BTW, my $50 Cabelas Three Forks has a two-year free, no questions asked, replacement warranty should I happen to break it.
Reminded me of this story:
I hit the trail at Jaffe Park for the twenty minute uphill trek along the Roaring Fork; destination, the large deep pool of mellifluous water tailing the narrow torrent chute. One of many, but this one is my favorite. This would be my first stop from which I would head up river to the old bridge, and then fish down completing a full day. On schedule standing high above the pool, at the edge of a steep rocky ledge, I could see the fish eagerly taking midge pupa; a precursor to the hatch, for which I had come, indicating yet another day of exceptional fishing amid this warm, cloudless, early-spring day. With my approach planned I back tracked to the tail of the pool, and descended the acutely angled slope sending rocks scurrying to waters edge, as I tried slowly side-stepping a stealthy approach. Advancing along waters edge, toward my intended target, the fish continued to flash in the gin clear chasm; a mixed consortium of perfectly spotted browns and prismatic rainbows, all interspersed with a few, rare, ostentatiously bejeweled brookies. Once my footing was precariously anchored in the, quick to shift rocky rubble, I began to ply line, false casting for the desired distance. After stripping the required turns from the reel, and settling into my rhythm, I shifted direction on the final back cast to an upstream slant. On my forward sweep the rod was loaded, at about the 12 o’clock position, with a resistive force halting all further progress. With a quick glance over my right shoulder it was confirmed that my flies were firmly ensconced, high atop a back stabbing aspen. I gently applied the retrieving force, only to lose my tandem tie, to the stingy tree. I retied a new partnership, as that of which had just been confiscated, and once again began the process of doling out my exiguous imitation of fish food; correcting each succeeding back cast, as necessary, to avoid another terminal loss. After successfully completing the required number of cast, to confirm that the fishing would be better if I moved, I picked a new spot and continued the stalk. Once again, with precarious footing established, I divvied up the required line and initiated my change of direction cast, and immediately found myself in a give and take struggle with an unrelenting branch of the same tree. I reeled up all slack and reached to grab the line exiting the rod tip with my right hand; with line firmly grasped I tested the will of the branch. At first my nemesis began to bow as if to give in, but as I gained ground I felt the tensile strength of my leader being tested. In a stand off I decided to exit the fray with a quick snap of my forearm. In slow motion I watched my line shooting towards my face as I stumbled backwards losing my footing. I salvaged my vertical stature in a staccato series of tumbling steps, amid the rolling rocks. Now I was pissed, and I blamed the damned tree. I fixed anew, from the perfection loop in the six inches of .023 amnesia nail knotted to my fly line, as I regained my composure. With the phalanx of branches behind me, indelibly set in my minds eye, I once again returned to my task. As things were progressing smoothly I noticed a nice brown, zigzagging laterally and vertically just below the surface, exposing the white interior of his mouth with each ingestion of the helpless minutiae. His position required a cast, which my backdrop would ensnare, if not performed cautiously. I set up my false casting, behind the fish so as not to spook him, and at the same time maintained vigil on my back cast; with synchronized sweeps of rod and head. Things were very tight, as I adjusted my back cast as close as I could, to the over hanging branches. On the final cast I corrected ever so slightly to my intended target, and caught the G@d D@mned branch again. I immediately launched into a fit of rage, a tantrum resulting in loss of all self control; I faced the water with the tree behind me, I held the rod at the two o’clock position and reeled in all slack until taut, then I gave a forward thrust with all my might. I heard what sounded like a small caliber rifle shot coupled with an unhinging feeling in my wrist. In total disbelief I saw my St. Croix, eight foot, five weight, two piece, Ultra Legend, completely severed three inches above the ferrule, in the typical splintery display of shattered graphite.
I climbed the slope to the trail and made the twenty minute hike back to the truck for a second rod. I always carry a second rod just for these occasions.