Twice this past season, I’ve been in a fight to secure wayward pieces of my fly rod.

In the Pacific Northwest, my son and I were pounding some fast-moving water and “slammo” half of my five-piece, 7 weight rod comes off and starts floating downstream. The water was deep, fast and chilly, a nasty situation at best. After quickly adding up how my that Sage cost, I managed — finally — to pull the sucker back in on the fly line! Dumb. Note to self: push down the sections harder next time before beginning to fish.

Then last weekend, I had to climb up a mini-mountainside to get back to the trail. I stuck my three-piece, 3 weight in the deep back pocket of my vest, and zipped it,  so I could use both hands to help leverage my large self up the hill. Because of the  width and depth of the pocket, several inches of each piece protruded into the space behind my head. Feeling exhilarated by my solution, I muscled up the sliding San Gabriel sandstone, as it sporadically collapsed at an alarming rate.

With my reaching fingers close to success, a low-hanging branch snatched two of the three pieces out of my zipped pocket! They fell and hung out of my grasp, held by a helpful (small) plant, ready to tumble all the way back down, some 50 feet. Mere noses from the trail, but not yet there, I s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d far enough to grab hold of them, and today my back tells me that although I rescued my fav Sage, I’m not as young as I once was. Dumb. Note to self: stop all heroics and take the easy way up and out.

Got a “rescued my rod” story? Please post below.

See you on the river, Jim Burns