Have you ever noticed that fly fishermen, both men and women,
seem cut from a different cloth. There are no towering barons of
industry here, no budding leaders of the new millennium. Wealth
is a thing which eludes us, something that is measured in flies, rods,
and reels. Time on the water is more important than time at work. It
has always been this way. A fly fisherman has a different mind set.
I can't imagine Bill Gates of Microsoft fame spending an hour or
two watching an eagle, or just sitting there taking in nature, realizing
that the present moment will never be there again for his inspection.
I can't see him admiring one of Ron Kusse's fine cane rods knowing
that he possesses a unique work of art, a product of craftsmanship
and love, almost crying at the beauty he sees. Visualizing his turning
one of Stan Bogdan's reels each day, addicted, like a previous
generation was to the click of a fine railroad watch, that sight escapes
me. Touching the things in life that matter the way some handle a rosary
is an act reserved for a special few. There is a difference in mind set.
Those industry leaders who fly fish and have more money to spend
than some states spend on habitat restoration, came to fly fishing late
in life. They made their money and found something lacking. They are
a sad lot, trying to catch up for all they missed in the short time they
have left. An intense bunch that barely glimpsed the picture, but were
so fascinated that they are doomed to chase a dream which the
preceding forty or so years of life will forever preclude them.
Few will ever appreciate good bourbon from a tin cup. Robert,
where are you when we need you most?
There are a few books that should be required reading before a
fisherman is allowed to purchase a rod. "Traver, just a drop more
in the tin if you please."
I came to the game too early. I love the wind in my face and yes
the spray from my boat as it digs in heading into a good north wind.
I hope to live long enough to retire to that isolated beach in the waste.
I did save to buy a house and my wife gives me enough space so I
can exist without Prozac. I have no regrets. I have a house there,
south in the waste, I think I can get used to the feel of warm sand
underfoot as I walk a deserted beach for an hour or so each day.
My job is a means to an end, not my life.
My wealth is not in a bank but retained in my mind. I don't have to
hurry up and catch life. I feel I've caught my limit. I have a few friends
who I have known since highschool and before. I finally found the right
wife, on the first try even, and my kids didn't turn out bad. In fact I'm
proud of them.
I'm glad eagles and trout are not listed on the exchange. I wouldn't be
able to afford to look at either. Some day I may get to join Jerry on one
of his whale watching trips. How can some still kill such creatures?
It seems there are perversions present that even I don't understand.
I didn't teach the fly fishing act to my children. Few can handle it. They
will most likely never understand me.
The Book says, ". . . thy rod and thy staff they comfort me," as it
should be. I never considered I made the wrong choice. Each day
reinforces the validity of the life style I chose. I never regretted a
moment I spent on the stream. ~ Old Rupe
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