The Orvis Fly Rod

By Lynn Dee Galey

I’m not sure why I’m writing this here because it is off-topic from the Setters. It is a story about my Dad who was passionate about hunting and fishing. And it was my Dad who handed me a small collar for my 11th birthday and said the pick of the litter we had out of his Maggie was mine to keep for my first setter of my own.  So maybe this does fit here after all. 

My Fathers most treasured gift when he retired was a sweet little fly rod and reel from Orvis. He was a family man and would not have indulged in pricey gear for himself.  His more pedestrian rods and reels had always served him just fine.  But this little beauty was ideal for the streams and rivers in his beloved northwestern corner of Pennsylvania.  He put that rod and his retirement time to good use with countless little trips, yet always back home for lunch. 

The fish were not large but he didn’t care.  He practiced catch and release anyway. The challenge of convincing a trout to come out from beneath an overhanging bank and take his fly was enough. His time was long before artsy photos were taken to share a fisherman’s catch. The memories were enough. When I visited we would drive around and he would show me his “spots.”  Often they were small little streams, barely wider than his rod was long, riffles and pools to be seen only by those who walked along, shaded by tall hemlocks and moss covered banks. 

It was those moss covered banks that brought about his phone call to me one particular morning. His voice was sad and resigned as he described how he had slipped down a bank the day before. He fell onto and snapped the rod just above the smooth cork grip. After grieving overnight he had called Orvis to inquire about repair. This was long before the company’s “no questions asked” warranty. The service person who fielded his call was kind and listened to the story of how he came to own the rod as well as what had happened: she understood the importance of this little whip of gear. Rose assured him that they would do their best to repair the rod and instructed him how to send it attention to her name so she could help it through the process. 

He sighed as he told me that he instructed her to call with an estimate of cost before repair because his sense was that the repair would cost more than he could pay. As soon as we hung up I phoned the Orvis rod shop, which was only 4 doors down from my office in Manchester, VT, and I asked for Rose. Over the phone I sensed her smile as I said, "Here is my credit card number for the repair.  I don’t care how much it costs."

Less than two weeks later Dad excitedly told me that Rose had called saying the rod was repaired, “at no cost!”, and she gave him the FedEx tracking number as it had gone out that morning. 

But it never arrived. Despite multiple calls from Dad and Rose the rod was never found. Such sadness...until

about a month later when a different package arrived from Orvis. Inside was a brand new fly rod and a note from Rose saying that Orvis wanted him to get back to fishing. 

I inherited the rod too many years ago now. How I wish I could hand it and his net back to my Dad and send him off with one of my friends who guide nearby with their wooden AuSable longboats. They are good men and I know would make sure he didn’t slip on the banks. 

5505

5505. That’s how many nights Storm has curled up on her blanket in her corner of my bed in her 15 years.  I don’t know what made me calculate that last night after she hopped up and settled in. 

I have had a setter sleeping at the foot of my bed since I was 11. I don’t want to know how many nights that is in total. Growing up, the family’s setters did not get onto the furniture yet my own dog did sleep on my bed. 

The spot on my bed had traditionally been reserved for the senior dog in my household. Yet Storm joined her mother, my beloved Tweed, when just a puppy. I don’t know why, some things I just don’t question.  When Tweed passed she left such a void that her other daughter, Sally, was invited to sleep on that corner of the bed. Sally’s passing last fall hit so hard that her spot remains empty in memory. Her granddaughter Dance slept there for a few nights last month when she was feeling lost after her puppies went to their homes. But she now contentedly sleeps next to her older daughter Crush on the sofa in the back living room. 

Several of the new puppy owners report that their young'uns are already sleeping in their bed with them, despite the best laid plans for them to sleep in a crate. Sometimes the circles of life are good dogs curled in a ball at the foot of the bed. 

Pocket Tales: May 31. Empty Nest

Many ask how my dams react when their puppies leave to their homes. Dance has shown more attachment and concern than any other of my females.  She is such a good girl, perhaps tonight after the last pup flies off to Montana with her owner Dance will need to sleep in my room. 

Little girl sleeping alone for the first time. Curled up in the rocknbowl with her toy crown and dinosaur. 

Pocket Tales 5/30: Timing and down to 3

 An early morning trip to the vet showed that Pocket is still a couple of days from being ready to breed. Well, at least hormonally ready. Pocket is a force, aka Mob Boss, and last year intimated a stud so much that he refused to breed. I am trying a different stud this year in the hope that Pocket will like this boy better. Meanwhile I genuinely appreciate her hormones holding off until Dance’s pups have left so I will have the time to devote to driving Ms Boss to meet her suitor.

Six pups have left to their families with 4 going yesterday.  Reports back indicate everyone is doing well and having fun with owners actually getting some sleep. Just the 3 here this morning with 2 heading out this afternoon. Travel papers for border crossings and airlines are ready. Tonight, for one night, I will join the ranks of those with puppies adjusting to being without their littermates. Tomorrow it’s off to the airport to meet her family and she flies at their feet til home in Montana. 

Pocket Tales

We often forget that what is a way of life for us is quite unknown to others. It has been suggested that I journal about what it’s like for me having a pack of bird dogs and to plan and raise a litter. As I prepare to send my current litter off to their homes I am also juggling breeding Pocket for my next litter so this seems like a timely topic.  This is the first post, more over upcoming weeks.

I have only one or two litters a year, for many reasons. One huge reason for me is that I want a personal connection with the hunters I choose to get my puppies. Guys who are out there gunning over their dog 30-60+ days a year across the continent are the best way to get real-time feedback on the talent I’m producing. They are why I breed. With an average of 10 puppies in each litter, I simply would not be able to maintain good communication with more. 

I joke that I’m simply the social director for the puppies.  This morning is typical. A hunting buddy and his brother stopped in to visit; his brother had just missed out on a contract to buy his dream up-north house near here and consoled himself by sitting on the porch floor beneath a pile of puppies. As we chatted, a family who is getting one of these pups arrived. They had spent the holiday weekend up at their cabin and as such arrived in two vehicles full of kids and in-laws and joined us on the back porch. 

It’s now a couple hours later and quiet here once again as the others head back home. Dogs and puppies are sound asleep. Water bowls are cleaned and filled and it’s almost time for puppy lunch. I think I’ll do the same while I have the time. 

Puppies are good medicine