Jay looked across the broad wooden table, pointed directly at me, and held my gaze. Then, in a dead-pan tone, he made the following proclamation to everyone assembled:
“The sound of a Hardy is the sound of a lost fish”.
A brief moment of astonished silence followed, then boisterous laughter erupted among the clients and guides as I grinned sheepishly and received hearty back slaps from my friends. Trevor of course followed up with a rendition of the loud buzzing from my screaming click and pawl reels as everyone joined in a chorus of “ZZZZZZZZ!” that could probably be heard throughout the tundra across the entire Alaska Peninsula. The good-natured mirth eventually subsided and we re-focused our attention on the sumptuous dinner that Chef Dave had spent hours preparing for us, with an occasional “ZZZ!” uttered discretely as we downed our repast.
I have always enjoyed fishing with vintage fly reels, especially those of the click and pawl variety. My inordinate fondness for these classic devices without drags is rather anachronistic in this modern age, given the vast array of options made with space age materials and high tech braking systems that are readily available to tame every species of finned quarry. The formative years of my fly angling during the late 1970’s and ‘80’s were spent hanging around The Millpond, a Los Gatos shop located in the south part of the San Francisco Bay area. After tying flies for them, I was subsequently hired on as an employee, which had the interesting effect of converting most of my earnings into tackle. Back then, there was really only a few choices for single action freshwater fly reels. As my youthful aspirations led me to desire gear beyond my limited financial means, I spurned the more affordable Martins and Pflueger Medalists, and acquired the top-of-the- line Hardys instead. Upon hooking a hot fish, the screaming sounds that emanated from the click and pawls of these time-tested devices delighted my auditory senses, and I attribute such early influences as the basis for my everlasting fascination with the noise- makers.
Having lived and fished throughout the Great North for over a quarter of a century, the number of people who I’ve encountered using click and pawl reels in our angling mecca can be tallied on a single hand. Once, while swinging for Chinook salmon on one of my local rivers, I hooked a nice chrome-sided hen that commenced ripping line off my Hardy Duchess as she ran downstream to the next hole. As I gloried in the raucous chatter that ensued, another nearby fisher turned to me, yelled above the racket and asked, “Hey man, is something wrong with your reel?”
Pursuing anadromous salmonids with two handed rods and fly fishing tackle is quite challenging indeed, and we two-handed fly angling addicts know full well that our choice of gear significantly limits the number of encounters that we’ll have with these elusive species. Hours and even days of strenuous effort under often inclement conditions, with the odds somewhat akin to picking winning lottery numbers, would seem to encourage us to employ every advantage possible for a successful catch. So why risk losing a fish by using outdated technology that does little more than annoy them, after they feel the sting of the hook and decide to blast away from the hapless angler? (I can only shrug in response.)
I have suffered defeats from powerful steelhead that were most likely due to my decision to fish with a dragless reel, and I can still keenly feel the sting of such losses years later. There was a giant buck that grabbed my blue & black marabou plus tinsel offering and tore off in a scorching run as my Hardy Bougle howled in protest. While the whirring handle rapped my knuckles mercilessly and the backing continued to whip through the guides, the spindle became alarmingly visible beneath the rapidly vanishing string. My subsequent attempts to regain inches of line via cranking it onto the itty-bitty reel arbor as I stumbled down the stony bank in chase was — to put it rather mildly — quite difficult indeed.
The tremendous fish performed astounding aerial somersaults far off in the distance as my connection to him grew ever more tenuous with each passing moment. He then pressed towards the tail of the swift run seeking assured escape in the powerful rapids below, when for some inexplicable reason, decided to stop his mad dash just above the foaming whitewater. My relief at this fortuitous event was brief, as the big steelie then tried to veer towards a sunken mid-river tree. Somehow, the heavy current pushed him past the hazard and I managed to flip the line over the protruding branches to clear it and continue the battle.
By this time I had reached the end of the long gravel bar and could not follow the giant buck any further through the unseen depths that suddenly appeared before me. As he wallowed below, I locked the dragless reel with my hand and held the deeply bowed rod fervently, hoping that the leader wouldn’t snap or the hook tear out. Time slowed to a crawl as this détente between desperate angler and huge steelhead continued, until the heavy pressure began to gradually sap his strength. I gained a single crank of line, then some more winds as he slowly moved into the quiet water of an adjacent side channel. More tense moments ensued as the fish swam about this backwater, and he eventually rose to the surface where we could see the gator-sized head attached to a blimp-like body over a yard in length, and tinted with a rosy blush along his broad flanks.
My guide Ryan moved in beside me as I continued to regain precious yards and the duel neared its conclusion. The head was eventually wound onto the Bougle, but with the sink tip still beyond the end of my rod, the mongo steelhead stubbornly refused to be drawn towards the waiting meshes and continued to circle tantalizing just beyond reach. The fish finally made a last turn towards us, opened his mouth and worked his jaws – and the hook pulled just as he was beyond the rim of the net.
I uttered a loud string of choice curses while Ryan shook his head at this unfortunate ending. I knew what he was thinking, and before the dreaded words came out of his mouth I said “Well, I might’ve landed that fish if I was using a reel with a drag!” A faint grin appeared on his taciturn face as he mentioned that the prolonged fight probably caused the hook to wear a large hole in the steelhead’s jaw and enabled the curved steel to slip out at the final moment.
Sometimes the river gods elect to grant us old school click and pawl anglers an occasional fortune. Another session with Ryan found me swinging a hot orange and pink Intruder through one of his favorite steelhead runs. As if upon cue, the take came in the heart of the bucket and I was momentarily stunned at the ferocity of the massive grab. Before I could react, the shiny hen blasted into the air, twisting her body mightily before landing back into the yawning crater on the water’s surface where she had flung herself skyward. This was instantly followed by several more end over end leaps as she attempted madly to dislodge the offending concoction of feathers, tinsel, and steel. When these high flying aerial maneuvers failed to garner the freedom she sought, the big hen decided to flee back towards the Bering Sea. The banshee howl from the Hardy as she tore downriver made my ears ring, and the friction from the chattering pawls as they ratcheted against the steel click springs caused the reel to get so hot that my hand jerked back when I touched its scorching sides.
The blue running line and then the fluorescent green backing melted off the quickly dwindling spool as the frantic dash took the crazy fish far around the next river bend. As I stumbled in mad pursuit on the cobblestones atop the gravel bar, Ryan sprinted ahead and grabbed the still vanishing line at the corner below, holding it out over the water and above his 6 foot plus height so that it wouldn’t get snarled in the brush and woody debris. The steelhead finally stopped in the run below us with less than a quarter of the backing remaining on the spool, and I gathered inches at a time on the slim arbor via frenzied reeling. When I eventually caught up to my guide, panting heavily, he looked at my grim countenance with some concern. “Geez Glenn, I was worried that you’d might having a heart attack!” to which I responded with an upraised middle finger.
In spite of spending much energy via these heroic escape bids, the henfish still resisted my concerted efforts to draw her towards the bank. I leaned back hard on the long spey rod and clutched the reel sans drag tightly in my hand, only releasing the handle when she surged away repeatedly back into the current. Long moments continued to pass, increasing my worries that the hook might pull out and sever the fragile connection between us during this extensive give and take. After yet one more desperate dash, I was able to finally lead her into the waiting net. Her chrome sides with nary a tinge of pink, turquoise-hued back, fin rays streaked with bands of shiny silver, and dark colored sea lice replete with intact tails showed us that she had just arrived from the salt and explained how was able to battle so vigorously. Ryan snapped several photos before I opened my hand to release the lovely 34-inch steelhead, and she showered me with river water as she flexed her stout body and dashed back into the flows. Back at the lodge that evening, the tale of our epic encounter, replete with a loud rendition of the buzzing reel clatter and tiny circular motions imitating my futile line cranking onto the narrow arbor, drew much mirth from all.
To the click and pawl devotees, as well as those who are contemplating going “old school” with regards to their Spey tackle: Revel in using this anachronistic technology!
Whoop and holler to add to the banshee din, and really make sure that everyone on the river knows you’re hooked up. Think of it as a true foray onto the wild side, when you match the fighting spirit of a powerful salmonid gained through thousands of sea journey miles, against the tension from a two inch piece of flat steel barely thicker than a sheet of paper. After parrying its multiple attempts to escape, your use of skill versus relying on sophisticated engineering to land the fish means that you’ve truly earned the right to celebrate your success.
Here’s a valuable click and pawl technique tip from my good friend Trevor that works well when your quarry decides to blast downstream and empties your reel. We were angling in Coho Nirvana on the Alaska Peninsula’s Sapsuk River, and after watching another chrome bright silver take me deep into my backing in the heavy current, he instructed me to stick the rod underwater – and the fish subsequently stopped its mad dash. Keeping the upper half of my two-hander submerged, Trevor then instructed me to wind steadily while maintaining steady pressure, whereupon the stout buck obediently swam back towards us as I refilled the Duchess’ narrow spool. Since then, I’ve employed this “Walkin’ The Dog” method time and time again to successfully land those out-of-control fish on my dragless reels, and this method is especially useful when it’s not possible to give chase.
Many anglers place a high importance on the number of fish they bring to the net, and are understandably concerned about the possibility of increased losses if they use click and pawls. After years of receiving endless guff at steelhead camp about my choice of classic Hardys, I embarked on an experiment last season and fished only with devices that have actual drags. These reels did indeed prevent my having to engage in frenzied chases from out-of-control metal heads, and as an additional benefit, there was no audible “ZZZ!” signal that I had missed another grab (at least when my guides weren’t looking in my direction). With regards to my hookup to landing ratio: according to my statistics, I still managed to lose the same percentage of fish, so based on my (decidedly non-scientific) experiment it appears that the more advanced gear didn’t seem to improve this aspect of my angling.
Here in Alaska we’re just now coming out of the cold season, and it’ll be months before our icy northern rivers unfreeze and the bright sea-run fish return. As I ponder the choice to return to my classic Hardys, I replay videos of previous catches replete with loud mechanical chattering sounds and exultant “Yeehaws!” as steelies dash downstream.
Decision made, and the disc drag tackle will be relegated to back-up status this year. I’ll just ignore the sarcastic guffaws from the guides, and delight in the screaming howls echoing across the river from my old school reels as that big steelhead disappears downriver.
