This was the worst fly rod ever.

Or maybe not. I don’t know. You might like it.

But I didn’t.

To be honest, there was a time when I liked it. That is why I bought it. I could cast it a mile. In the fly shop parking lot. In my back yard. Even a few times on the water. Into the backing.  That is what I could do with it. Sounds great, right?

Well there aren’t a lot of real-life fly fishing situations where you need to dump 90 feet with a 5-weight.

Maybe you have had to plop a BWO down in the next county over. But I was never faced with that particular scenario when chasing trout. But hey, I guess I should chalk that up to not doing all I could do. I’m not that intense. Maybe this rod was built with real fly fishers in mind. All I was doing was casting real far.

To accomplish this casting competition feat, the rod was fast. And – and not to be disparaging to the  genius men and women who probably designed the thing – it was as stiff as a flash frozen salmon in the north sea. Flagpole stiff. Why a 5 weight would ever need to be that fast I don’t know.

I did buy the thing, though.

Times when I had to cast short distances, the laser-like line speed caused even the smallest of flies to hit the water like depth charges. 7X caused splashes that sent small animals on the shore scurrying for cover. This rod had the delicacy touch of an 80’s action movie. Every cast was a roundhouse kick to the river’s face.

I did try to fix it. I went up a half line size. I went up a whole line size. I hired a team to film me casting in super slow motion and I confirmed that only the top three inches of the rod flexed. That last part wasn’t true. It did feel like that.

The real kicker was when I snapped of four good fish in the same pool. I wasn’t happy. I blamed that rod and it’s unforgiving rigidity. My guide blamed me.

“You cast this thing,” I said. “It’s not my fault. It’s the rod’s fault.”

He didn’t seem to buy it. I think it was because he was concerned it was reflecting poorly on him since we weren’t landing more fish. Or, because it was a rod that I chose to bring along on the boat and I should have known full well that the rod was a broomstick unable to handle a fish that fought with any erratic movements. It was one or the other.

The rod was like a graphite albatross. So I got rid of it.

But one man’s frustration, guilt, and encumbrance is another man’s favorite casting tool. The rod has great ratings. It is well loved. The company is thriving and doubling down on the technology that went into crafting this javelin masquerading as a fishing rod.

So it could be the word rod ever. Or it could be your favorite.

For me? This was the outdoor gear equivalent of graft-versus-host disease.  For you? It could be a real Naughty Marietta moment.

And isn’t that the way it is with fly rods? We get all up in arms about ratings and reviews and whatnot, but there are some things that can only be felt. All the engineering and testing in the world can’t quantify your casting stroke. So who am I to yuck someone’s yum.

I thought it was the worst fly rod ever. You, well, maybe you’ll like it.