Northwest Wild Country Radio Station

Joel Blog Mug I'm always delighted and honored whenever Lefty Kreh picks up the phone in his home in Hunt Valley, Maryland and answers my call in his distinctively soft, sing-songy voice: "Hello, this is Lefty."

This morning, though, I'm particularly eager to talk to the man who's spread more gospel than Billy Graham. I have a list of names in front of me that reads like the roll call of Pacific Northwest fly-fishing Cardinals - names like Joe Brooks, Syd Glasso and Harry Lemire - and I'm about to speak to the Pope of American fly angling.

"Lefty," I say, "I have this little history project I'm working on, and I could use a little perspective."

I'm seeking advice from the 84-year-old Yoda of the Flyrod for one reason and one reason only: while legends like Joe Brooks and Harry Lemire are The Untouchables of the steelhead world to a farm kid like me, to Lefty, they're just "Joe" and "Harry". He's fished with all the West Coast old-timers who pioneered steelhead and salmon fly fishing in Washington, Oregon and Northern California, and he's by far the most qualified person I know to help me rank them in the debate on Mount Fishmore.

Little do I know, however, Lefty is about to throw me a curveball.

Lefty brings one from leftfield: Bernard "Lefty" Kreh was introduced to the flyrod in 1947 by the great Joe Brooks, who, in researching an article for the Baltimore Sun, asked a 22-year-old Kreh to show him some smallmouth spots on the Potomac River. As the story goes, Lefty watched enthralled as Brooks wove his braided-silk flyline over the waters of the Potomac, matching the young Kreh fish for fish, even though Lefty was using bait.

Lefty became a fly-fishing convert on the spot, and thus began a 60-plus-year career that would take him around the world and back again (several times).

Consequently, as the conversation carries on, I fully expect Lefty to wax poetic about Joe Brooks' career in the Pacific Northwest - Brooks wrote the seminal "Heaven Is A Steelhead" for Outdoor Life in 1968, and was an astoundingly talented steelheader. Instead, Lefty skips right past my questions about Brooks and focuses on a name that I, frankly, can't really remember.

"You really should talk about Bill Shaadt," Lefty advises. "Bill Shaadt was the greatest steelheader who ever lived."

Huh? Bill SHAD? Something about the name is hauntingly familiar, but at the moment, I don't even remember how to spell it. As I listen to Lefty, my fingers are flying across the keyboard, Googling "Bill Shad".

Nothing.

"Bill Shad, you say?" I ask, wondering if Lefty is playing a little prank.

"Yes, Bill Shaadt," he responds. "If you're going to talk about the greatest fishermen in that part of the country, you better say something about Bill Shaadt, because I've never met anyone who could catch steelhead like that guy. There's nobody who could even come close."

Shad becomes Schaadt: Owing to the three-hour time difference - and Lefty's insistence that he turn his phone off at 7 p.m. EST every night to spend time with his wife of 60-plus years - I hang up with a promise from Lefty to re-start the conversation when he returns from a trip in a week.

I still don't remember who the hell "Bill Shad" is. So, I get on the phone.

Dave Vedder: "Bill Shad? Never heard of him."

Bill Herzog: "Bill WHO? Shad?!? Is that a character on the Simpsons?"

For two days, Bill Shad is a ghost hovering on the fringes of my memory. Finally, at 1 a.m. on a random, sleepless evening, it hits me.

"Wait a minute ... Bill Shad ... Bill Shadd ..."

Back to Google, but this time, my spelling is closer as I type in "Bill Shaad Smith River steelhead".

Bingo. There he is. A flashback from my early days as a sportswriter, and one of the greatest stories to ever appear in the biggest sports magazine in the world.

I have re-discovered Bill Schaadt.
-JS

JS' note: Check back for part II of the "Legends" blog later this week.