Contemplating the purchase of a new rod ought to be the catalyst for joy, but if you've been cursed with a conscience it can be the cause of great consternation. There's that niggling question of just how many fly rods a fisherman really needs. The answer, of course, is always one more: which is precisely why I presently own seven sticks and yearn for yet another.
Oddly enough, the anxiety exists independently of my wife's approval or God's. As far as I can tell neither He nor she has a problem with me blowing a couple hundred bucks on a tool for trout. I don't rip off the Lord through tithes and offerings, the household bills get paid on time, and Amy knows I won't neglect her for the sake of a few fish.
Given those particular go-aheads, what fool in his right mind wouldn't rush out and gleefully jack up the credit card at the nearest sporting goods shop? Well, I can only speak for myself. Pascal said the unexamined life isn't worth living, and such a philosophy is all too applicable to piscatorial pursuits. Thus, when I examine the situation honestly, the so called "need" for something additional is questionable indeed. Did I say "seven rods" earlier? I meant eight. No, nine--if you count the unfinished blank standing against a bedroom wall.
The first rod is a 7-1/2' bamboo 5-weight. I bought this beauty back in 1974 and fish the thing incessantly, a fact which intimates comprehensive adequacy for all kinds of flies from dries to streamers.
The second rod is a 7 1/2' semi parabolic 4-weight, also made of cane. Three years ago I asked rod maker Gary Dabrowski to build a true 4-weight biased toward double taper fly lines, and he did the job perfectly. If I want to toss small flies to finicky late summer rainbows, the stick I'll consistently pick is obvious.
The third rod is a one piece glass 5-weight, used religiously on small streams like the Scantic.
The fourth rod is a 7 1/2' glass 4-weight, often enjoyed as a fine substitute for the 4-weight bamboo in risky situations.
The fifth rod is a 7 1/2' glass 5 weight which serves as a stand-in for the cane 5-weight when conditions require caution.
The sixth is a canoe rod, an old glass 6-weight given to me by a man in Maine. The cork is shot and the wraps are showing their age. However, since every gift ultimately comes from God, I remain thankful to him for a fairly serviceable beat-around-the-boat fly pole.
The seventh and eighth rods are both graphite 5-weights, 7' 9" and 8 1/2' respectively. I hardly cast either anymore primarily because I prefer the fiberglass and cane alternatives. Nevertheless, the longer version is excellent on big water where throwing a lot of line might be mandatory.
The ninth is a rod wannabe, a 9' glass blank waiting to be turned into a nice salmon 6-weight.
Hence, judging by the above list, any attempt to justify buying Diamondback's recent fiberglass 4-weight seems rather preposterous. Again, the issue isn't money or somebody's okay. Rather, it's a concept rarely spoken about in Christian circles today: namely, self denial.
Just because I could get the Diamondback doesn't mean I should. Often times self denial touches upon the good instead of the bad, a truth largely overlooked in many discussions of the subject. Every believer knows he's supposed to shun evil, but does he appreciate the idea of forsaking the better for the best? For me the trade off would basically amount to accepting immediate gratification in the place of providential satisfaction. That being the case, I figure my most urgent need boils down to thankfulness for the equipment I already have and trust in God for what I don't. Patience with providence can be a powerful lesson to learn.
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©copyright 2003, Perry S. Fuller
