Late last year, Seth Winkleman, aka Swinkfly on Instagram, sent me a trippy and somewhat rambling write-up of his experiences with his Epic FastGlass 888 fly rod that he built from the kit. I'm not sure why it's taken me so long to put this post together but this was a fun one to push "publish" on this morning.
Have a good time reading this and blame Seth if you finally pull the trigger on your own Epic 888.
Have a good time reading this and blame Seth if you finally pull the trigger on your own Epic 888.
Seth Winkelman wrote...
The Epic 888 has filled a void, a hole, a gap (mind the gap) in the arsenal, it has made me complete (I want to already wander here, I want to delve into some psychological exploration of how I am lacking. A ‘void’, what happened in your childhood?). Is how I would explain my "need" to someone who suggested it was just a "want"? Need (needs, actual necessities, maybe a side note on Maslow’s Hierarchy...and we would never find our way back) or not I’m pretty tight (just a quick tangent into personal finances, which would disintegrate into a corrupt system, the rich getting richer rant, or a tasteless joke that loses half one’s audience, three-fourths, ninety percent, the world has gotten pretty sensitive. Who is this humorless audience that can’t see there is no malice in the sentiment? Who is the audience, why am I writing this drivel?) and thus I had procrastinated what I assumed was inevitable, may have even placed it in the cart a few times and then exited out (capitalism the American cult(ure), and we are lost). If I were still drinking (a rabbit hole of personal anecdotes) an uninhibited impulse would have more quickly prompted it’s arrival (and a $150 import tax would have been dodged, no politics at the breakfast table...the lost opportunity to prove my ignorance, naivety and general indifference), but as it is my lady (What makes for a good partner? I’m more of an ass than a tits man) splurged on my behalf in celebration of my aging (Aging...mortality...death...of a man...of a species; are we destined for extinction?).
Is AI the evolution of man...holy hell how did I get trapped in this can with all these worms...the ellipsis is my favorite punctuation because it suggests there is more without defining what more is (all my most profound thoughts are hidden in ellipsis), but is it inaccurate in structure? Maybe those sequential periods should be in the round, rather than a straight line, as much of life is(or should the period turn into a semicolon at some point, then transform into an exclamation point (point, is there one?) parentheses within parentheses, has this become a mathematical equation, writing should not be structured as such, said who? And who am I to listen to them?)...or just periods randomly pin balling about...entropy in action...and then inevitably settling to the bottom of the page, layers upon layers of sedimentary thoughts.
If the above paragraph (If that is what it is? Clearly a public school education.) had a soundtrack it would be layered, undertones of blaring code-3 sirens, a duet of the neighbors miniature furry yappers futilely threatening the taunting chattering tree rats, only to be out done by their owner’s more fervent menthol scorched screeches for auditory peace, a constant sputtering drone of lawn equipment, a chainsaw chewing through a hundred year old oak the pinnacle of this equipment, the neighbor does not like the acorns and in it’s shade she cannot get the grass to grow, she waters and she waters through this never ending drought, but still it will not grow, so the tree must go, and the rivers run dry, but she will have a lawn to mow, and the crescendo: some mindless douche bleating ‘Let’s go!’ for unknown reasons, it’s just something they do, and another echoes ‘Let’s go!’ and then the herd all erupt in not synchronized unison ‘Let’s go!’...and I wish they would go.
The rod arrived. I built it in two days. There were small frustrations in failed wraps, a sore back from such sustained sitting, there was satisfaction in finishing, and an acceptance that the cheaters were now a necessity . Clean and simple aesthetics, no frills, function over form, utilitarian tastes; a few errant bubbles in the epoxy.
NOTES FROM THE FISHING LOG:
Road trips are good for the soul, a change of scenery to change your frame of mind. This was never the intent, but how could I just let the new stick lie there unused. The fly had been a daydream, spun up the previous year for this same water where we had gone fishless over two days with one brief encounter of a hard hit, a big head shake and a limp line, leaving a hollow feeling in my gut.
DAY ONE:
A long drive, stopping only for refueling and biological offloading. A caffeine infused morning, black, no cream, no sugar for me and frothy whipped flavors and sprinkles riding shotgun. Overnight oats swirled with organic peanut butter, honey and cottage cheese speckled by Chia seeds topped with fresh fruit and maple pecan granola for brunch, brunch just being the re-marketing of AM alcoholism by "Big Booze", and while breakfast beers were once the norm on fishing trips this mimosa-free meal was just healthy goodness, fiber filled fodder for picture worthy turds, we can just call this a late breakfast, which made for a late lunch of non-GMO, grass fed, hormone free hipster meat sticks, non-sulfured dried mango and smoothies: spinach, banana, cauliflower rice, frozen blueberries, collagen powder, yogurt, coconut water and tangerine juice, and an all raw, minimally processed ingredient, preservative free bar with the proper calorie to protein ratio. Snacks along the way of dark chocolate covered almonds and almond butter filled pretzels rinsed down with an overpriced powdered greens concoction spiked with creatine and sugar free electrolyte blends, sure to solve all of life’s problems...she tries to keep me healthy, always pestering to hydrate. Eleven hours of not so awe inspiring scenery and we made camp, pitched the tent and straight to the ramp for some happy hour casting. It was a beautiful sunset, you need clouds for a good sunset, suspended water to refract and reflect the light, bent rays rained down on us as we tried to find the pace, slip into a slower rhythm, and then it was dark, and no fish had been caught. Then when it was dark enough, the light came back scattered across the sky, and when one speck of light fell and burned out, I wished for Meg’s first Tiger, she calls them a ‘Mike’, figure it out.
DAY TWO:
We were up early, I was up early, making coffee and stringing up the new rod as it had not made it’s debut the previous evening. Today was the day undergunned or not. Fingerless wool glove kind of a morning as the sun peaked over the horizon. We fished hard or at least consistently until lunch, took a break and hiked into a tight canyon along a clear creek to stretch the legs and then we were back on the boat. Blind casting is meditative, each cast a hope stretched out across the water, each strip filled with anticipation. It’s not completely thoughtless, but it focuses the mind on the task at hand and pushes away the clutter...for me. I’m not thinking about the rest of life. Daniel Stark’s ‘Short N Sweet’ would be a nice soundtrack to casting the 888, until a twisted memory filled line doesn’t clear and catches itself up in a physics defying knotted mess, record scratches. So we continued our meditating on wind blown points, off steep rock rubble strewn shores and in shallow flat nondescript bays and we continued to catch no fish. Our only positive reinforcement were the occasional massive boils of a bumped fish vacating it’s lie or the more frustrating tendency of quite a few fish alligatoring across the surface eyes completely out of the water for unknown to me reasons, but I assumed they were mocking us. Fished through another sunset, a fishless full day. Stargazing cut short and crashed hard after a rehydrated dehydrated dinner slathered in our most recent hot sauce of choice, the combination, fifty-fifty of Melinda’s Black Truffle and Fire Roasted Garlic and Habanero, followed by a shared Take-5, our diet already falling apart on only the second day. The previous year sitting side by side staring up at the same sky we had both been hesitant to ask the other if they had just witnessed what seemed an obvious UFO, Meg had even been moved to quickly get a pic, a decent pic for an iPhone snap, proof...turns out it was just Starlink.
DAY THREE:
Slept in a little as a full day skunking had dampened our enthusiasm. I may not know what I am doing, but I do it persistently, just keep casting. Set a last cast time as we had a drive ahead of us. Developed a theory as to why we should spend our limited time in just one particular area, there is always a theory. Lots of appreciators of glass will say it is all about the feel, and its not just the feel in the cast, or the giggle inducing deep bends of the fight, but the feel of an impact, an aggressive impact of fish and fly that you can feel reverberating through the rod. With just forty-five minutes left on the clock before departure I felt that jolt that immediately quickened my heart rate. Two long hard strips felt solid and I slowly raised the rod into a deep bend as the fish’s head cleared the water violently shaking to unbutton itself, a run to deep water straight under the boat and the fish had taken more line than I would have liked, but I had it boat side reasonably quick and the glass absorbed the close quarters powerful surges as Meg made a few errant stabs and I may have excitedly raised my voice to coach her. Then it was in the net, a super clean healthy specimen, the fly deep in its maul came out easy. I realized I was breathless, had I been holding my breath? First fish on the new 888 was a stunner. As Meg snapped a couple pics I realized I wished the roles were reversed, I wished she had caught that fish. I reeled in, sat back content and ran the trolling motor. With fifteen minutes to go her stripping was interrupted and she said, ‘I think I bumped a rock.’ Rhetorically I asked, ‘How many rocks have you bumped in the past two days’, knowing the answer to be zero. Strip, strip..bang and she was tight and was hitting the fish hard with her line hand. During the previous days doldrums I had tried to impart whatever limited knowledge I had, don’t trout set and fight them hard, don’t give them line and shorten the fight as they are prone to come unpinned. I told her to fight them like our buddy that boat flips five pound redfish, and now as she dug her feet in and refused to let the greyhounding fish have any slack I was afraid maybe she was overdoing it, but the fish was getting enough traction to run her around the boat a couple times and dig deep the best it could between head shakes before hitting the net still furious...a deep sigh, had I forgotten to breath again. Even though that may have been the bite window opening up, no more casts were made; we were both smiling and it was time to go.
A long drive, stopping only for refueling and biological offloading. A caffeine infused morning, black, no cream, no sugar for me and frothy whipped flavors and sprinkles riding shotgun. Overnight oats swirled with organic peanut butter, honey and cottage cheese speckled by Chia seeds topped with fresh fruit and maple pecan granola for brunch, brunch just being the re-marketing of AM alcoholism by "Big Booze", and while breakfast beers were once the norm on fishing trips this mimosa-free meal was just healthy goodness, fiber filled fodder for picture worthy turds, we can just call this a late breakfast, which made for a late lunch of non-GMO, grass fed, hormone free hipster meat sticks, non-sulfured dried mango and smoothies: spinach, banana, cauliflower rice, frozen blueberries, collagen powder, yogurt, coconut water and tangerine juice, and an all raw, minimally processed ingredient, preservative free bar with the proper calorie to protein ratio. Snacks along the way of dark chocolate covered almonds and almond butter filled pretzels rinsed down with an overpriced powdered greens concoction spiked with creatine and sugar free electrolyte blends, sure to solve all of life’s problems...she tries to keep me healthy, always pestering to hydrate. Eleven hours of not so awe inspiring scenery and we made camp, pitched the tent and straight to the ramp for some happy hour casting. It was a beautiful sunset, you need clouds for a good sunset, suspended water to refract and reflect the light, bent rays rained down on us as we tried to find the pace, slip into a slower rhythm, and then it was dark, and no fish had been caught. Then when it was dark enough, the light came back scattered across the sky, and when one speck of light fell and burned out, I wished for Meg’s first Tiger, she calls them a ‘Mike’, figure it out.
DAY TWO:
We were up early, I was up early, making coffee and stringing up the new rod as it had not made it’s debut the previous evening. Today was the day undergunned or not. Fingerless wool glove kind of a morning as the sun peaked over the horizon. We fished hard or at least consistently until lunch, took a break and hiked into a tight canyon along a clear creek to stretch the legs and then we were back on the boat. Blind casting is meditative, each cast a hope stretched out across the water, each strip filled with anticipation. It’s not completely thoughtless, but it focuses the mind on the task at hand and pushes away the clutter...for me. I’m not thinking about the rest of life. Daniel Stark’s ‘Short N Sweet’ would be a nice soundtrack to casting the 888, until a twisted memory filled line doesn’t clear and catches itself up in a physics defying knotted mess, record scratches. So we continued our meditating on wind blown points, off steep rock rubble strewn shores and in shallow flat nondescript bays and we continued to catch no fish. Our only positive reinforcement were the occasional massive boils of a bumped fish vacating it’s lie or the more frustrating tendency of quite a few fish alligatoring across the surface eyes completely out of the water for unknown to me reasons, but I assumed they were mocking us. Fished through another sunset, a fishless full day. Stargazing cut short and crashed hard after a rehydrated dehydrated dinner slathered in our most recent hot sauce of choice, the combination, fifty-fifty of Melinda’s Black Truffle and Fire Roasted Garlic and Habanero, followed by a shared Take-5, our diet already falling apart on only the second day. The previous year sitting side by side staring up at the same sky we had both been hesitant to ask the other if they had just witnessed what seemed an obvious UFO, Meg had even been moved to quickly get a pic, a decent pic for an iPhone snap, proof...turns out it was just Starlink.
DAY THREE:
Slept in a little as a full day skunking had dampened our enthusiasm. I may not know what I am doing, but I do it persistently, just keep casting. Set a last cast time as we had a drive ahead of us. Developed a theory as to why we should spend our limited time in just one particular area, there is always a theory. Lots of appreciators of glass will say it is all about the feel, and its not just the feel in the cast, or the giggle inducing deep bends of the fight, but the feel of an impact, an aggressive impact of fish and fly that you can feel reverberating through the rod. With just forty-five minutes left on the clock before departure I felt that jolt that immediately quickened my heart rate. Two long hard strips felt solid and I slowly raised the rod into a deep bend as the fish’s head cleared the water violently shaking to unbutton itself, a run to deep water straight under the boat and the fish had taken more line than I would have liked, but I had it boat side reasonably quick and the glass absorbed the close quarters powerful surges as Meg made a few errant stabs and I may have excitedly raised my voice to coach her. Then it was in the net, a super clean healthy specimen, the fly deep in its maul came out easy. I realized I was breathless, had I been holding my breath? First fish on the new 888 was a stunner. As Meg snapped a couple pics I realized I wished the roles were reversed, I wished she had caught that fish. I reeled in, sat back content and ran the trolling motor. With fifteen minutes to go her stripping was interrupted and she said, ‘I think I bumped a rock.’ Rhetorically I asked, ‘How many rocks have you bumped in the past two days’, knowing the answer to be zero. Strip, strip..bang and she was tight and was hitting the fish hard with her line hand. During the previous days doldrums I had tried to impart whatever limited knowledge I had, don’t trout set and fight them hard, don’t give them line and shorten the fight as they are prone to come unpinned. I told her to fight them like our buddy that boat flips five pound redfish, and now as she dug her feet in and refused to let the greyhounding fish have any slack I was afraid maybe she was overdoing it, but the fish was getting enough traction to run her around the boat a couple times and dig deep the best it could between head shakes before hitting the net still furious...a deep sigh, had I forgotten to breath again. Even though that may have been the bite window opening up, no more casts were made; we were both smiling and it was time to go.
–-That first bit is why I fish, because on the water my mind is calmer,
there is a focused purpose. It’s not an automatic switch but it will
drown out the noise and dissolve the distractions.
Follow Seth on Instagram. It's worth it. He and Meg are always on some wild adventure.
Side note, who else thinks it would be fun to get Seth and Matt from Fishbeer together for a trip?
You can have an Epic Fly Rods FastGlass 888 all your own with just getting an Epic 888 Blank, or the 888 FastGlass Fly Rod Building Kit, or splurge on the Reference 888 FastGlass Fly Rod.
Follow Seth on Instagram. It's worth it. He and Meg are always on some wild adventure.
Side note, who else thinks it would be fun to get Seth and Matt from Fishbeer together for a trip?
You can have an Epic Fly Rods FastGlass 888 all your own with just getting an Epic 888 Blank, or the 888 FastGlass Fly Rod Building Kit, or splurge on the Reference 888 FastGlass Fly Rod.
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