Bill Cochran

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A bass fishing trip to the James River more than 20 years ago was part of the bait used to lure Orvis to relocate a big chunk of its operations to the Roanoke Valley .

The fact that the scheme worked was evident on a recent sunny day when Orvis staff members and guests gathered for a 20th anniversary barbecue picnic under a huge, white tent within the shadow of the company's massive 300,000-square foot warehousing and shipping center. There were cheers when Orvis CEO Perk Perkins announced that company sales this year would be $335 million.

The staff had to eat in shifts, because in a company where there are wall plaques that say “The customer is always right. Even when you know damned well he's wrong,” somebody must stay behind to answer the phone and chatline requests.

Orvis began as C.F. Orvis Co. in 1856, selling its goods out of a small stone building next to a resort hotel in Manchester, Vt. The headquarters, of this the oldest catalog business in the nation, remain in Manchester, but the bulk of the workers—about 575, according to Mike Rigney, director of operations—are located at the Roanoke operation.

It was in 1965 that Leigh Perkins purchased the business, fulfilling a dream he had harbored since attending Williams College in Massachusetts in the 1950s.

By the 1980s, the economy was robust and business was booming. Orvis couldn't find enough workers in Manchester to cover its Christmas rush. So Leigh Perkins began looking elsewhere for a spot to build a fulfillment center. After considering 100 locations in 10 states, Roanoke was chosen.

At the time, Leigh Perkins told me Roanoke was the pick because of the quality of life in the area, the friendliness and character of the citizens and the pro-commerce philosophy of official in the region, people like Bev Fitzpatrick, a current city councilman.

“You can go down to Roanoke and they make you feel important. It is fun to be with those people,” Leigh Perkins said.

The move was not without reservations. How would customers of a century-old New England company react when phones were answered by employees with a Southern accent? As it turned out, customers liked dealing with people who are naturally courteous and hospitable.

About that bass fishing trip: Somebody came up with the idea of treating Perkins and his two sons, Perk and David, to a float-fishing trip on the upper James River . Rodney Trail and Jerry Sublett were the guides. I tagged along to record the event.

We knew the Perkins were world-wide fly anglers and wing shots, but we were confident that our bronze-colored, hard-fighting smallmouth bass could hang in there with the best of them.

When I launched my johnboat, an undetected hole in the bottom projected a geyser skyward, sending me red-faced to a store in Buchanan to buy some automobile radiator sealer.

By the time I returned to the river Leigh Perkins was skillfully waving a fly rod that sent a green line uncoiling through the air delivering a dry fly. He softly probed the rocks, the grass beds and the downed trees along the stream bank, hooking a few bass, but the fish did not express the fervor of Southern hospitality that we had hoped.

After dark, Sublett convinced Perkins to try a surface plug on a lightweight spinning rig, not an easy task when dealing with a man who at the time was selling 200,000 flies annually.

A few casts later, one of the James' famous citation-size smallmouths rolled under the lure then came out of the water in a shower of spray. As it went airborne, creating a hole in the water the size of a washtub, the plug came free and for a moment we all were as limp as Perkins' line.

I'm not saying that this bass nailed the deal for Roanoke, but it didn't hurt.

At the celebration last week, I talked with David Perkins, who said he remembers the trip. I asked him what his Dad was up to since turning the business over to his sons in 1992.

“Fishing…fishing…fishing,” he said. “Except when he is wing shooting.”