Those of you who read my earlier post about Lilly’s summer at Bard College and our plans to visit the Hudson Valley know that an extended Catskills fishing trip was very much on the table this summer. And for a while it was. I’ve never spent any real time in the Catskills, and the idea of finally fishing some of that legendary water was really exciting. But life has a funny way of rerouting your plans, and I’m not exactly complaining about where this particular detour is taking me.

The Catskills will have to wait. The Smokies, which have traditionally been my end of summer destination of choice, will have to wait too. Because instead of fishing either of those places, I’m going to Japan.

Specifically, Tokyo and Nikko, and with my Tenkara Angler comrades Matt and Anthony. And I leave the last weekend of August. Which believe it or not is this Friday!

The full picture is more or less set, with air travel and hotels booked, so I figured it was time to actually share what this adventure is going to (hopefully) look like.

Shibuya

After a 16+ hour flight, I land at Haneda airport on Saturday afternoon, get checked into the hotel in Shibuya, and promptly try not to fall asleep immediately. Maybe pop in a 7-11 or Lawson for a snack and some essentials I choose not to bring along. The full Shibuya day is Sunday, and I’m hoping to mix the cultural stuff and the fishing stuff effectively, we’ll see… Either way, Proshop Sansui Shibuya #1 and Johshuya are both on the agenda. Thank heavens for a friendly US Dollar to Japanese Yen conversion…

Nikko

This is the part I’ve been most excited to share. Our friends Hiro and Takashi, remember them? We fished together in Colorado a few years back. Well, they’re going to pick us up in a van on Monday, and from that point forward the logistics are handled. No trains to manage, no navigating with luggage, just a drive out to Nikko for a few days of fishing with those guys at the lead.

Tuesday takes us up into Okukinugawa, fishing the Kinugawa and the Ogawa en route before checking into the Okukinugawa Onsen Hacchoyu, which is a proper deep-mountain ryokan with outdoor onsen baths.

Wednesday and Thursday, September 2nd and 3rd, are the full fishing days on the main stream and headwaters of the Kinugawa River. Two full days of tenkara in the Japanese mountains, which I’ve been imagining for a long time and still can’t quite believe is actually happening.

We pack up Friday morning and make the van ride back to Tokyo, checking into the our hotel in Asakusa that afternoon. The fishing part is going to be oh, so brief. But this is all time really allows (or rather, my work allows) at this time of the year.

Asakusa

The final full day in Japan is built around a home base of Asakusa, and once again we’ll try to mix Japanese culture and fishing. On the fishing front, I’d like to try and visit two places I’ve had on my radar for a while. A few train rides will be in order, but first is Tsuruya Fishing Shop, a fly fishing specialty shop that’s been in operation since 1931. Second is Tosaku in Inaricho, an eighth-generation maker of handcrafted bamboo wazao rods, which is basically a living museum of Japanese rod-making heritage. We’ll hopefully add in some temples, parks, Ameyoko Market, possibly the Tokyo National Museum, before heading back to Asakusa for a final dinner before the flight home Sunday.

I’ll be honest, I’ve been trying not to completely lose my mind about this trip. I’ve watched so many “What to do” and “What not to do in Japan” videos on YouTube my head’s going to explode. And I only know how to say like three Japanese phrases… Just stay calm man. An invitation to fish tenkara in Nikko is not the kind of thing that happens every day.

Trip reports will follow. If you think the latest Driftless series was bad, you have no idea…

The post A Bit of a Change in Fishing Plans appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.

The series is called Two in the North, produced for Expedition Portal, which is the media arm of one of the world’s largest overlanding and adventure travel communities. The basic premise: Chase and Aimee load up their Toyota Tundra in Montana and point it north, with Alaska as the ultimate destination. Vancouver Island, British Columbia, the Yukon, and eventually the Alaskan wilderness are all on the route, with no rigid plan and plenty of room for the road to take them somewhere unexpected. Three episodes are out so far, and I’ve watched all of them.

Episode 1: Cutthroat

The series opens on Vancouver Island, where Chase and Aimee spend weeks chasing sea-run coastal cutthroat in genuinely miserable conditions. Rain, changing tides, empty water, and a fish that doesn’t particularly want to be found. It sets the tone for the whole series really well. Less about catching fish, more about what keeps you searching for them. Oh, and there’s birds!

Episode 2: Grayling

With Vancouver Island behind them, the Tundra heads north through British Columbia toward Alaska. This one shifts the focus toward Arctic grayling, which if you’ve never seen one up close are genuinely one of the most beautiful freshwater fish on the planet. The landscape gets bigger and emptier as the episode goes on (glaciers anyone?), and it starts to feel like the journey is really beginning.

Episode 3: Salmon

By the third installment they’ve crossed into Alaska, and the fishing opens up considerably. Salmon enter the picture alongside more cutthroat and grayling, and the filmmaking feels like it’s hitting its stride. There’s a sequence in this one that reminded me of why I started watching Tight Loops films in the first place.

New episodes drop every Tuesday on the Expedition Portal YouTube channel, so there’s plenty more to come. If you want to watch from the beginning, all three are above and worth your time. And if you want to follow along as the series continues, subscribe to the Expedition Portal YouTube channel and give Tight Loops a follow too. You won’t regret either of those decisions.

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FLOW Fest Expo is a brand new event coming to Asheville, North Carolina on March 13-14, 2027. It’s being built from the ground up by the Mauri family, who many in the fly fishing world will recognize from Mauri Flyfishing and their association with The Fly Fishing Show. Last week Emily Mauri announced that she’d left The Fly Fishing Show to launch this with her family and some collaborators, and the concept she’s described sounds pretty interesting.

FLOW stands for Fly Fishing, Lifestyle, Outdoor, and Wellness. The fly fishing component is the main draw for me, interactive demonstrations, workshops, hands-on experiences, a Destination Village for trip planning, a Learning Center, conservation organizations, and independent makers all under one roof. There’s also a wellness and recovery component and live artists, which rounds it out into something that feels a little different from a traditional fly fishing trade show setup. Whether that’s your thing or not, the fly fishing part of it looks like it could be solid.

The Asheville location is an added bonus for anyone who loves western North Carolina fishing. That part of the state has some really beautiful tenkara and trout water within easy driving distance, so pairing a show visit with a few days on the water in the mountains isn’t a tough sell at all.

It’s early days for FLOW Fest and there’s plenty still to be announced, but I’m keeping a close eye on this one and honestly wouldn’t be surprised if I end up in Asheville in March 2027. You can follow along and sign up for updates at flowfestexpo.com.

The post FLOW Fest Expo – A New Fly Fishing Show to Consider? appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.

On July 27th, the Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission voted to raise the statewide minimum harvest size for trout from 7 inches to 9 inches. It takes effect January 1, 2027, and it’s the first time they’ve touched that number since 1983. Over 40 years! Better late than never, I suppose…

This wasn’t just some arbitrary change. Pennsylvania fisheries biologists spent the last decade sampling nearly 200,000 wild brook trout across close to 3,000 streams, and of all those fish, only about 6 percent were longer than 7 inches. So the fish you could legally keep under the old rule was already a pretty rare. Raising the minimum two inches to 9 inches effectively puts over 99 percent of Pennsylvania’s wild brook trout off the table. And those two inches aren’t arbitrary either. That particular size range holds the most productive spawning females in the population. Protect them now, and you’re protecting next year’s fish too.

If you’re primarily fishing stocked trout, this isn’t going to really impact you. Hatchery fish average 11 inches coming out of the pens and creel limits aren’t changing, so your elbow-to-elbow opener next spring looks the same as always.

The PA Council of Trout Unlimited was behind this push, backed by a decade of solid electrofishing data from the Commission’s fisheries staff and an 85 percent approval rate among anglers surveyed in 2023. Good science, engaged anglers, good outcome. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.

About time, Pennsylvania. The wild brookies thank you. Oh, and Go Birds.

The post Pennsylvania Just Raised Its Trout Minimum Size Limit – And It’s a Big Deal appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.

Meet the Classic Spey Rod and the Classic Spey Reel

The rod comes in a range of configurations spanning trout spey, switch, and full spey models, from a 3-weight 11-footer all the way up to an 8-weight 136. The one that has my eye is the 3110-4: 11′, 3-weight, four-piece, moderate-fast action in a dark clay brown blank with a matching rosewood reel seat insert. It’s purpose-built for swinging soft hackles and lightweight-to-moderate streamers, which given my general predisposition toward smaller flies and lighter gear, feels like a natural fit.

Redington describes it as “uncomplicated, approachable, and ready for that first hit of two-handed pandemonium,” which honestly sounds like their marketing department wrote that specifically for people like me who have been eyeing trout spey for years and just keep kicking the can down the road. The rod comes with a lifetime warranty, premium cork grip, titanium oxide stripping guides, and a divided brown ballistic nylon rod tube, all for $374.99.

The Classic Spey Reel comes in three sizes: 3/4/5 ($375), 6/7/8 ($400), and 7/8/9 ($425). It’s a mid-arbor, click-drag design, which given my well-documented affection for click & pawl reels, was music to my ears. It has a high-decibel click, heritage styling, and genuinely looks like it belongs next to the Classic Trout reel on the shelf. The 3/4/5 paired with the 3110-4 rod would run you right around $750 all-in for a complete trout spey setup. At least until they build and offer a bundle. $750 isn’t sofa cushion change, but in the spey world, I guess it’s considered accessible…

So Do I Take The Leap?

I’ve said for years that I want to try trout spey, but just haven’t taken the leap. Tenkara, no problem. Bamboo, absolutely. The difference is I’ve never actually been familiar enough with the brands that make spey gear or the models they offered. And I don’t live in Scandinavia or the Pacific Northwest. The Classic Spey might be the nudge I need. The aesthetics match the Classic Trout gear I already own and love, the price point is doable, and Redington has pitched it specifically as a gateway rod, which is either very smart marketing or exactly what I needed to hear. Probably both.

I haven’t pulled the trigger yet, but I’d be lying if I said the browser tab isn’t still open…

The post Redington Classic Spey Rod & Reel – My Trout Spey Entry Point? appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.

If you’ve started exploring spey and two-handed casting, you’ve probably run headlong into two words: Skagit and Scandi. They sound technical, and the debates around them can feel overwhelming. But at their core, these are just two different philosophies for getting a fly to the fish — each with its own strengths. Here’s everything you need to know.

A Tale of Two Rivers

The names give it away. Skagit lines were born on the Skagit River in Washington State, where anglers targeting big winter steelhead needed to punch heavy, wind-resistant flies into tight, brush-choked bankside conditions. Scandi (short for Scandinavian) lines trace their roots to the salmon rivers of Norway, Sweden, and Iceland — wide, open valleys where long, elegant casts were both possible and necessary.

These different birthplaces shaped everything: the line’s weight, length, taper, and the casting style each demands. Understanding where they came from helps explain why they behave so differently.

What Each Line Actually Is

The Skagit Head

A Skagit head is a short, dense, aggressive casting tool. Most Skagit heads run between 18 and 28 feet long and are built with a very heavy, concentrated belly. This compact mass creates enormous momentum — even a short stroke loads the rod deeply and throws the line with authority.

Skagit lines are almost always paired with a sink tip (a separate sinking section of 5–15 feet) and a heavy fly. The system is specifically engineered to handle the weight and drag of big, waterlogged flies like large intruders, tube flies, and articulated streamers.

The Scandi Head

A Scandi head is longer, lighter, and more graceful. Typical heads run 30 to 45 feet, with a more gradual taper that unrolls smoothly through the air in a tight, rolling loop. Think of it as the two-handed fly line that most closely mirrors the elegance of a classic single-hand presentation cast.

Scandi lines are designed to be fished with a light poly leader or short, floating leader and a smaller, lighter fly. They excel when presentation is paramount — landing a fly softly on a calm pool where fish are easily spooked.

How the Cast Feels Different

This is where anglers tend to feel the difference most viscerally. A Skagit cast is often described as powerful and deliberate. Because you’re working with so much mass in a short line, you can make a single strong anchor, snap through a short casting arc, and the line simply goes. There’s less need for a long, sustained backcast — in many setups, the fly barely leaves the water before you fire the forward cast. This is called a sustained anchor style, and it’s why Skagit casting thrives when overhanging trees or steep canyon walls eat your backcast.

Scandi casting has a more open, flowing quality. You’re lifting and rolling a longer line, forming a clean loop in the air, and delivering it with a smooth, unhurried stroke. The classic Scandi move — the snap-T or double Spey combined with a long aerial loop — produces the kind of cast that turns heads on the river. It takes more practice to master, but the reward is a fly that lands like a whisper at distance.

Quick mental model: Think of Skagit like casting a bowling ball — dense, powerful, compact. Think of Scandi like cracking a bullwhip — extended, rolling, precise.

Flies, Tips & Leaders

Your line system choice largely dictates what flies you can effectively fish — and where in the water column you can fish them.

Skagit + sink tip is the combination for exploring depth. With interchangeable sink tips of varying densities (from “hover” to Type 8 fast-sinking), you can precisely target holding water at any depth — a foot beneath the surface, or scraping rocks 10 feet down. This makes Skagit the choice for swinging flies through deep runs in high, cold winter flows.

Scandi + polyleader is built for the surface and near-surface zone. Floating and intermediate polyleaders keep your fly in the top few feet of the water column — ideal for summer fish that are actively feeding and willing to move to a swung fly near the top. In the right conditions, this is simply the most exciting way to fish.

Quick-Pick Guide

Do You Have to Choose?

Many dedicated spey anglers own both systems — and swap between them based on season, river conditions, and target species. If you’re just getting started, most instructors recommend beginning with Skagit. Its forgiving nature makes the fundamentals of anchor placement and rod loading easier to feel and correct. Once that foundation is solid, adding a Scandi head to your kit opens up a whole new dimension of presentation fishing.

A Note on Rods

Most modern spey and switch rods are designed to cast both Skagit and Scandi heads — just in different grain weights. Rod manufacturers typically publish a recommended grain window for their rods (e.g., 400–550 grains). Skagit heads for a given rod will usually fall at the higher end of that window; Scandi heads sit a bit lower. Always check your rod’s grain recommendation and match accordingly.

Switch rods (shorter, lighter two-handers) pair naturally with Scandi heads for smaller rivers and trout applications. Longer, heavier spey rods designed for big rivers and big fish tend to shine with Skagit systems — though both can cast either style with the right line selection.

Pro tip: When in doubt, visit a local fly shop with a casting pond and try both. The difference will be immediately apparent — and you’ll know within a few casts which system speaks to your style of fishing.

The Bottom Line

Skagit and Scandi lines aren’t competitors — they’re complements. Skagit is power and depth and utility, built for tough conditions and heavy work. Scandi is elegance and distance and presentation, built for the moments when fishing feels like art.

The best spey anglers don’t pledge allegiance to one system. They understand what each tool was built to do, match it to the water in front of them, and let the river decide.

The post Skagit vs. Scandi: Which Spey Line Is Right for You? appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.

Never take your fishing trips for granted, because one day it’ll all be done.

I didn’t even see the signs that were preparing me for a long time. First came a bad tremor in my dominant hand and arm, which I pushed off as a side effect of the medication I was taking for anxiety. Next came a speech impediment where I slurred my words and didn’t talk loud enough. Then came the falls, which I blamed on my bifocals. Then came the apathy – excuses, really. Not wanting to go out, dumb lame excuses, but they felt legitimate in my mind.

The last time I went out, I didn’t stay long. A small tornado had gone through weeks earlier and made it very difficult to travel along the bank. When I was younger, that would’ve been no problem, but for now it was an excuse to go home. I maybe cast five or six times the whole time I was out. That was a year and a half ago.

I kept finding excuses not to go out. My stuff sat in my truck for all that time, untouched. I know now that my last real trip was one with a good fishing buddy, Mike, it wasn’t too long after that trip to Deep Creek that things started to fall apart.

Just recently, I was found to have a disease with no cure. One that takes away your mobility and your thoughts called Parkinson’s disease. There was a wrong diagnosis back in 2008; they called it a tremor, but it was really Parkinson’s. For over eight years it went untreated and unchecked.

When you go out, just like Mike said at Deep Creek, stop and smell the roses. Enjoy the scenery. Who knows, it could be your last time out on the water. Enjoy every second, because one day it’ll be taken away from you. Enjoy your trips, and be sure to take pictures so you have the memories.

God bless you,
Spurky

The post The Last Trip You Don’t Know Is Your Last appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.

It’s not uncommon that when I make these quasi-spiritual journeys, they’re extremely last minute. I’m sure you know the type. You’re at work on a Wednesday, growing tired of corporate-speak and meeting after spreadsheet after PowerPoint. Thursday comes around and you’ve tuned almost everyone and everything out. Might as well be Charlie Brown’s teacher on the other end of that Zoom call. By Friday morning you’re like, “F*ck it, I gotta get away.” Zero planning, no time to make arrangements to meet up with friends.

This isn’t a scripted week in the Driftless. It’s more or less a rushed act of tossing some hastily gathered fishing gear in the trunk after work, turning up the car stereo, and driving. In my case, driving north. Eight hours north to be exact. Traffic permitting, of course.

When you have that much time alone in the car it gives you time to question things. Do I really have to piss that bad to pull off here? Which Doobie Brothers songs are better, the ones before or after Michael McDonald? But dare I say that listening to a Riverhorse Nakadate podcast will make you question every choice you’ve made in your life.

If you’re not familiar, Riverhorse is a very interesting fellow – author, conservationist, adventurer, filmmaker, and a uniquely free spirit. His ethos is essentially that you only have one life, so you should be sure to live it. And boy, he has. Hearing him speak always leaves me both inspired and somewhat depressed. Does an office job give me joy? Am I doing what I really want to with my life? Am I a coward for not making changes?

“…these people are home watching TV and on their phones and gosh, it’s not a dress rehearsal. Like, this is our one and only life. I’m sorry, but I mean, worst case scenario, ride your bike somewhere to a park and have lunch.” — Riverhorse Nakadate

Arriving at my hotel at the foot of the Smokies after midnight on Friday evening, there was some dread in knowing I’d have to leave first thing Sunday morning. I was realistically only going to have a single day in between to fish. So we were going to live Saturday to its fullest. At least the weather looked good to do so.

At the gravel trailhead lot bright and early, I was eager to hike back a mile or two and start the morning off on a good note. As I sat on the tailgate lacing up my wading boots, I looked up to find a truck with two gentlemen inside that wasn’t there a minute prior. A bit fidgety, they got out and began walking over, checking the windshields of the other parked vehicles. They had one of those roof-mounted rod carriers and were both wearing polarized sunglasses and Patagonia sun hoodies. That Fitz Roy mountain trout logo is an unmistakable tell. They were here to fish.

“Do you need a parking permit here?” one of them shouted over, slightly agitated. We were technically in the Park, so you did in fact need a parking pass… there was a sign right at the trailhead entrance that stated it clear as day. I said, “I’m pretty sure, but I don’t think you can buy one here…” I knew you couldn’t buy one here. There were no machines, no way to print something out for your dashboard. I don’t know why I answered without conviction.

The two of them looked at each other, said something unintelligible as they deliberated, then hopped back in the truck and drove off. They just didn’t want to risk it. Not sure Riverhorse would have made the same call. More stream for me, I guess.

Dropping down into the water off the trail, it felt good to have the current slide alongside my legs again. The levels were ideal. Not too low, not too high, and the flows were absolutely perfect. A cool trickle eventually penetrated my new neoprene wading socks, tickling the bottom of my feet. I was where I wanted to be. Where I needed to be.

It wasn’t long after I traversed that initial section that I’d located my first fish, a tiny rainbow coaxed from a deep run by a beadhead nymph. The soft tenkara rod flexed deep, exaggerating the fight well beyond the trout’s diminutive dimensions. After a prompt landing and release, a virtual carbon copy of the first ‘bow mistook my offering for food on the very next drift.

Two quick fish. Things couldn’t be going any better. Until they didn’t. Things shut down hard for a while.

Much like the car ride up, a long series of empty casts can make your mind wander. Should I tie on a futsu kebari? Should I be tapping instead of twitching? Am I fishing at the right depth? Did I remember to pack some Nabs for lunch?

Eventually, that haze of second-guessing was quickly lifted by some tension at the end of my level line. Funny what sort of clarity a shot of adrenaline can bring. A few more fish to hand, rainbows again. It’s rare to find browns or brookies in this particular stretch of water.

The rest of the day continued much like the first half. Feast or famine. I’d find clusters of trout, then nothing for an extended stretch. Upon taking a break to re-rig after a run-in with a particularly unforgiving rhododendron, I took some pause. Filtered and drank some water, relaxed on a rock for a bit, and confirmed the presence of those snack crackers nestled deep in my Zimmerbuilt pack. No famine on that front.

As I approached the last obstacle course of pocket water before my planned exit, I encountered what were possibly the two best fish of the day. The first rose from the depths to engulf my kebari as soon as it touched down upon a picture-perfect little run of greasy water. Once in the net, the hungry rainbow proudly displayed one of those tiny pot bellies. You could tell it had been feeding well.

The final trout attacked with a similarly aggressive topwater take. Drifting the kebari around the unseen side of a mid-stream boulder, this rainbow rocketed from a shady lair to tear the fly from the surface, then went on two surprisingly powerful runs. Aided by the current, the best fight was saved for last. A few quick photos later and it was back in its lie. I decided my day of fishing was done. About seven hours had passed since I first arrived, and it would take at least another hour to hike back to the car and drive into town to get cleaned up before grabbing a proper bite to eat.

A warm shower feels amazing after a day of fishing. Just standing under the water and letting it run over your shoulders as you empty your mind is intoxicatingly relaxing. Time slows to a halt. You could be in there for three minutes or thirty, in a trance, unintentionally neglecting the objective of washing your hair or body. It’s the hotel’s water bill, not yours. I already paid for the room, I’m getting my money’s worth.

Dinner was a short walk across the street to a favorite Mexican restaurant of mine. Quickly seated, chips and salsa appeared on the table before I could even get comfortable. As the first real food I’d had since those crackers, they both vanished quickly. Steak, onions, beans, and rice followed. A tall, cold unsweetened “Yankee” iced tea to wash it all down. Some people are intimidated by eating in restaurants alone. I genuinely don’t understand that phobia.

Scrolling through my phone before leaving, I was curious if there was anything else to do in town. It was Saturday night, and as it happened, the longest day of the year. The town’s website was advertising a free clog dancing show in one of the community parks. Why not? Not usually my thing, but when in the Smokies…

Upon arrival, I quickly realized these were not just any cloggers; that guy from the internet memes was one of the dancers. You probably know the one. It was surprisingly entertaining. I don’t know if it was the way the ladies’ puffy skirts bounced around or how ol’ Zeb wiggled his knees and ankles like Jell-O, but it was the kind of thing that once you start watching, you just can’t look away. I’d missed the first hour, but that second hour absolutely flew by. Incredibly fun.

With the show over but still not quite dark yet, a quick drive up the parkway was in store to catch one of the overlooks as the sun dropped behind the hills. Ballhoot Scar was my choice. Had it been autumn, those mountains would have been ablaze with color. Being summer, the colors of choice were multiple tones of green, tinted by hues of atmospheric blue the further your eyes traced down the valley. I don’t take in the simple beauty of overlooks enough when I’m in the Smokies. That’s something I need to change with intention moving forward.

Now past dusk, I stopped at a gas station convenience store for something sweet before heading back to the hotel for good. I’m not a big dessert guy, but I needed something to take the edge off a salty dinner. I just had that taste in my mouth. Initially tempted by a Coke, I instead found a chocolate and vanilla ice cream sandwich in the Blue Bunny branded deep freeze by the register. It was easy to miss beneath a spinning countertop display of Bic lighters and cheap sunglasses. That’d certainly do the trick.

And not long after that ice cream sandwich was gone, Saturday was too. Time for bed.

Up early again Sunday, there was no questioning my weekend’s choices, or life’s choices, on the drive home. I’d made the most of my Saturday. Fished hard, ate well, and found some amusement that only this corner of the country can provide. The car ride was filled with smiles and warm memories I think even Riverhorse would be proud of. Yeah, I had work again on Monday. But that was okay. This Smokies buzz would hold me over for a while.

One day in the mountains. Sometimes that’s all you need.

This post was originally published at Tenkara Angler. It’s been ported over here to align with the rest of my Fishing Reports.

The post One Day in the Mountains appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.

First off, the video is magnificently shot. The brown at the end is absolutely gorgeous. It also has an interesting message, debate, (whatever you want to consider it) as its central theme. It’s definitely worth your time.

The post Strange Brown – The Fate of Brown Trout in Japan appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.

One thing I didn’t mention about my Driftless trip: on the last day, in addition to catching a bunch of nice fish on my Orvis Superfine Carbon rod, I snapped the tip by the ferrule at the very end of the outing. 100% user error.

I used Orvis’ online warranty tools to send the rod in for repair, and now that it’s back in my hands, I’m happy to report the process was extremely easy and essentially painless.

I logged into my online account, went to the warranties page, and picked the rod I was sending in. The system had preloaded every rod I’d registered with Orvis, so this was a breeze, even though my model is discontinued. I filled out a brief online form, printed a shipping label, packed it up, and sent it off. There was a repair fee, but they didn’t charge me until the rod was on its way back.

Upon receipt, my rod was beautifully repaired, accompanied by a nice pre-printed thank you note and a sticker. You always win bonus points with a sticker. The whole process took about a month, door to door.

The detail I really appreciated was a field in the online form asking whether the rod had “sentimental value.” That way, if Orvis couldn’t repair it and needed to replace it entirely, they’d cap off the cork butt section of the old rod and send it back as a memento. As someone who once had their first real fly rod replaced with a different model without any notice, that’s just a nice touch.

I haven’t gone through the fly rod repair process in probably ten years, so maybe this is par for the course with other manufacturers these days. But either way, kudos to Orvis for a great customer experience.

The post Shout Out to Orvis Warranty Service appeared first on Troutrageous! Fly Fishing & Other Nonsense.