I was ten years old when Uncle Phil came to visit us. I watched him stride up our sidewalk in his crisp, plaid Pendleton shirt,pressed tweed slacks, and smoking a small, honey-colored pipe.
Uncle Phil was a bachelor well into his 50’s. He worked for the family printing company, and he loved nice things – and his bachelorhood gave him both the opportunity and disposable income to get them – clothes, accessories, cars, and best of all, fishing equipment. Uncle Phil was a passionate fly Fisherman.
When Uncle Phil was a young man, he had been a drummer. The story went that he was exceptionally talented, and when he was 14, he had been offered a lucrative job to go on the road and tour with a professional band. But he also suffered from epilepsy, and my grandparents, worried for his well-being, forbade him to travel. I never knew what his level of regret was concerning this, or if it was the epilepsy that kept him from marrying and having children of his own. I do know that he loved his many nephews and nieces, and spending time with them brought him tremendous joy.
Uncle Phil and my mom were the two youngest of nine children. Mom had regaled me with stories of Uncle Phil’s fishing adventures out west, and by the time he was able to pay us a visit, he had attained legendary status in my mind. I was certainly intimidated by all the tales my mom had bestowed on me, and I would sheepishly hang in the background during all the greetings and hugging. But once they were all seated he would turn to me with a wry smile and sparkle in his eye and say, “how’s the fly-tying coming along?” I had been tying for two years at this time, and I would anxiously bring out my fly boxes to show him what I had been working on. And then I would gather up all my nerve and say, “Uncle Phil, did you bring your fly boxes?” At this, he would dig into his canvass and leather overnight bag, and bring out a beautiful Wheatley dry fly box and a mahogany leather wet fly book.
The Wheatley box, when opened, was lined on both sides with little compartments with glass lids that sprung open, revealing dozens of oiled, exquisite dry flies. The wet fly book was filled, page after page, with gorgeous wet fly patterns popular at the time – Montreals, Alexandra’s, Queen of the Waters, Royal Coachmen, Parmachene Bells – all exquisitely tied. There were delicate “over and under” patterns, classic patterns, and also some experimental ties as well.
Both the wets and dries were tied by Alex Rogan, who was related to the iconic Rogan family from Ireland – world famous salmon fly tiers. (I believe that Alex was an Uncle of those Irish tiers.) He was a barber by profession, but he also spent time on the staff of Alex Taylor and Son, the fabled fishing shop on 42nd Street in Manhattan where Uncle Phil purchased his fishing equipment and flies.
The Cahills in the package above were hand-tied by William Mills employees in England. Exact dates of creation are unknown, but possibly, given the pattern, hook sizes, gut measurements, etc., the late 1930’s-1950. I believe that during that period, Alex Rogan was here in the US and tying for Mills from his shop. These lovely period-flies were a gift to me from my son, Alex.
Uncle Phil would let me rummage through his boxes and I would pick out a couple of wets and a couple of dries. I would rush them upstairs to my vise and try and copy them to the best of my ability. Just to have these gorgeous patterns on my desk was a thrill! After an hour or so, I would take my copies back downstairs to show Uncle Phil, and he would quietly examine them, while gently offering suggestions – “….see how the tail should be a little longer?” or “look how the hackle should be wound in front of the wings…”. Sixty-five years later, I am still trying to reach the level of perfection of those exquisite Rogan ties. I owe to my Uncle Phil and Alex Rogan (my first influences) my eternal love of the mystery and art of fly-tying and fly fishing.
As he puffed on his pipe, he would relate tales of mornings and evenings spent on Western waters. He would describe the moment a silvered Rainbow exploded on a drifting dry, or when a New Mexican Cutty slammed a swinging wet. Those images struck a match to my imagination that set a fire on my lifelong quest of clear rivers and their inhabitants. They still burn in me as I write this. All of his equipment was vintage and the finest. Beautiful bamboo rods by Leonard and Paine, Hardy reels, newly greased and oiled silk fly lines, and gut leaders that had to be soaked for a day before you could use them. I still remember their looks, feels and the scent of the bamboo, paraffin-oiled lines and leather rod tubes. It was like combing through treasure.
We only fished together once. Two years had passed, and I was twelve. Uncle Phil was a bachelor no more! At 58, he had met and married a school teacher. They drove out to visit us on a bright, blue and gold October day. We drove over to The little Saddle River, a local brook. It was low and slow, and so clear you could be seen a mile away. There were no trout to be found, But it didn’t matter – in my mind I saw those flashes of scarlet and silver and just to be on the water with my Uncle was a thrill.
Uncle Phil lived to be 99. Several years before he passed away, I came across an article about the famed Rogan family of fly tiers from Ireland, and put it in an envelope and mailed it out to him. I received a nice response saying how much he had enjoyed the article, and from his personal experience, he believed it to be accurate. I couldn’t help but thinking of how blessed I had been to have had someone in my life at an early age who kindled and encouraged my passion for this incredible pastime. I pray, as I write this, that he is waist-deep in clear, flowing celestial water, throwing sixty feet of oiled C-level silk line into the fray. Thank you, Uncle Phil, and Godspeed.
