Rodney was my spinning rod. Nothing fancy. I think I originally bought him for about $9.95 at the local hardware store about 1965 with lawn-mowing money. He took me through thick and thin. He was a fiberglass rod, originally yellow. It was, I think, some off-brand; I don’t remember what. I’ve since acquired much better rods, and much more expensive. Doesn’t mean they were better. Originally, he was outfitted with an old Mitchell 301 or the old round-bodied Mitchell 309 open-faced spinning reel (left-handed cranking) and he went through several of them in his lifetime. Like I say, he was a good friend for many years. He caught innumerable rainbows and cutthroat trout in high lakes east of McCall, brookies in the dredge-ponds of Warren and the small creeks of the valley, umpteen smallmouth bass and crappie in Hells Canyon, many hundreds of pike on the Kuskokwim and Yukon of Alaska, grayling and Dollies of the Mulchatna, Wulik, and the Gulkana and lots of salmon throughout Alaska. I wonder how many thousands of fish he beached through the years. Many.
Through many years of his service to me, he got stepped on, slammed in truck doors, sat on, chewed on, and stepped on. During the dog days of winter when Rodney wasn’t called into service, he got several make-overs. Sanded reel seat and handle, new guides wrapped on, and new paint. I couldn’t say how many times he’d been broken and spliced back together. Dozens. I remember when he turned from yellow to green, and his final color was matte black. I don’t remember his colors in between. Far as I remember, he never had any clothes; no fancy fabric or even plastic sleeve and certainly no hard, round, rod case in which to reside between outings. Few fishing rods in existence got the workouts Rodney got, nor have other rods been given the makeovers he got.
Rodney died in 2018. Lisa and I were catching rainbow trout up at Yearian Reservoir in the Lemhi Country. I got him snagged up on something in the lake. Might have been a forgotten, submerged barb-wire fence. Well, I obviously yanked a bit much, and Rodney splintered a foot or so above the reel. He was not unlike me, old, brittle, and tired. It would be a difficult place to splice, and for practicality, not worth the effort. I gave a him a good, long inspection, and his guides would need replacement too. As much as it hurts to lose an old, faithful friend, after fifty-three years and thousands of fish, Rodney was ready for the boneyard. It was with a tear in my eye, the next day, I dug a hole, took a shot of whiskey, said a few words, and buried him beside Agency Creek, assuming he would forever hear the babble of the stream and the splashing of the king salmon that still paired up and spawned in its shadows. It saddens me immensely to lose an old friend. RIP Rodney.
