clues at the scene

clues at the scene

Monday, February 9, 2015

Trout People

At left, copyright-free picture of a woman fly fishing in Nova Scotia in approximately 1900.


I've considered the fly fishing mystery.

It only works if the detective finds the body on the river. I can't make the fisherman the murderer.

Why not?

Because fly fishermen (and in that I mean women as well) are too damn nice. It just doesn't resonate with me that they'd be murderers.

I'm sure the sport has some royal pains in the ass. I've not met them. Ever.

Most of the time, the fly fishermen I meet are open and warm and sharing of their favorite spots and what works when and why. Everyone I meet who has a cabin extends or nearly extends an offer to come fish with them on first meeting.

"Just give us a call."

They share where the locals eat, where they like to vacation, their best days fishing, local secrets, and favorite techniques. Likewise, they're interested in your version of the same. It's insane.

Nice people give me a rash. I'm more at home personally on the streets of D.C. or Manhattan than in a room full of fly fishermen.

Don't think you can pull something over on them, either. I went to a meeting tonight and I believe I was in the minority in that I don't have a doctorate.

I'm serious.

There were forty people in the room. I recognized three distinguished professors from a major university.

The good bit? We all try to catch trout. Not one person who knows the business ever goes out saying "I'm catching trout today." The little fish has the upper hand in the man v. fish contest.

I'm trying to change those odds.

I've got new types of flies and new fishing tactics all lined up to try this spring in hopes of dusting my buddies and taking home the Fish Camp prize. Last fall  it was a stainless steel pint glass. I won a shirt with a beer brewery's label on it a few years back. These are serious stakes.

Fly fishing is great for meeting some of the most open and generous personalities on the planet.

For finding suitable villains? Not so much.

Now I'm off to bed to read about the soft-hackled fly in The Soft-Hackled Fly Addict  by Sly Nemes. I wonder how it turns out?

I bet the trout did it. Drove him mad then, bang. Got him with a #12 Adams right in the heart.

Never was the same.

Nor will I be.

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