NAM Rods VOR Single Hander

Spring

The first time I cast NAM’s VOR single hander was on the Athabasca River in Jasper National Park, Alberta. The river flowed a rich, glacial blue, running off still in late June, but not dirty. There was a heaviness to it though, the sense that it took its origins in one of the most significant glaciers in North America very seriously. Not content to meander, the river tumbled, poured and cascaded.

In a funny way, it felt appropriate to be casting the rod there for the first time: though closer to the Pacific Ocean as the crow flies, the Athabasca River nonetheless flows, through twists and turns that are difficult to decipher on a map, to the Arctic Ocean. Being the type of person who looks for connections that may or may not exist, I decided this meant something—NAM’s origins, after all, are in Sweden, and here I was fishing water that could, eventually, provide sustenance and home to Swedish fish.

With the VOR 4-piece single-hander, NAM is looking to offer a rod at an entry-level price point. Entry-level means different things to different folks, of course, but at $450 MSRP, I’d say it sits right in the sweet spot I remember from my days working in a fly shop. Cheaper rods could be found, though the drop in quality started to be noticeable when you dipped below the $400 mark, whereas those rods in the $400-500 range seemed capable of holding their own against rods that were double the price.

I’ve casted and fished my fair share of those $800-plus rods, and I won’t lie: they’re nice. But bells and whistles don’t catch fish. I’ve never once found myself in a situation where that $800 rod could do something that a $450 rod couldn’t.

Above: The Athabasca River in full run-off mode flowing through wildfire scars in Jasper National Park, AB.

Fishing the Athabasca in Alberta during runoff provided an opportunity to stretch the VOR’s legs and try a variety of different things with it, primarily because I was fishing a big river from shore and, to be honest, not completely sure what I’d find there. With visions of bull trout dancing in my head I left camp my first night in Jasper National Park and walked through the burned out remains of a forest to the river at 9:30 p.m. My rod of choice was the 6-weight version with a fighting butt. For my money, a 6-weight with a fighting butt is the ultimate utility rod, the answer to the question of "If you could only fish one rod..."

Vor is spring in Icelandic, which feels apt. A simple, straightforward word; three-letters, a single, staccato syllable, all the promise of a new year. This is how the Athabasca felt in late spring, as well as Banff National Park’s Bow River, which I fished a few days later with my little boy. And it's how the rod itself felt. Both rivers were full with run-off, which meant both were primed for streamers and heavy nymph rigs—and difficult fishing. The rod did the trick, and I managed a few run-off trout under some late, far-north dusks. The rod lived up to its name, and I looked forward to summer.

Left: Lake Louise in Banff National Park, Alberta. Right: Athabasca Falls, Jasper National Park. Pretty places—no fishing.

Summer

I once saw a pink salmon in Iceland, a place it had no business being. Oncorhynchus gorbuscha is a Pacific Ocean species, of course, though from what I’ve learned it’s been raised in farms in the North Atlantic Ocean and is occasionally caught in Atlantic Salmon streams—which is a travesty. The one I saw in Iceland was taxidermied and propped in a display in a museum. That was nine years ago. My most recent encounter with a pink came in August, thanks to the VOR.

Unlike their more annually-inclined cousins, pink salmon only return to their natal rivers in odd years (with some notable exceptions, like Roderick Haig-Brown’s beloved Campbell River). In Washington state, that return usually begins in late July or early August, with the peak of the run coming some time in August and tapering off as the coho pick up speed.

Above: A smoker bound pink salmon caught in Washington state's Puget Sound.

What pinks lack in terms of the size and speed of species like coho and Chinook, they make up for in volume—pink runs typically number in the millions, which means the saltwater angler gets plenty of chances to tangle with them. It’s one of my favorite fisheries because it is pure, unfiltered fun—just you and a few hundred of your closest friends standing on a beach and blind casting into the salt.

On a good morning, you see the waves of fish as they approach your position, a point or other prominent bit of land jutting into Puget Sound. A six-weight is the right rod for these fish as they usually come in somewhere between 3-5 pounds (with a few pushing 8). To be honest, you could even manage them on a five-weight (I’ve seen people do it) though I wouldn’t recommend for the simple fact that casting a light Clouser or shrimp pattern for 3 hours straight on a five-weight starts to take the fun out of things.

So a 6-weight it is for pinks. I fished the VOR this year with the same weight-forward line I’d put on it back in the spring for fishing in Alberta, and right away I knew I’d found my new favorite beach rod. I love the rhythms of beach casting, the aim being to cast as much line as possible with as few false casts as possible. Whatever line you’re using, you need a rod that can make it sing. On the beach the VOR was punchy, and kicked myself for not getting a more aggressive, shooting-head style to start the season. The VOR casted my normal weight-forward floater handily; with a shooting-head line I’d have been casting further, with fewer casts, no question.

Here: A spawned out chum salmon on a Western Washington salmon stream. With so much food to choose from, scavenger birds often only take the tastiest morsels—like the eyeballs.

Which isn’t to say distance is a necessity. Some of the most memorable pink salmon fishing days come when the fish are traveling in close; you might be casting 80 feet—because why not—only to find the fish clobbering your fly at 30. This was the case my second day out for them in August, and it turned into one of those morning every flyfisher dreams of: the gear guys lined up to your left and right along the beach wondering how it is that the flyfisher is catching more fish than them. I lost a few of those fish and kept one for the smoker, and enjoyed the fight with each one. The VOR had backbone, which is handy when you’re wrestling ocean-fresh fish on a steep beach, in the surf, with barnacle and mussel encrusted rocks just waiting to sever your line if the fish get the upper hand. Like I said, pinks may not be coho or Chinook (or chum) in the fighting department—but they can hold their own. The VOR held its own right back.

Fall

Though it might have been nice to just keep fishing this rod straight through winter before writing anything about it, I think it makes sense to end with the trip I took just the other day—about two weeks into fall.

Above: NAM VOR 9'0" #6 having its red carpet moment.

This one also involves salmon, but rather than the target they are, in some sense, the springboard. There is nothing like a river full of spawning salmon to remind you that trout in anadromous rivers are only insectivores when they have to be—give them a shot at wayward eggs drifting below riffles full of redds and they’ll turn as fat and gluttonous as those brown bears at Brooks Falls in Alaska.

Which is all just a fancy way of saying: I use beads. I’m not ashamed of it. The trout love them: tight-lined, swinging across the current, drifting below a bobber. It’s not the kind of thing you typically get to do much of in a place like Washington state, which is exactly what makes it so much fun.

Above: The reason for the season.

The session was a quick one, and I'd never broken down my rod since last using it at the beach—it had been rinsed and propped against the wall in my office, ready to be put back to use. At the river I clipped off the shrimp pattern I'd last fished in the salt, added a bead trailing off a large rubber leg stone (for the weight and good-measure), and got down to business. Though there are good trout in the river I was fishing, it's not so much their size that makes the 6-weight feel appropriate here as tangles of deadfall and logjams. You're going to find the big fish beneath those logjams, and if you're going to have any chance of landing them you need to be able to (in the immortal words of Nathaniel Riverhorse Nakadate) point the fighting butt at the fish and "pour the coals on her." The first fish I caught that day required just that, and the VOR poured the coals just fine.

More than likely it’ll be my last time fishing the VOR 6-weight single hander this year. I’m happy to have the rod in my quiver now, and looking forward to finding other places and times to fish it. As an all-rounder, it’s possible it can’t be beat, not least because with that $450 price tag, it’s a true do everything rod. It’s the rod that’ll live in the back of your truck or car; the one that’ll stay strung up under the gunwales of the boat or on the wall of the garage. It’s the kind of rod you reach for at the last second when you’re running out the door and you know there will be some fishing wherever you’re going, you’re just not sure what it’ll look like, and so you’ll want a rod that can handle a little bit of everything.