I caught my first trout on a fly rod in south central Pennsylvania. The lush valley with its limestone streams was different enough from suburban Virginia to be aesthetically enchanting to an otherwise distracted teenager. Closer streams with less challenging trout were an option. But I was smitten. Without any ties aside from a few fish and the beginnings of a library whose authors hailed from the Cumberland Valley, I had home waters away from home.
I didn’t get to meet Charlie Fox or Vince Marinaro. I didn’t get a chance to fish some of the oft-mentioned spring creeks that succumbed to pollution or development. But there was enough left by the late 90’s: people and places, both. I began to accumulate whatever I could. Books, mostly. Also pieces of tackle, articles, and photographs. More memorable were those conversations. Streamside chats, a few dedicated minutes at conservation banquets, and, once I moved to New England, phone calls.
“The last 50 or so rods I built were on Lamiglass blanks,” Ed Shenk told me. I had asked him about rod building; specifically making his little “Flea” rods. It was one of our last conversations. “Before that there were Grizzly fiberglass blanks and the Conlin ‘Teeny Tiny’ blanks.”
I had never seen the latter two models. Until I was holding one – holding mine – in the summer of 2023.
(Be sure to read the first part of this story here.)
After crossing the threshold to his house and a handshake, Frank passed the diminutive fly rod to me. “Like I said: It’s not ready for the museum.”
“No,” I said smiling, “Its ready for the water.”
Frank Shenk emailed me after coming across my article about his older brother, Ed. We quickly connected, and he told me that he had an early Flea that he’d like me to have. After hanging up the phone, I tried to figure out when I could clear a few days to drive down to Pennsylvania to meet Frank, pick up the little one-piece rod, and fish with it. More specifically, catch a fish on the Letort with it.
After an overnight drive (to avoid Connecticut traffic), I pulled into Boiling Springs well before polite calling hours. I fished the Yellow Breeches a stone’s throw from where I caught that first trout on a fly, over 25 years ago. Once dark clouds began to gather, I reeled in and headed to Frank’s house.
We talked for quite a while. We shared fishing stories. He shared memories of fishing with his older brother. He told me about the rod. It had belonged to his best friend, who had willed it to him and recently passed. Ed had made each of them a Flea in the early 1960’s. The rough burgundy blank featured nearly identical thread wraps. The delicate handle flowed into the integrated cork reel seat. Two rings were for holding the reel foot. One had Frank’s friend Russ’ name stamped onto it. “I know I want you to have it,” he told me. “And I’m pretty sure Russ and Ed would too. If they don’t, they can take it up with me when I see them!”
We shook hands once more and I was off across his lawn, false casting the whole way to my car. I had an Ed Shenk rod. I also had promises to keep: to Frank, to myself, and somehow to other people who had made this trip possible. But the river on which this covenant would be fulfilled is notoriously fickle.
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