting my would-be wife, it occurred to me that I ought to buy my lady friend Lynn a fly rod. We were living in northern Wisconsin, surrounded by cold water and brook trout. I was spending more than my share of time chasing fish, and I figured if my plans for a wedding were going to work out, I’d better involve Lynn. The shopping ritual began, as it often does, at a high-end fly fishing specialty shop in an upscale part of town. 1 was happy to drool over their elegant rods and reels, but the prices were out of my range, so I drove to a popular sporting goods warehouse. I saw some possibilities in the stadium store, but the atmosphere wasn’t great. I’m big on ambience, and the retail arena didn’t feel right. That left me with one option. Like most towns in the Midwest, our city was home to a lonely bait and tackle shop set in an unseemly neighborhood, where weathered paint, sagging roofs, and broken windows were the norm. I drove past the store each day on my way to work. I thought, “Why not?” Cobwebs were the main feature of the interior design, and to complement the webs there were aluminum landing nets hanging from the walls. In the middle of the shop, there were piles of crank baits, pork rinds, and spinning lures stacked on slouching sheet-metal shelves. A row of live wells shaped like laundry tubs lined one side of the room, and a quick stroll past the tubs revealed a plethora of animals: leeches, shiners, crawdads, and a few things I didn’t recognize, all of them waiting for the t f i I < 72 coast �day when they’d be impaled and then flung into one of the neighboring lakes. Behind the counter sat a man who struck me as an identical twin to the person in the THIS IS WHAT YOU’LL LOOK LIKE IF YOU SMOKE CIGARETTES poster, the one the American Lung Association used to scare children in the 1970s. His hair was disheveled and oily; his face was lined with creases you couldn’t put in your pants if you tried; there were bags under his eyes like kangaroo pouches, and his lips were permanently pursed to accept the ubiquitous cancer stick. Less than an arm’s length away, there sat a black plastic ashtray, buried under a mound of sickly orange butts. “How goes it?” he bellowed. “Not bad,” I said, thinking, I better make this fest. “What can I do for you?” “I’m looking for a fly rod. A gift. Something for my lady-friend.” “Fly rod?” He looked puzzled. “No fly rods. Used to carry 'em. I don’t know what happened. Folks stopped askin’ for ‘em I guess.” While he thought about his customers’ buying habits, I perused the only rack of rods in the shop. It was a tight mess of dust-covered spinning gear: Ugly Sticks, ABU-Garcias, and foam-handled Berkely Avengers. But to our mutual surprise, at the far end of it all, there stood a marigold yellow fly rod. It was a six-foot, five-weight, Eagle Claw “Sweetheart,” complete with a little red heart-shaped symbol stamped near the book­ keeper. I plucked the rod from the rack and gave it the old retail waggle. It was the first time I’d ever laid hands on a fiberglass fly rod. It was more flexible than the graphite I was used to. I was intrigued, but the rod wasn’t for me, and I knew the details of its construction weren’t going to matter anyhow. I knew a technical explanation of rod materials and their qualities wouldn’t inspire Lynn, but I had a feeling the heart-shaped symbol might pique her interest. Three minutes and twenty-four dollars later, I was headed for the door with the Sweetheart under my arm. It wasn’t graphite. It wasn’t the latest or the best. It wasn’t a bamboo classic or a classic of any kind. Even so, I had a hunch the yellow rod would make Lynn happy, and at home my intuition was confirmed. She loved it. At this point, she didn’t know much about fly rods, but that didn’t make any difference. The gesture was not about fishing or tackle. This was a way to create common ground. The little yellow stick was a perfect excuse for us to spend time together in the woods. I bought the sweetheart early in the spring. That meant we had the �whole summer to ply the waters of Wisconsin. We fished the Wolf River, the Prairie, the Plover, and the Peshtigo. We fished lakes by canoe, and we fished a few icy cold spring ponds reminiscent of the glaciers that once covered the area. We caught fish everywhere we went, but mostly we reveled in the warmth and freedom of long summer days spent with brook trout in our midst. I’ll be honest, though, the warmth and freedom were more important to Lynn than the brookies. By the end of the season, after a few token casts, she’d slip back onto shore to look for brightly colored rocks or the perfect pinecone. Lynn didn’t take to fishing like I thought she might, but we were together, we were outside, and that was really the whole point. Besides, since she wasn’t that excited about angling, I knew she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed the Sweetheart when I fished the Tortoise Shell River. The Tortoise Shell is a classic Midwestern stream. Its headwaters lie in the tamarack swamps and muskeg bogs of the North Woods, and its lower stretches run through rolling hills pocked by dairy farms and hardy fields of corn, barley, and wheat. Like neighboring Minnesota and Michigan, Wisconsin was once covered by white pine and hemlock trees, so tall and thick toward the top they formed a canopy over the land. The canopy shielded the ground from sunlight, and the arrangement created a park-like setting where a person could amble through ancient forests unobstructed by brush. The lumber barons oversaw the wholesale removal of those trees in the 1800s. Thankfully, the forests have returned. But they’re not the same. They’re thick. In some places they’re downright impenetrable, and they cover the hills and valleys beside many of my favorite streams, including the Tortoise Shell, where the forest envelopes the river in a tube of tangled branches and leaves. It is no place for a nine-foot fly rod. With Lynn’s permission, I started packing the Sweetheart on trips to the Tortoise Shell. It was the rod’s diminutive length that appealed to me at first, but it was the feel that made me wish the Sweetheart was longer and more useful on lakes or in wide-open spaces. It was the bend and sway, the graceful manner of the glass, that made me wish all my rods had the same laid-back disposition. I grew fond of the little Sweetheart, but there were limits to the affair. It was too short for all but the most tree-snarled creeks. In addition, it was marigold yellow from tip to reel seat, and it was embossed with a heart-shaped symbol. I wasn’t about to jump out of my truck, open the topper, and expose the Sweetheart in front of my macho fishing friends. I would have been the laughing stock of Langlade County. So there I was, (bill 74 coast �falling in love with fiberglass, but it was a clandestine affair, limited to solo trips on wood-choked streams where I cast the glass in secrecy. We left the Midwest before I had a chance to look for an eight- or nine-foot fiberglass rod without the girly moniker. In the summer of 2001, Lynn and I sold our furniture, rented a trailer for our books and clothes, and struck out for Casper, Wyoming. I had accepted a post on the faculty at Casper College. We were excited about the move for a number of reasons, but Wyoming is a long way from Wisconsin in more than just miles. There would be no more quiet casts to brook trout poised in soft rippling streams or calm spring ponds. I realized, if I was going to fish in my new setting, I was going to fish big, strapping rivers—the North Platte in particular. Wyoming is home to a wide range of waters, but in Casper, the North Platte River is the only game in town. Its a good game. If you had to choose one body of water to have close to home, it might be the Platte. There are tailwater sections close to town, and the river supports healthy populations of both rainbows and browns, some of whom are giants. Unfortunately, there was nothing in my arsenal of three- and four-weight brook trout rods that would help me catch fish in Casper. I didn’t have the right equipment, and I was unfamiliar with the technique of fishing weighted flies underwater, a method called “nymphing,” standard practice on rivers in the West. Luckily, the historian Thomas Renn took me under his wing early in my first season. For Tom, fishing is a form of scholarship. He approaches the selection of flies and the rigging of rods the same way he approaches source documents penned in the seventeenth century. He brings the keen eye and mindset of a well-trained academic to the process. Since I tend to approach fly fishing the same way 1 approach a Sunday game of Frisbee in the park, we’re perfect partners. He brings all the knowledge and equipment that we need to catch fish, I bring beer. On our first outing, I brought a six-pack of Amber Bock and the strongest rod I owned—an eight-foot, four-weight. When we found our spot beside the river, we started gearing up. Tom handed me a strike indicator and two split-shot sinkers. I thought, “Sinkers and bobbers?” I asked myself, “Can this be right?” Along with the sinkers and a strike indicator, Tom gave me some good advice about mending line and managing a drag-free drift, but I didn’t listen. I was so baffled by the prospect of hurling the lead and foam H11 i 11 75 �menagerie back and forth with my four-weight noodle rod, I couldn’t think of anything other than my equipment and the unlikelihood of catching a fish with the outfit. Truth be told, I didn’t catch a single fish. I watched Tom land three brawling rainbows, and I was happy to give him a hand with the net, but I was clearly not onboard. I needed a stronger fly rod, and I also needed to read and think about fishing with nymphs, so I could understand what I was trying to accomplish out there on the Plane. The reading came first. A trip to the county library turned up an early edition of Ed Engle’s Fly Fishing the Tailwaters, and also a copy of Ffy Fishing the North Platte River by Rod Walinchus. Both are excellent. With time, I came to understand the feeding patterns of our local salmonids, and at some point I finally accepted the proverb passed down by old-timers at fly shops in the area, “On the Platte, the trout don’t ever look up.” I bought a plastic dispenser full of split-shot sinkers, and I started leaving my dry flies at home. With respect to a rod, I garnered advice from everyone I could think of that had ever caught a fish on the North Platte River, and the counsel was consistent. The consensus was that I needed a nine-foot, six- or seven­ weight rod, with brands and models ranging from the moderately priced graphite, to not-on-a-teacher’s-salary, not-if-you-want-to-stay-married. I took the suggestions of all the fly fishers I knew, but even as I listened to veteran casters extol the virtues of graphite technology, I kept harking back to my days on the Tortoise Shell, Sweetheart in hand. In the end I was determined—it had to be glass. Without further contemplation, I called Clark Davis of Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin. Clark is regionally famous for his collection of vintage bamboo rods, but I knew from his website that he held onto a handful of old fiberglass rods as well. In fact, at the time we talked, he had a ninefoot, six-weight rod he was willing to part with. “Perfect,” I thought to myself. It was a custom job—black fiberglass blank, half-wells grip, and gold-wrapped guides. He didn’t know the rod builder, and he wasn’t sure which company rolled the blank, but I like a little mystery, and the price was right, so I bought it. Roughly one month after my first fly fishing trip in Wyoming, the rod I call “Black Bart” arrived at my doorstep. It was a Tuesday, and by Wednesday afternoon Tom and I found a few hours to fish the Platte. As usual, I watched him fight and land three of Casper’s finest. I was anxious to catch my first rainbow on the river, so I studied Tom’s technique. The uncanny thing about his approach, the thing that t h i I d 76 coast �took the longest time for me to understand, was the curt and concise nature of his casts. Tom drifts his flies three feet in front of where he stands. Through the eyes of a brook trout fisherman, the strategy borders on the absurd. For years I’d been making long casts to mistrustful little brookies who were frightened by any sign of motion on the stream. But North Platte rainbows don’t mind if you steal their turf. They don’t even mind if you stand beside them in the current. The water’s heavy green tint blurs their vision, and given the raw number of fly fishers on the river, fish accept anglers as features of their environment. I began reciting a mantra: “There are no brook trout in the North Platte.” Over the course of the afternoon, I practiced the skills I watched Tom use successfully, but at the end of the day I was fishless and feeling low. The sun started setting and I stopped thinking about trout. The color of the sage-covered hills at dusk lulled me into a prairie-river daze, and it was from this trancelike state that I watched my strike indicator slip below the surface at the end of a long, slow drift. It took a moment for the strike to register, but when it did my instincts flew to my forearms and I pulled up on Black Bart. I was bound to a leaping, plunging, hard-running, Platte River rainbow. The rod bucked and heaved as the fish used its length as a lever in the current. The glass gave enough to keep my tippet from breaking, but the rod’s backbone was strong. The fish eventually tired, and after a five-minute battle I brought the proud silver pugilist to the net—my first fish on the North Platte River—courtesy of a modest old fiberglass rod, made by somebody I’ll never know, and purchased for less than the cost of a meal at a Chinese restaurant. I understand old fiberglass rods aren’t for everyone. Their charm is subtle. It takes a mischievous streak to appreciate their qualities. For instance, if you occasionally call your rod a “pole” in front of your highbrow fishing friends, just to watch them squirm, you’re a candidate for glass. If you drive a Lincoln Navigator, but wish you still owned the Volkswagen bus you sold because it wasn’t practical, you could easily aspire to a vintage fiberglass rod. Let’s face it, old glass rods are the Volkswagen vans of the fly fishing world. They’re not Ferraris or Land Rovers. They’re not fast or responsive, but in upscale cars and trucks, the vehicle is the focus of the drive. You pay more attention to the car than you pay to the world outside. In a Volkswagen van, it is the scenery that matters. Likewise, with a fiberglass rod in hand it’s all about the water, the fish, your friends, and the sun sinking under the horizon, casting memorable shadows on the day. H u s 11 77 �For what it’s worth, in this era of uptight, high-priced, nose-in-the-air angling gear. I’m going to keep carrying honest, understated fiberglass rods to the river. It’s the best way I have found to soothe my trout-andcold-clean-river-loving soul. t 1 i 78 coast I i � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Working Class Glass Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2006 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Chad Hanson Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chad Hanson Journal Publications, CCA 04.ii.e.2025.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.e.2025.01_ChadHansonPapers_06 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available <em>Third Coast</em> is published by Western Michigan University