Every other fly rod was on the vertical rack. Sage, Orvis, Winston: all the names I knew and aspired to collect. But this rod was hung up horizontally. It was a bright amber with deep red wraps. The most striking aspect of the rod was that it was shorter than all the other fly rods in the shop. Moreover, it was shorter than any spinning rod I had seen.

“Ed Shenk makes those. Calls them ‘Fleas’.” The older gentleman behind the counter inserted, perceiving I was trying to figure out what I was looking at. “You’ve really got to know your stuff to cast those little rods.”

At the time, I had just started fly fishing. Among a number of other character flaws common to teenagers, I didn’t have an appreciation for small streams. Or small fly rods. Or, for that matter, Ed Shenk. Within a few years, each of those deficiencies would be remedied. First, I stumbled upon mountain creeks filled with bright brook trout. Then, I acquired a seven-foot 3-weight to chase them. Finally, I began to read about the anglers of Pennsylvania’s Cumberland Valley.

Fast forward through high school and college and I’m living in south central PA; my passion for small spring creeks playing an outsized role in the life decision. The fly shop had changed hands, and there was no longer any of those tiny rods for sale (not that I could have afforded anything on a grad student budget). But something better materialized. I ran into Ed Shenk multiple times on the water. We talked fishing back then and we talked fishing today. We formed enough of a relationship that he was willing to take my calls after I moved to New England and I started up Casting Across.

The last time we talked was only a few months before his passing in 2020. Some highlights of that conversation made it into an article I wrote about Ed in the weeks after his death.

In the wake of that last phone call and that post, I  engaged in some half-hearted attempts at tracking down one of his Flea rods. I owned plenty of fly rods, including some exceptional contemporary and antique short rods that I truly enjoyed fishing. The inquiry was more about nostalgia, symmetry, and holding a tangible tether  to a place that mattered a lot for a number of reasons. Part of it was how many chances I had to pick one up: including that first time. How could I have known, as a teenager just wanting to catch a lot of fish, that 20 years in the future I would want that rod I first laid eyes on in the Yellow Breeches Fly Shop?

Over the last few years a number of people reached out to express their appreciation for the article on Ed. His children, other relatives, and fishing acquaintances would email some truly touching things. That kind of gratitude was certainly not the impetus for my writing, but receiving it made an already rewarding venture that much more satisfying.

But this June, three years after the original article, one email caught me quite off guard. In the middle of the brief note were the sentences:

“…you wanted a flea rod but none were available. But I have one available now.”

To be continued…