Clyde Tullis

It's been quite a while since I've been on the river in real earnest. Over 4000 CFS of water the color of chocolate milk isn't conducive to the sport of fly fishing and the task of making a living took over me as it does now and then. Spare time in the evenings can be occupied with fly tying, building leaders, rod repair and all the other things that can be done to be ready for the coming summer season.

This ritual takes me back to when dad would spread everything out in the living room before a big trip, sit in his big arm chair and go through it all. He would clean and oil his automatic real, dress the line and organize his flies and leaders. The cane rods would get a coat of varnish that he would apply with his fingers in thin coats. I would watch and take part when allowed. Many of the same stories about fish and rivers told annually were repeated. He had bought the rods in a sporting goods store in Denver in the late forties. ABOUT $20 each. A 8 1/2 ft. 5 wt. Phillipson Paragon for himself and an 8 1/2 ft. 8 wt. Wright and McGill Lake and Stream for my mom. They lived in Gunnison at the time and fished the river in the evening after work. This was before Blue Mesa Reservoir flooded that section of the Black Canyon just west of town.

Dad told me how the rods were built from separate, triangular, tapered strips of Tonkin cane, glued and wrapped together. As my father rubbed the varnish on them a reverence in his voice would convey his respect and love for the rods and the men who crafted them. He later bought a graphite rod which he gave to me and I will pass on to my oldest son this summer.

The cane or bamboo used to make rods was imported from China before the beginning of World War II. When it was no longer available rods were built from fiberglass and then graphite. You will rarely see anything but graphite rods on the river now-a-days. They are much lighter and faster i.e. stiffer. One might compare a graphite rod to a Miata and a cane rod to an old Cadillac. Canes are still produced but are usually expensive. Whereas a serviceable graphite can be purchased for under $100. They both catch fish.

My old man lost most of his eyesight several years before his death. Macular Degeneration and Cataracts. Along with that his arthritis and failing health made it difficult for him to enjoy the sport as he had known it. Bank fishing in lakes with spinning gear and bait with friends was all he could manage. When dad passed he left me his fishing gear which included his favorite rod, the Phillipson. I have it strung up with the others and I use it often.

Late last summer when the days lasted forever and the river was clear and low I stopped work at five to fish the stretch just up from the house. I drove the mile home, pulled a beer out of the fridge and sat down at the vise to tie a half a dozen flies to use that evening. They were dry flies, a couple Adams and some Buzzers. Buzzers are a work in progress pattern tied with what ever is handy or seems right at the moment with wings made of a plastic twine I can get from the post office. The beer and the flies were finished at about the same time. I put the flies in the box, the box in the vest, pulled on the vest and chose a rod from the selection I have hanging on the wall of the house. I considered the cane but decided against it because there had been a steady breeze that day and one of the graphites would work better.

My plan was to fish up to the island and beyond. I would fish the pocket water up the bank and the edge of the current in the run just below the island. Something I had done countless times before. The day had been warm and slightly overcast. Just perfect. So perfect that my hands shook with anticipation as I stood on the bank and tied one of the new flies on the tippet. I stood there for several minutes watching the river and the trout rise on the opposite bank. There was the squirrel-like chatter from a King Fisher followed by a truck gearing down on the highway above.

Then it all went silent.

I stepped into the river feeling the warm water on my sandaled feet, ankles and calves. Playing out the line in short false casts, I placed the fly in one of the small current tongues in the pocket water just two feet from the bank. A Brown took it and ran out in the main current. Oh man, it was going to be just perfect!

I fished, as planned, up to the island catching and releasing many fish. Wading only when necessary and covering the water above me with short casts to the water among the rocks. Further up there was a flat at the end of a long run that I waded into and carefully covered with casts placed about a foot apart. After landing five fish I got back out and walked up to fish the deeper water in the run above. I had caught several larger Rainbows there earlier in the summer and thought I'd give it a try.

I needed to tend to my line and fly before starting again. So I did, and as I stood on the rocks in the edge water tying on a new tippet and fly I realized I wasn't alone. Down stream about a hundred yards there was a man fishing a riffle I had passed over. Anywhere else this wouldn't be strange because it is mostly public access but this was private and hardly anybody uses the water except me, my landlord and a few friends.

I watched with interest as he skillfully cast into the faster water. Graceful between ten-and-two casts with a slight upward movement at the end to allow the fly to land gently. The rod was held out with the hand about head height pointing directly at the drifting fly just as I had been taught years ago.

The man's rod would bend severely when a fish was hooked. Probably due to the weight of the fish in current. But it was more than that. When the man played a fish the rod would bend in a big loop as he held it with his arm fully extended above his head. He was fishing a cane!

About this time I would normally be getting territorial and starting to plan a confrontation with someone like this. After all he was on private property and he should at least ask. Of course I wasn't up there to ask. But for some reason it didn't matter today. The angler has returning all he caught to the river and he did it all so well. I was learning just by watching from a distance.

As I watched him I tried to figure out who this man could be. "Did anyone call to say they were coming up from the Springs?" Not tall enough for Jim and it couldn't be Wong, no white dog. It wasn't my neighbor and didn't look like anybody else I knew. But this man was strangely familiar. He was about my height but much stockier. As he fished he moved awkwardly. Not clumsy but stiffly. He was older, but how old I couldn't tell from that distance. He wore a light colored short brimmed hat, the floppy kind made from canvass you can wash in the machine. Hip boots, vest, dark glasses. "Where had I seen a hat like that before?"

I wanted to meet this guy so I decided to quit for the day and finished tying the knot I had started when I discovered him an hour before. I hooked the fly in the cork handle of my rod and began walking down stream to where he was. I looked up and the man was gone.

I cut up through the willows to the path that goes back to the house figuring I could head him off. I thought he must have parked on the road above and was headed in that direction. When I got up to the road there was nothing. No car. No man.

In the lingering dusk I walked back to the house. As I approach the back porch an uncomfortable feeling overwhelmed me. I walked in the back door being careful not to close my rod in the screen door. When I went to hang my rod on the series of nails on the wall and I stopped. The rod my father had given me was gone! I looked around and didn't see it at first. The nerve! That guy stole my rod and then caught fish with it while I watched.

On the table below was the aluminum tube used to store it in and the reel was laying next to it. I unscrewed the top of the tube and pulled out the sock. The Phillips had been returned to it's case. The sock was slightly damp and the line on the reel was also damp. An old canvass hat was also there on the table. I then remembered where I had seen it. It was like my father's hat....... and the man was gone.