PREVIOUS ARTICLES ARCHIVE >>> Confessions of a Tackle Junkie There should be an organisation like Alcoholics Anonymous for tackle junkies. There are millions of us, and we need to reach out. It's a hard thing, though. I mean, let's face it, the habit is incurable, so group therapy is doomed from the start. For one thing, any meeting would degenerate into a swap meet within seconds. Myself, I'm supporting a bad reel habit. And those evil tackle cartels keep bringing new models onto the market - sleek, no glare, deep anodized beauties, with neuro-surgical machine tolerances, zero start-up inertia, silky drags, and coco-bolo handles. So far, there is no fishing tackle equivalent to a methadone regime, so, if we want to quit, I'm afraid it's cold turkey, friend. Rods, like waders, lines, and jackets, I feel, are just things to use up, rather like golf clubs. Rods break, or, as we become better casters, we tire of their actions, or we just keep finding new situations where we need a specialised rod. You know, if you need a tip-actioned, nine foot, three piece, four weight, Winston, with a well figured, bird's eye maple and tooled german silver reel seat, you need it bad. Right? Occasionally, we find a rod that we learn to love, then we get all neurotic about it and are afraid to use it. Experience tells us that as soon as we get precious about a rod, we will break it. I propose this as Wyatt's Certainty Principle. All my real users - plain, middle priced sticks, that just get thrown into the car and abused in all sorts of ways - are indestructible. My 'best' rod, a snappy little Sage travel rod, I recently managed to smash, although I handled it as if it was made of porcelain. The only reliable prophylactic against this inevitable distress is to own lots of rods, treat them like brooms, and not get attached to any of them. Reels, on the other hand, are just trouble. I've got a drawer full of great old Hardy's that I never use, and I can't sell or give away. Too many memories and emotional investment. I made a big effort to trade-up last year, and part-exchanged several of my rubbed and worn pawl-click winches for a set of spiffy new black machines, which I was convinced would change my life. The new reels lie in their cases, as anonymous and efficient as assault rifles, while I try to come to terms with the knowledge of Blanche, my old Saint John, hard used and losing her looks, in the hands of somebody new. The person who bought Blanche will find I had a Marquis style, german silver, line guard installed by the maker, so she is unique. Her new owner, whoever you are, will know by her appearance that she is used to playing rough; many berserk steelhead, Atlantic salmon and, once, a chrome bright, thirty-three pound, chinook salmon, which ran over three hundred yards in two stupendous rushes and about a ton of spool pressure. No ceramic disc drag, no palming rim - just hung on and let her howl. Old Blanche may be just a fly reel, but, if she wasn't, I'll bet she'd have wanted a cigarette after that one. After trading Blanche, I realised that I couldn't part with any more of my other old reels, so I just wrote them into my will. Once my fishing pals read this, I expect more solicitous attention from now on. Until I'm pushing up daisies, those old reels will sit there, in mute reproach, while I weigh the relative performance parameters of cork or ceramic in the tackle league tables, steadily convincing myself that I can no longer live without both. But, what about those new large arbours, huh? Just got to have one of those babies. I mean, how did we even manage to fish without them? They seem a little pricey, for reasons not altogether clear, but I'm sure they are worth every penny. And looks? Forget about it. These reels are definitely the business. The looks alone outweigh my rational objection that a couple hundred yards of backing is lighter, just as effective in reducing start-up inertia and centrifugal stresses, and might be more practical, in a dirty fight with a big running fish, than a hole in the middle of the reel. But, I'm hurting all over, so it's just a matter of time before I crack, and write out the six month's worth of post dated cheques. But, at least I got over my antique reel collecting habit. That was really getting expensive, and I had no intention of ever using those reels. I still have most of them, of course, but at least I can resist the auction catalogues now. One day at a time. Baby steps. The old Perfects are now all out of my price range anyway, and the Super Silex and Ariel prices are just downright silly. Come to think of it, they cost almost as much as those sexy new large arbour's. I'd hate to even think of selling my lovely old Silex, but then, I need a large arbour reel. Right? Taken from the March 2001 isuue of FLY-FISHING and FLY-TYING