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.
