Rueben Woods, a portly, old sporting goods salesman from Syracuse, had bested the finest European and British fly casters at the World Casting Championships.

His accomplishments at the 1898 World Championships that were hosted in London, was a political/sporting feat comparable to the Miracle on Ice game in Lake Placid. Similarly incredible odds were against him at the time, even though was a three-time national champion who bested his toughest competitors by yards, rather than by inches.

European aristocrats ruled the sport, and the British in particular believed that “damned colonists” such as the portly Mr. Woods had no business entering the arena in the company of such cultured gentlemen. He was considered to be an interloper, a crude barbarian and a lowly shopkeeper without a blue blood pedigree. He simply didn’t stand a chance of winning in an arena that was filled with the “thoroughly true men of the sport.”

Unfortunately for the local oddsmakers, Ol’ Rube entered into the fray and promptly cleaned their respective clocks. His accomplishments with the long rod were considered an international incident. It signaled the “damned colonists” were actually competent sportsmen, and maybe they were even more adept at the sport than the white-gloved, gentrified dandies of the age.

Not only were the barbarians at the gate, they also wanted to be on the streams. However, the rivers and streams of Great Britain at the time were strictly private, and they mostly remain so to this day.

In addition to slapping a proverbial glove across the snouts of Europe’s gentrified class, Rueben Woods was fond of traveling to the Cranberry Lake area, where he spent time with friends from Syracuse, who had a camp on the lake. He also fished with his friend, artist Fredrick Remington, another Cranberry Lake regular.

One of his favorite fly patterns was a simple wet fly, dubbed “The Rueben Wood.” It is a wet fly that is also fished on the surface, dragged roughly across the surface to imitate a White Miller struggling to take flight.

It remains one of the most productive fly patterns for brook trout, and it’s still in use. I often resort to it when nothing else seems to be working. Of course it’s very important to properly dress the fly before casting, which is achieved by praising the skills of the originator and spitting a bit of whiskey on its tail.

Although the property has expanded a bit over the years, the old, log buildings remain essentially the same as they were back in the 1920s, when Hank Blagden and his crew first built the compound for the Rockefeller family.

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Chance encounter

Oddly, it was a mad dash for a cab in Manhattan that served to reconnect us. At the time, she was a young, aspiring ballet dancer with the NYC Ballet Company, and I was a young aspiring guide.

Her name was Sarah Woods Gearhart, and she was the great-great-great granddaughter of Rueben Woods, who has been memorized in stone on the shores of Cranberry Lake.

She had listened to the old legends of her great grandad many times over the years, and she politely corrected my guide’s embellishment of the truth, the whole truth and a guide’s accounting of the truth. She was obviously a well educated, cultured young lady. In fact, it turned out that she was was a prima-ballerina with the New York City Ballet.

She was thrilled to learn the story was not just an old family legend and begged me to take her and her gentlemen friends to visit the Rueben Woods monument at Sucker Brook.

Unfortunately, I had to honor commitments to my regular guests, especially as it was already late in the season. However, I offered to make arrangements for the whole crew to enjoy a pontoon trip up the lake with an old friend of mine by the name of Wild Bill, who was the proprietor of the Cranberry Lake Marina.

The following day, the ballerina with her British beaus in tow enjoyed a healthy dose of North Country hospitality.

Wild Bill was already half in the bag when they arrived before noon. Reportedly, he welcomed them aboard the old 36-foot pontoon boat and seated them atop sacks of concrete that had been stacked on the bow.

According to the lovely Ms. Gearhart, Wild Bill was a perfect gentleman, and as if to prove the fact he offered everyone an opportunity to take a pull on the neck of a whiskey bottle that he gently cradled like a baby in his arms.

The motley captain toured them down the lake to the Rueben Wood monument at the mouth of Sucker Brook, about five miles down the lake. However, the visit was cut short when the captain realized he was nearly out of whiskey. Fortunately, there was a “boat-access-only” bar and grill located at the far end of the lake.

According to her recollection, the bartender rushed to greet them as the boat was still under power and they crashed into the dock sending old Wild ‘Bill tumbling into the lake. The collision also knocked Vern off the dock and into the drink

With the bartender half in the bag and the captain soaking wet, the whole crew soon retired to the barroom where they huddled around the wood stove to warm up and dry their clothes.

Clad in an assortment of bed sheets, musty old hunting woolies and, reportedly, an old fur rug, the group eventually dried out and enjoyed a home-cooked meal and a few more drinks.

It was nearly midnight when they decided to brave a harrowing return trip with only the moon and a dim flashlight to show the way.

Knowing Wild Bill, he could’ve navigated the entire seven-mile route with his eyes closed, which he probably did.

According to the manager, the guests returned to The Point around 3:30 a.m. and had a difficult time getting up for lunch.

Ms. Gearhart later called to thank me for helping her reconnect with her great-great grandfather. Her adventures with Wild Bill are now the old family legend.