Pipes, Tobacco, and Winter Fly Fishing

29 January 2001

Dear Bishop Hackle:

Ah the rumors, my dear Bishop! Whats this fraternal babbling about burning drugstore Cavendish in your briar nowadays? Please, oh please, rest my weary soul and tell me such prattling is the work of the Devil. Were it true, I fear my poor heart could not sustain the sadness of knowing your pipe smoking has become as boring as your theology. Though we cross swords over numerous issues, I rather enjoy the common ground we share in terms of tobacco. However, should your current preference really be so pedestrian, stick with Argosy. I've been told it's the best. One little question if you don't mind: Did you start puffing that awful stuff while penning your excruciating diatribe concerning the historical Jesus? The two sure seem to fit together quite nicely.

I hear you're chomping regularly on the tight grained Canadian you got for Christmas. Of course, such news pleases me immensely, but had I been privy to your latest apostasy the present would have come with the proviso of "Latakia only." Speaking of pipes, my latest purchase happens to be an interesting old world treasure from Switzerland. The bowl is made of bird's eye ebauchon capped with a nickel wind hood, and sports an exquisitely executed carving of a Dall ram. The shank, by way of contrast, is cherry wood tipped with an inch of unknown black synthetic, maybe vulcanite, into which screws a sheep horn stem. The over-all effect smacks of outdoorsy quaintness according to European styling. Needless to say, I'm thrilled.

Start thinking about a trip to Vermont. After the government returns some of the money it stole last year, perhaps we can drive north to Manchester and see what Nachwalter has to offer (busy men can always use a couple of "free-hands"). Six months ago he began marketing bamboo for some guy in Maine named Blevault: high quality work, competitively priced. Since another point of rare commonality resides in our mutual respect for rods built from cane, how about shoveling a big load of your liberal generosity my way just once? I desperately need another 4-weight, perhaps a fast little nymphing noodle, and Elliot has the perfect stick sitting pretty right in his display case.

Glass did me good today, though. Fortunately, it doesn't shatter upon impact when you fall hard on your wazoo seconds before sliding into a seriously frigid stream whereupon you fill your waders and then have to literally hope to God you don't die of hypothermia. All season long I've wanted to fish in a blizzard. Okay, okay, I'm slightly off center. Happy now? Anyway, this afternoon the opportunity finally came. Despite the incredulous protestations of a particular female, I grabbed my ancient Fenwick plus a box of Buggers and headed down the highway in search of open water. The Scantic turned out a dismal waste, crusted shore to shore with sheet ice which, as you might imagine, isn't very conducive to casting. My only hope, without driving up to the C and R section of the Deerfield, was the Swift. By the time I parked near the Route 9 bridge small wet flakes were falling fast and furious. Harry, if you ever want to own the Swift all to yourself--and I mean without a soul around, not even your own shadow--try it during a January storm. There I was, standing mid-stream in the second most popular rainbow run of the state and no one--absolutely no one--rippled the surface except me.

The soaking caused a knee knocking, bone rattling chill, but as long as my feet still had feeling I figured everything would be fine. Hardly a strike the first half-hour, but it didn't matter because the surrounding scene took away any desire for serious angling. Song birds danced along snow drifts separated by a winding ribbon of water while the wind played music in the air. On either bank tall black trees stood proudly in formation across a field of white, bowing only their branches in humble homage to the One who blanketed the whole forest with unspeakable beauty. Fools speak when they ought to keep silent. I kept whispering words of praise, although it wasn't my fault.

Enough blathering; let's plan a date and hit the Hoosic early February, before Valentine's Day if possible. You'll love winter fly rodding. Everything's the same, but different. Familiar sights along the river assume a mystical quality of newness, making each step a fresh discovery of something exciting. And the solitude is supremely glorious. The fishing could be slower than normal, yet God rewards patience and may surprise you with the unexpected. Prayer beforehand is highly recommended. Sometimes the Lord answers with a lunker.

Your friend and nemesis,