I received encouraging feedback from testers in Europe and the United States. Established rod companies also provided positive feedback. This gave me enough confidence to spend a week at the rod factory in Weihai refining the prototypes. After the Beijing Fishing Tackle Show, I took the 4.5-hour high-speed train instead of flying. I preferred the train because it was more relaxed, more spacious, and quieter than flying. It felt like the right transition between the noise of the trade show and the quiet concentration of development work. The ride gave me uninterrupted time. I think through the prototype goals. I also considered the direction the rods needed to go before arriving at the factory.

Over the years, I had worked with the same factory to build a rod testing lab. Years ago, it began with hand testing, photos, and video. This gradually evolved into a more controlled and precise system for understanding rod behavior. I used a computer-controlled lifting system. With adjustable angles, I measured a rod’s response under load. I did this in 5-degree increments. I studied bending curves. I compared resistance at different points along the blank. That gave me a way to look beyond first impressions and subjective feel, and to compare prototypes with greater consistency.

The three angles that mattered most to me were horizontal lifting. Another critical angle was about 60 to 90 degrees for fighting fish. The last important angle ranged from 90 to 110 degrees for landing fish. Those positions show what really happens on the water. Testing in the lab helped me collect data on rod materials, tapers, and construction techniques. It also gave me a better way to predict how a prototype functions before going back to the water. I believe this data will become increasingly valuable. Rod design will become more informed by digital analysis and AI in the future. In the early days, every rod needed to be lifted by hand. Each one had to be tested individually, extending the time the process took. Looking back, that slower method taught me a lot. Yet, the lab now allows me to study rods with a level of consistency. The detail achievable was not possible before.

A rod can feel good in the hand, but the real test is always on the water. It must protect light tippet and control fish in current. It should keep sensitivity and lift with confidence at the angles anglers actually use. For euro nymphing, that matters because the rod has to do more than cast efficiently. It must support a contact-driven system, manage pressure precisely, and carry out well under practical fishing conditions. The lab did not replace on-the-water testing. Still, it provided a clearer engineering reference. This helped in understanding what each prototype was actually doing.

When I arrived at the factory, three different prototypes were already waiting for me to test. After each round, we turned around a revised prototype in about 24 hours. We worked every day from 8 a.m. until about 10 p.m. On the final evening, we stopped at midnight just to make sure the hot pot restaurant was still open.

By the end of the week, I was tired, but I flew back to the U.S. with a prototype in hand and took it straight to the lake in Denver, Pennsylvania. The weather was cold and unsettled, with rain, hail, and snow through most of the morning. By the time the sky finally cleared, the wind was still blowing. The air still had that sharp late-winter bite. I would not wait any longer. After a few casts, the first fish was a largemouth bass, followed by ten good-sized rainbow trout. Later, I posted the photos in a Euro Nymphing group on Facebook. Most of the comments said the rod was meant for streams, not still water. My answer was simple: if the water does not move, I move the rod. The prototype handled it just fine.

The post Euro Nymphing Rod Development appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

I landed in Beijing and took the Airport Express into the city. The moment I stepped outside, the cold hit me hard. Beijing felt like the North Pole. It was 32°F, about 0°C. Then I arrived at the hotel, and the contrast was almost shocking. Inside felt like an oven, around 80°F, or 27°C. My room was so warm I had to turn off the thermostat. In one day, I felt like I had traveled between two seasons.

I checked in and then went back out. I took the subway to the convention center. I wanted to make sure I knew the route for the next morning. I have been to Beijing enough times that the subway system feels familiar to me now. That is why I chose a hotel in central Beijing. It is right next to a station. The hotel is about 50 minutes from the show. I had arrived a day early, thinking I will have time to explore the city after the event.

But the trip had other plans for me.

Each evening after the show, I found myself at dinner with vendors and guests from around the world. They were German, French, Egyptian, Italian, and Russian. We sat around large banquet tables, sharing dishes, stories, and conversations that moved easily from one language to another. I was the only person at the table who could not speak Chinese. That made me feel a little embarrassed. Still, there was something memorable about sitting there in Beijing. I was surrounded by people from so many countries. Everyone was connected in some way by fishing.

One night we ate Peking duck, one of Beijing’s most famous dishes. I noticed something unique and charming. At these large banquets, dessert often came first.

The show itself was enormous—around 1,000 exhibitors spread across three giant halls, each about the size of two football fields. Yet among all that scale, only a small handful had anything to do with fly fishing. That made those booths matter even more to me. Hidden inside a massive tackle industry show was the small corner I had come for.

I spent most of my first day focused on Euro-nymphing reels and the second day working on fly lines. In between, I was often invited to cast new rods with staff from different fly-fishing factories. Those moments were more than casual fun. They reminded me that tackle design is not only done on paper, on screens, or in factory meetings. Sometimes it happens in quick conversations. It occurs in a few test casts. It materializes in the feeling of a rod loading and unloading in your hand.

That was also where I ran into Miss 39. She is a social media influencer who was excited to join the Tanuki team as an ambassador. I also met a few local fly anglers, and we exchanged casting techniques and thoughts about fishing. Those small connections stayed with me. The trade show was huge and full of products, displays, and noise. Nevertheless, the human moments gave the trip its meaning.

The reel project had already been moving for months before I arrived in Beijing. After I released my first Euro-nymphing rod prototype in August of last year, testers began asking for a matching reel. That simple request started a new path. I sent design requests to several reel factories in Ningbo. This city is known for reel manufacturing. Last December, I visited them to work out the specifications. Each factory developed a different style of reel. By the time I reached Beijing, I had already seen the first prototypes. The show gave me the chance to continue refining them in person. Meeting face to face is always better than trying to do everything through messages and shipped samples.

On the last day of the show, I spent time with the Pac Bay team. We were working on custom guides for the Tanuki Euro-nymphing rod. I first met Tony, the new president of Pac Bay, two years ago. By that afternoon, the energy of the show was already beginning to drain away. Although the official closing time was 4:30 p.m., many exhibitors started packing up around noon. By about 2 p.m., half the hall was already empty. It felt like watching a temporary city quietly disappear.

When the show ended, I went back to the hotel exhausted. I finally needed a nap to catch up with the jet lag. When I woke up, it was already dark outside. It was time to look for food. I also needed to finish packing for the next leg of the journey to Weihai by high-speed train. Weihai is the center of fishing rod manufacturing in China. I thought I knew how to get to the high-speed train station. However, being too confident sometimes creates its own problems. What should have been a simple 50-minute trip to the station turned into an adventure of its own.

The post My First Trip to the Beijing Fishing Tackle Export Show appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

During my research and development of my first tenkara rod, one suggestion kept appearing online. That suggestion was: “Get the longest rod you can.” At the time, that usually meant rods around 15 feet long—the longest one-hand casting tenkara rods available then.

I tried one. It was heavy, and within five minutes of casting in the Japanese style, my wrist hurt. A little later, I realized that placing the index finger on top of the grip felt unnatural. Initially, I followed this style. More importantly, it wasn’t wabi. It didn’t feel calm, balanced, or honest.

I was honestly surprised when the Tanuki 375 later received such overwhelmingly positive feedback. Anglers described it as light, sensitive, and responsive—and, importantly, not a me-too rod. To me, a me-too rod is an off-the-shelf OEM design with a new label. The Tanuki 375 wasn’t that, and people felt it immediately on the water.

That response gave me confidence—and the motivation to explore other rod lengths.

At Oni School in 2015, Dr. Robert Worthing, who guided me early in my tenkara journey, encouraged me to bring the Tanuki 425 prototype to life. After fishing it, Rob told me something that stayed with me. He said the rod felt like it was built specifically for his fishing style.

When Rob described the rod as responsive, he wasn’t talking about speed or stiffness. He meant it was easy to cast with accuracy. It was easy to place the fly exactly where he wanted it, without effort or correction.

Then he said, simply:

“I just want it as it is—no change.”

I took that seriously.

I respect Rob not only as a fisherman, but as a teacher. In my mind, he is second to none as a tenkara angler and instructor outside of Japan. I relied on his experience and feel. I decided to bring a small quantity of the Tanuki 425 into production. I made no adjustments to the blank.

The Tanuki 425 was never meant to be a mass-market rod, and it was never meant to replace the 375. It was a rod that worked as is, for a specific style of fishing.

Surprisingly, the Tanuki 425 drew strong interest from Italy—and it still does, even more than a decade later.

That same day at Oni School, one of the Tanuki 425 prototypes was painted white. It drew a lot of attention at Oni School in Utah. Later that year, it also caught many eyes at the Tenkara Summit in Colorado. When I asked people, “Which one do you like, and which one would you buy?” the answer was interesting: 100% liked the white, and 100% said they would buy the black.

At the Summit, everyone preferred a cork handle. At Oni School, everyone preferred EVA. Those small differences mattered.

So why not make a white version? But white felt too plain. I named it Snow Tanuki.

Today, the Snow Tanuki is hard to find. The first small batch of the Tanuki 425 sold out in just 30 minutes. With this, a new branch of the Tanuki story quietly began. There was a lot of debate on Facebook and at fly fishing shows: Would the white color spook fish? Does white blend with clouds in the sky? Egrets use white feathers—maybe that’s why it works.

That discussion helps explain why the Snow Tanuki received so much attention. From a production and inventory standpoint, nevertheless, achieving a true Snow Tanuki white finish proved extremely challenging. Keeping a 100% white surface was expensive. These challenges led me to scale back the Snow Tanuki model.

Handling a pure white finish requires extraordinary care. Dust control is critical, and every step must be kept perfectly clean. In the early days, Tanuki rods were mostly finished by hand. Even today, with improved facilities, equipment, and fewer but more experienced workers, producing a flawless white finish remains difficult.

What remained fascinating was perception. Despite using the same blank, the white-finished rod feels lighter and softer to many anglers. Ironically, the white finish is actually heavier. It requires a multi-stage process. This includes a primer coat, paint coat, and final finishing coat. This multi-stage process is compared to the single finishing coat used on the black version. It’s a clear example of how visual cues can influence feel just as much as material reality.

The Tanuki 425 remains, to me, the most beautiful rod over 13 feet long. It is not the longest rod. Still, it feels right. And best of all, it never needed to be changed.

Looking back, the Tanuki 425 was a lucky shot. I wasn’t overthinking it. In other words, I didn’t spend nearly as much time developing it as I do with rods today. At that time, I didn’t understand the difficulty of designing a truly good tenkara rod. A rod longer than 12 feet presents unique challenges.

For example, the Nissin Air Stage 380 (about 12’5”) honryu, “main river”, rod is very light. Its swing weight is low because it uses a collapsed length of more than 3.5 feet. Back then, I didn’t fully grasp what those takeoffs meant.

The Tanuki 425 taught me that lesson quietly—through feel, not theory.

The post Tanuki 425 — Responsiveness and a Small Beginning appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

When I returned home, I started looking for a name.

Somehow, I landed on Tanuki—and it felt inevitable. My first trip to Japan was in 1980, when I stayed in Tokushima, a region known for its Awa Tanuki folklore. That image had been sitting quietly in my subconscious for decades.

The Tanuki is a trickster in Japanese folklore—and fly anglers are tricksters too, always trying to outsmart a fish with line, fly, and presentation. Then there’s the inside joke: tanuki are famously depicted with oversized sacks—practical, humorous, and impossible to ignore. Somehow, that irreverent spirit fit the rod a little too well.

If you’re curious about the folklore behind the tanuki, you can watch the youtube here: https://www.tofugu.com/japan/tanuki/

Once the name settled in, the logo came next.

My first attempt—a simple tanuki—felt charming but confusing. It didn’t immediately say fishing. I wanted something that hinted at Japanese identity without spelling it out.

I wanted something simple. Quiet. Complete.

The enso symbol felt right. To an angler, it reads instantly as a fish. To others, it’s a circle—unfinished, balanced, and intentional. By combining the fish with the enso, the logo became both literal and symbolic, much like the rod itself. When I put the designs up for a vote, the enso fish won easily.

That moment marked the real beginning of the Tanuki 375—not as a product launch, but as a moment of clarity. A small idea, encouraged at the right place, at the right time.

From there, the visual language followed naturally. A rod that felt Japanese without ever saying it was Japanese. Simple colors—black and gray, with a restrained touch of red. I studied Japanese packaging and worked toward something that felt quiet, intentional, and familiar.

When the rods were finally completed, I contacted Chris again. I assumed he would carry them. This time, he hesitated. To protect the identity of “Japanese-made” rods, he decided not to carry the Tanuki 375. The rods were made in China, and he was concerned about long-term consistency and restocking.

I was disappointed—but not discouraged.

I built a small online store. A friend suggested I try Facebook to spread the word. A few weeks later, the rods arrived.

And then something unexpected happened—in the best possible way.

The rods began to sell on their own. That early success gave me momentum and confidence to keep designing. Ideas started circling constantly. I found myself distracted at work, my mind always drifting back to rods, tapers, and materials.

Eventually, I made a decision that felt both risky and inevitable. I devoted myself full-time to rod design—and to building a community around it, something I’ve enjoyed just as much as making the rods themselves.

⸻

Looking Ahead

Since the Tanuki 375, I’ve learned an incredible amount about tenkara rods—materials, taper, swing weight, balance, and how subtle design choices change how a rod actually feels on the water. In the next series, I want to share those lessons. Not as marketing, but as understanding—why rods behave the way they do, and how the design process can make fishing feel simpler and more connected.

This story marks the first step of Tanuki on a thousand-mile journey. When I think about the Tanuki 375 now, I don’t think about specs or measurements. I think about where I was, what I didn’t yet know, and how much the rod taught me in return. At the time, I couldn’t see where it would lead—and that uncertainty was part of the beauty. The journey was just beginning, like a mayfly drifting through twists and turns of the current.

The post The Birth of the Tanuki 375: How a Simple Tenkara Rod Began appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

I took the rod to Utah, where I met Eric Ostrader of Tenkara Guides LLC in Salt Lake City. We headed up to Little Cottonwood Canyon, and in just one day on the river I learned a tremendous amount from Eric.

About half an hour into fishing, Eric suddenly picked up his phone and called John Vetterli. John showed up roughly an hour later. The two of them spent a long time talking on the riverbank, then John took the rod and fished with it. He landed several fish—around six to eight inches—before returning to the bank. More discussion followed.

The whole stretch of river was essentially mine.

“Just keep fishing,” they told me.

By the end of the day, we had become good friends.

Before John headed out, both Eric and John said something that caught me off guard:

“This is the rod. You should make more of these for the Tenkara community.”

At first, we all wondered if it might simply be another “me-too” rod.

“What’s a me-too rod?” I asked.

Eric explained that when Tenkara was first introduced to the U.S. by Tenkara USA, many people jumped on the bandwagon—buying generic OEM rods from Alibaba, relabeling them, and selling them as their own. Those became known as me-too rods.

That conversation stayed with me.

From my background producing CD-ROM games, I already knew that making something for the market is difficult—but selling it is a hundred times harder. It takes time, energy, and a completely different mindset. I wasn’t ready to turn this into a business. I still saw it as a hobby—but I was willing to test the water.

Eric also invited me to attend the first Oni Tenkara School that June. I was thrilled. It would be my first opportunity to meet the Japanese rod maker Masami Sakakibara—a living master whose influence on modern Tenkara is second to none.

Around that time, I posted about my fishing experience with Eric on Facebook. We were nymphing—the weather was cold, there was no hatch, and at that point I was still transitioning from traditional fly fishing, where I mostly fished dries or nymphs rather than kebari.

The response surprised me.

A storm of comments followed:

“Tenkara rods are not for nymphing.”

“Tenkara is only for kebari.”

I was confused.

I kept asking myself a simple question:

What does the rod have to do with it?

To me, a rod is just a tool—an extension of the angler’s arm. The goal is simple: present a fly, connect with a fish, and enjoy the moment on the water.

Still, fishing with kebari began to spark my curiosity. At the same time, I wondered what I was supposed to do with the thousands of flies I had tied over the past twenty years. Even so, I was happy to explore this almost mythical approach to fishing.

After watching countless Tenkara videos online, one thing became clear: kebari demanded a softer, more responsive tip. Building a completely new rod would be expensive and would mean starting from scratch. Instead, I decided to experiment.

I began by extending the first few tip sections of the rod. But changing length alone risked throwing the rod out of balance. The challenge was to keep the lower sections stable for casting and fish control, while allowing energy to flow through the rod smoothly.

After many trials, the best solution I found was to extend the first three sections by about five centimeters each and subtly adjust the taper of sections four and five.

I temporarily kept the original 360 label, covered it with Tanuki, and treated it as a prototype. The result was a 375 cm rod.

I took the Tanuki 375 prototype to Oni Tenkara School to learn kebari fishing in the traditional Japanese style—and to receive feedback directly from Sakakibara-san and the community. It was the first time the rod was tested beyond my own hands.

That experience became the turning point.

The feedback I received—on the water and in conversation—was unexpectedly affirming. The rod had moved beyond experimentation and into something real. That moment marked the official birth of the Tanuki 375 and the beginning of the Tanuki rod journey.

The post How the Tanuki 375 Began to Take Shape appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

After the prototypes were completed, my excitement quickly shifted to the next challenge: finding a rod maker who could help turn these experiments into real rods.

Thanks to the internet, the entire world suddenly sat on my desktop.

Unfortunately, none of the rod makers in the United States were interested in building a small run of prototypes. Some quoted prices that were simply out of reach. Others required long lead times—six months at minimum—along with large upfront deposits. At the same time, Japanese and Taiwanese rod builders weren’t interested in prototype work either. Many preferred to sell existing designs or tell me what they thought was best for me.

I wasn’t looking to be sold a rod.

I was looking for someone willing to build one with me.

I searched through countless listings on platforms like Alibaba. Most factories wanted to push what they already had in stock. Others were unwilling to deviate from their standard designs.

Then I found a small rod maker in China with a very different response.

“Tell us what you want,” they said. “We’ll do our best.”

That was all I needed to hear.

I explained that I wanted to go through at least three rounds of prototypes, each built to my specifications. Their response was straightforward:

“No problem—we’ll send you the PI options.” (PI stands for Purchase Invoice.)

The standard turnaround time for a prototype was about four weeks. If I wanted it completed in less than two weeks, the cost would double. I chose speed—I couldn’t wait to see the first result. Even at double the cost, a two-week turnaround, combined with international shipping via FedEx, was still faster and more practical than any other option I had explored.

The first batch arrived quickly: three prototype rods, each built with different materials. This allowed me to closely inspect carbon quality, construction consistency, and overall craftsmanship.

After extensive casting-pond evaluation, I selected Toray 46T high-modulus carbon, approximately equivalent to what is commonly labeled IM12. Tonnage (T) refers to tensile modulus—higher values indicate stiffer fibers—but modulus alone does not define rod performance. IM ratings, by contrast, are manufacturer-defined and non-standardized.

Compared to lower-modulus materials, Toray 46T offered reduced mass, faster recovery, and higher responsiveness. The trade-offs are increased material cost and a narrower flex envelope, both of which were acceptable within the intended design parameters.

See the table below for an approximate Tonnage (T) to IM comparison.

IM Rating vs. Tonnage — Approximate Equivalents

The second round of prototypes focused on improving flexibility and refining craftsmanship. I worked directly with the factory’s rod engineer, and to speed up the process we conducted strength tests and live rod-bend curve evaluations over Skype. This approach saved both time and shipping costs.

By early February 2015, ten final rods were delivered with a simple label: Fatmonk 360 (360 cm). Ten rods were enough for me—to fish extensively and to gift to a few close fishing friends.

I was thrilled.

It was time to go fishing.

Around that time, Hideto Ed Yoshida, president of the Tokyo Fly Fishing Club, flew over to visit. I took him fishing with the new rod.

After a few casts, he turned to me and said,

“This is the best Tenkara rod I’ve fished. Casting level line with your rod is hard to beat. It’s perfect for both nymphing and kebari.”

I thanked him for the compliment, but part of me wondered if he was simply being polite. To be sure, I asked,

“Do you think I should change anything if I commercialize the rod?”

“No,” he replied. “Leave it alone. It’s perfect—for me.”

That was when I knew his feedback was genuine.

For the first time, I felt real confidence—not just in the rod, but in the journey that led to it. I couldn’t wait to put it into more hands and see what others felt.

The post How I Chose a Rod Maker and Built My First Tenkara Rod appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

After the prototypes were completed, my excitement quickly shifted to the next challenge: finding a rod maker who could help turn these experiments into real rods.

Thanks to the internet, the entire world suddenly sat on my desktop.

Unfortunately, none of the rod makers in the United States were interested in building a small run of prototypes. Some quoted prices that were simply out of reach. Others required long lead times—six months at minimum—along with large upfront deposits. At the same time, Japanese and Taiwanese rod builders weren’t interested in prototype work either. Many preferred to sell existing designs or tell me what they thought was best for me.

I wasn’t looking to be sold a rod.

I was looking for someone willing to build one with me.

I searched through countless listings on platforms like Alibaba. Most factories wanted to push what they already had in stock. Others were unwilling to deviate from their standard designs.

Then I found a small rod maker in China with a very different response.

“Tell us what you want,” they said. “We’ll do our best.”

That was all I needed to hear.

I explained that I wanted to go through at least three rounds of prototypes, each built to my specifications. Their response was straightforward:

“No problem—we’ll send you the PI options.” (PI stands for Purchase Invoice.)

The standard turnaround time for a prototype was about four weeks. If I wanted it completed in less than two weeks, the cost would double. I chose speed—I couldn’t wait to see the first result. Even at double the cost, a two-week turnaround, combined with international shipping via FedEx, was still faster and more practical than any other option I had explored.

The first batch arrived quickly: three prototype rods, each built with different materials. This allowed me to closely inspect carbon quality, construction consistency, and overall craftsmanship.

After extensive handling and testing at the casting pond, I settled on Toray 46T high-density carbon, roughly equivalent to IM12. It was noticeably lighter and more responsive than lower-modulus options. The trade-off was higher cost and slightly reduced flex—but it aligned with my design goals.

The second round of prototypes focused on improving flexibility and refining craftsmanship. I worked directly with the factory’s rod engineer, and to speed up the process we conducted strength tests and live rod-bend curve evaluations over Skype. This approach saved both time and shipping costs.

By early February 2015, ten final rods were delivered with a simple label: Fatmonk 360 (360 cm). Ten rods were enough for me—to fish extensively and to gift to a few close fishing friends.

I was thrilled.

The post Building My First Tenkara Rod appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

Choosing my first rod wasn’t easy. Nearly every rod I came across was well regarded and highly praised by Tenkara anglers. But I quickly noticed a pattern: most praise depended on who owned the rod. Everyone loved what they already had.

Because rod building had been my hobby since I was nine years old—and because I had built my own split bamboo fly rods during the dot-com bust around 2000—I approached the search differently. I wasn’t looking for hype. I was looking at materials, construction, and taper. As both an engineer and a bamboo rod builder, taper mattered to me far more than brand names.

At the same time, I kept my expectations grounded. A Tenkara rod cost about the same as two tanks of gas for a fishing trip. I decided to start simple.

I bought a Dragontail rod for about $65. At the time, many people dismissed Tenkara as a fad, and I didn’t want to overcommit before I truly understood it.

I quickly grew attached to that Dragontail rod. I fished it constantly, using it to prepare for the Tenkara Summit in September 2014, held in Boulder and hosted by Tenkara USA.

That trip changed everything.

At the summit, I learned directly from Dr. Hisao Ishigaki, a Japanese Tenkara master. Watching him manipulate the fly and control the drift opened my eyes—not just to Tenkara, but to fly fishing as a whole. It was the simplest form of fly fishing I had ever seen, yet also the most intentional.

By the end of the summit, my thinking had shifted. I wanted the longest rod Tenkara USA offered—but it was sold out. I was told to order it online.

On the drive back to California, I was completely energized. I stopped whenever I saw water along the roadside and practiced the fly-manipulation techniques I had just learned. By the time I got home, I felt ready to step up.

After more research, I found myself on the website of Tenkara no Oni—which roughly translates to “The Devil of Tenkara.” I purchased what I considered the most beautiful rod I had ever seen: a 13-foot Oni Type I with a bamboo handle, for about $400 including accessories.

The Oni rod was remarkable. Although it was longer than the Dragontail, it felt lighter, better balanced, and significantly easier to cast. From the first few casts, it felt as if the rod had been made specifically for me.

I couldn’t wait to test it properly, so I loaded the car and took a short trip to Baum Lake in California. Baum Lake is famous for steady fish activity on cloudy autumn days, when trout rise consistently for midges. With its slow-moving water, it’s an ideal place for dead-drift presentations.

On a good day, landing 30 to 50 fish is normal there; landing more than 100 is not uncommon.

My first day with the Oni rod was humbling. I broke off five fish out of ten and landed only three out of five solid hookups. But within a few hours, something clicked. My hook-up rate improved, and landing fish became more controlled and deliberate.

Fishing both the Dragontail and the Oni made me aware of what each offered me on the water. The Dragontail gave me confidence when controlling fish, especially in fast current. The Oni felt effortless in casting—light, balanced, beautifully crafted, and deeply connected to the fish.

Over time, I found myself wishing there were a rod that combined what I valued in both. Most of the trout I catch are wild fish in high-mountain Sierra streams, where a 12-inch trout is a trophy and strong current is the norm. But in some waters near larger lakes—like the Upper Owens River, Robinson Creek, and the East Walker River—20-inch fish are not uncommon.

In those conditions, I wanted the lightness, casting fluidity, and sensitivity of the Oni, paired with the control and confidence the Dragontail gave me in fast water. Maybe I was asking too much—but I wanted a rod that treated a 10-inch fish in the Owens Gorge like a trophy, while still offering the control to handle a 22-inch fish when it mattered.

For me, choosing the rod mattered deeply. Rod making is my craft. A good Tenkara rod costs only a fraction of a fly rod, yet its impact on feel and performance is enormous. For a serious angler, choosing the right Tenkara rod is not trivial—it shapes the entire experience.

The post Choosing My First Tenkara Rod — An Engineer’s Perspective appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

The casting was beautiful. The rod loaded smoothly, the line unfurled cleanly, and everything felt effortless in the air. But once a fish was hooked, I began to struggle. The deep, wide arc of the rod bend made it difficult for me to reach the line, and with a long line out, controlling a good-sized fish became challenging.

I realized quickly that this wasn’t a flaw in the rod—it was a mismatch between my skill and what the rod was asking of me.

For the next few weeks, I practiced long-line casting at the Oakland Casting Pond. Through repetition, something became clear to me: casting a Tenkara rod is not about distance. It’s about presentation.

I wanted the fly to land first, followed by the tippet gently laying down on the water—quietly, naturally—so the fish wouldn’t be spooked. But as the line grew longer, it also grew heavier, and too often the line landed before the fly. I hadn’t mastered the cast yet, but I felt confident enough to test what I’d learned on the water.

So I took the Oni rod back to Baum Lake.

Baum Lake is famous for its baetis hatches on cloudy days. The conditions were perfect—steady rises, calm water, and plenty of opportunities. My friends Collin and David met me there. While much of the country was glued to TVs for the final weekend of football, we were standing beside a lake, watching trout feed.

Collin and David sat on the bank eating lunch and watching me fish. Every time I hooked a fish, laughter echoed across the water.

In a lake, a hooked fish usually dives deep—it’s safer down there. But Baum Lake is frequently stocked for the holidays, and freshly stocked fish panic. Instead of diving, they run wildly in every direction.

With the Oni rod bent into a deep horseshoe and a long line extended, I struggled to control the fish. Tenkara rods don’t have reels, so I turned my upper body sideways to bring the line closer to me.

I was the reel.

More than once, a hooked fish swam around my legs, wrapping the line. One fish darted between my feet as I tried to net it—and in that moment, I accidentally broke the rod tip.

I walked back to the bank to join Collin and David for lunch. But watching fish continue to rise, I couldn’t sit still. I grabbed my Dragontail rod and went back out.

A few casts later—fish on. Then the 6X tippet snapped. Again and again, I broke fish off. Over time, the break-offs became less frequent.

Looking back, the lesson was clear: it was all about adjustment.

With the Oni rod, I needed a firmer hook set than I used with the Dragontail. The rods asked for different inputs—different timing, different control.

That night over dinner, Collin and David were still laughing.

“Bro,” one of them said, “after watching your fish-landing performance today, we realized we paid way too much for Cirque du Soleil last month in Las Vegas.”

We all laughed.

Fishing was over.

The next morning, I stayed behind to fish while they headed out early for the holiday. The weather was perfect—cold, overcast, and the fish were hungry. For two straight days, I stayed on the water nearly eight hours at a time, grabbing a quick PowerBar for lunch to take full advantage of the conditions.

By the end of the second day, the fish finally slowed down—and my body did too. My right wrist was sore, then painful. By the time I left, I could barely turn the steering wheel with my right hand.

The drive down the mountain toward Redding was tense—snow and rain reducing visibility, my wrist throbbing with every turn. Once I reached Redding, the road flattened and my thoughts settled.

I started replaying the last few days.

The Oni rod was beautiful to cast but demanding when landing strong fish with a long line. The Dragontail was heavier and less refined in balance, but much easier to control fish—especially with a shorter line on faster water like the Merced River. Yet when casting long lines, fatigue crept in quickly.

I kept wondering—what if there were a rod in between?

Not better. Not ultimate.

Just a rod that fit me.

Later, I realized the fatigue came from several factors: unfamiliar wrist angles, Japanese grip habits my body wasn’t accustomed to, hours of repetitive casting without adequate rest for muscle recovery, and the increased torque created by the rod’s length acting as leverage while landing fish.

That’s when the idea began to take shape.

What if I built a rod that matched my body, my casting style, and the way I fish?

A rod that was light, balanced, and effortless to cast—because casting mattered to me. After all, I spent as much time at the casting pond as I did on the river.

The idea of building a custom rod wasn’t sudden.

It was inevitable.

The post What Fishing Different Tenkara Rods Taught Me appeared first on Tanuki Rod.

After the long-line fishing trip at Baum Lake, I wasted no time. Despite a wrist that was still sore, I dove straight into research—digging through reviews, watching videos, reading forum discussions, and studying online shops. I was searching for what I thought might already exist: a Tenkara rod that fit me, evaluated through the combined lens of a rod builder and an engineer.

I couldn’t find one.

That realization became the trigger.

I’m trained as a design engineer by trade, and I’ve spent years working with manufacturing and hands-on building. Designing and building a custom telescopic rod, from a complexity standpoint, is far less demanding than building a split bamboo fly rod—which I had already done. The challenge wasn’t whether I could build one. It was how to approach it correctly.

I started the same way I approach any engineering problem: data collection.

I carefully analyzed rod tapers, section counts, lengths, and on-water behavior. But when it came to materials, reading wasn’t enough. I needed to feel them. I purchased all kinds of rods and rod blanks—some through online marketplaces, others from custom Tenkara rod suppliers—to understand how modern materials affected rod action.

Coming from a bamboo background, I had always understood rod action as largely a function of taper. In bamboo, taper is everything. Change the taper, and you change the rod.

Modern Tenkara rods are different.

With contemporary materials, rod action is no longer a single-variable problem. It’s shaped by material properties, construction techniques, wall thickness, section transitions, and taper working together. The rod isn’t just a profile—it’s a system.

Shortly after the holiday season, I began building my first prototypes—right out of my kitchen.

I didn’t have factory equipment. I wasn’t cutting blanks with power saws and water cooling like the factories you see online. Instead, I used what worked: an old serrated kitchen knife, which turned out to be surprisingly effective, and a water stone to smooth the edges. I taped sections together using duct tape and masking tape, focusing purely on function, not appearance.

Once the prototypes were assembled, I took them to the casting pond to gather feedback. Experienced fly casters gave thoughtful input on balance, grip, and feel—but the most valuable feedback came from an unexpected group: children.

Experienced casters could adapt to almost anything. Children couldn’t.

They were drawn immediately to the prototypes that were light, easy to cast, and forgiving—because their wrists were weaker and their movements less refined. That feedback was honest, unfiltered, and incredibly revealing.

After several rounds of casting, feedback, and fine-tuning, the direction became clear.

Building a modern carbon-fiber rod entirely on my own would be extremely expensive and would require specialized equipment and manufacturing experience far beyond a home setup. From an engineering and practical standpoint, it made far more sense to commission the work to a professional shop—one that already had the tools, processes, and expertise—while I focused on design intent, testing, and refinement.

That decision marked the next phase of the journey, It was time to find a shop that could help turn these experiments into a real rod.

The post Designing a Custom Tenkara Rod — An Engineer’s Approach appeared first on Tanuki Rod.