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Fly fishing philosopher had lots of disciples
By SCOTT TAYLOR HARTZELL "Carl (Hanson) came to earth fly fishing," a friend said. Tying his own flies, he would preach finesse and conservation. ST. PETERSBURG -- Fly fishing master Carl O. Hanson worked miracles with rooster hackle. "He was a classic old salt, an old New Englander," Lorraine Patterson said of her stepfather, who from 1957 to 1998 spun squirrel tail and the long, slender feathers from the neck of a rooster into flies to pursue the sport he considered a religion. The Lord of the Flies preached to disciples at his home and invented the Hanson Glass Minnow lure. Fishing magazines touted his expertise. "He didn't have to brag about his fish slaying," said the Times' Jeff Klinkenberg, who called Hanson his grandpa figure. "Cursed like a sailor, but he was always kind of teaching." Hanson would bark: "Fly fishing can be learned in a matter of minutes by someone with even subnormal intelligence. Fly casting is so easy it's pathetic. Nothing mysterious about it at all, dammit." Born in 1914 in Saginaw, Mich., Hanson was the son and the grandson of commercial swordfish harpooners. He grew up in Massachusetts and labored as a body shop welder and in a shipyard. Hanson's 17 years at the yard ended after he and 30,000 employees were laid off, said his friend of nearly 50 years, Jim St. Pierre. Driving a 1941 Plymouth, Hanson came here in 1950. For work, he replaced windows and did jobs related to fishing. He learned of fly tying and casting from Earl Gresh and Doc Howe. "Carl came to earth fly fishing," friend James Parkhill said. By the mid 1950s, Hanson was conducting free fishing clinics at his 57th Street N home. "A man asked if I'd teach him to tie a fly," Hanson said. "Pretty soon I had people coming every night. Too much. So, I had people come on Tuesday nights." Amid fly material that included shag rug pieces and peacock eye feathers, Hanson would stress finesse over power when casting. He had as many as 35 disciples. "Some were very serious," said Shannon Kelly, who loved working crossword puzzles with her stepfather. "Everybody had a fish story to tell, but they were there for instruction." "Fish are a bonus," Hanson would drill. "We must create a new breed of fisherman, one who is happy harvesting fewer fish. If we don't eat a fish, we throw it back." After his sermon, Hanson would conduct casting lessons outside. "The guy was a philosopher," said Larry Mastry of Mastry's Bait & Tackle. "For him, it all tied in, life and fly fishing. Conservation and so on." Conservation is dead today, Parkhill said. "It's the nets and the hoggishness of the commercial fisherman. It will absolutely get worse." When Hanson fished, he changed flies like a rich woman discards dresses. "I will use a fly once and throw it away," he said. "I can make one for a nickel, for crying out loud." In 1977, Hanson's wife, Minnie, died, leaving him with his son, Adrian Lee. A long beard expressed Hanson's grief. Three years later, he married family friend Esther Wiley, who said, "The wedding was a bit different." Wearing a blue guayabera, baby blue slacks and white shoes, Hanson conducted a casting clinic before the ceremony in Freedom Park. Vows were exchanged under crossed fly rods and the reception was spiced with fish. Bill Jackson Inc. benefited from Hanson's expertise for a decade, beginning in 1988. He was more than an employee, part owner Harriett Jackson said. "He was an attraction." "It was nothing to see fishing line flying across the parking lot when Hanson was here," said Jackson's son, Doug. In 1992, Hanson suffered a heart attack. He was unconscious for a month and periodically lost the use of his fingers. "I had to take him out in a wheelchair and make him throw a few casts," said St. Pierre. The Lord of the Flies returned to work and fishing, but on June 7, 1998, he collapsed at his 54th Street S home. He was rushed to Palms of Pasadena Hospital, where he died. Hanson's wife conducted the clinics until August 1999. This year, a bench at Fort De Soto Park was "Dedicated in fond memory of Carl O. Hanson." St. Pierre hasn't fished since his friend's death: "I kind of lost interest in fishing after Carl died." -- Scott Taylor Hartzell can be reached at hartzel@msn.com.
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