What is life if there is not laughter?
Welcome to the lighter side of flyfishing! We welcome your stories here!
August 15th, 2005
Full Combat Shopping, Part 1 By Frank Reid
Okay, I’ll admit it; I’m your basic male
shopper. I need a pair of pants, I pull
into the mall, go directly into the one
store that I know sells the ones I like,
grab a pair off the rack in my size, buy
them and walk out. Done. That’s the way
it should be.
Sometimes, I’m unable to walk directly
into the store that I want and I’m forced
to “walk the mall.” Okay, eyes forward,
ignore the cell phone salesmen, no I don’t
want rain gutter covers, no, my non-existent
jewelry is clean enough, thank you very much.
Get to the store, purchase, leave.
Well, in all honesty, sometimes the window
displays do pique my interest. “We have
Tank Bras!” Hmmm, I guess it would be nice
to keep the bugs off the front of your M1 Abrams.
I hold firm and keep walking. But sometimes,
once in a great while, I’ll get hooked.
On my recent trip to Montana, I only spent more
than 20 minutes of my time in three towns (hey,
it’s a FISHING trip), Bozeman, Ennis and West
Yellowstone. Let’s throw out Bozeman 'cause I
only used it as my point of entry and exit.
Note to self: check on validity of the TSA
(Trout Safety Administration). These guys
stopped me in the parking lot at the airport
in Bozeman and went through my fly boxes
searching for and confiscating any flies on
which I’d not yet crimped down the barbs.
They also took away my extra set of waders
because of possible zebra mussel infestation.
They looked official, so I guess it’s for my
own good. I did happen to see “Senior Inspector
Mike Smith, TSA” the next day enjoying himself
in a drift boat.
Makes my heart glad to know that even
government employees can get a free day
off to go fish, though I don’t know how
they afford it on their salaries.
Okay, where were we? Oh, yeh, we’ve chucked
out Bozeman from this oh so scientific survey
and that leaves us Ennis and Yellowstone.
According to the sign entering Ennis, the
population is 660 folks and 1,100,000 trout.
Ennis has two major fly shops. West Yellowstone,
according to US census information, has 1,650
permanent residents. It also has five major
fly shops (hmm, all centered on a microbrewery).
A quick bit of math leads us to the conclusion
that the mandatory ratio of residents to fly
shops in Montana is 330 to 1. This holds true
for both Ennis and West Yellowstone, so probably
works throughout the state. As a comparison,
within the city limits of Baltimore, there is
one, count 'em, one fly shop for a population
of 651,154 deprived souls. It’s just not fair!
Time for a full Senate investigation.
There is even one fly shop half way between
Ennis and Quake Lake, in the middle of nowhere,
that has more flies in one place than any other
store I’ve ever been to, bar none. Mmmm, flies…
Oops, sorry, drifted off for a minute.
As a final note, there are also fly shops in
most of your lodges along the Madison, some
of which are very good. This is a good thing.
Lucky for me, at one of these lodges, I was
even able to find some size 8 Kauffman’s
golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber
legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre
dubbed bodies that looked exactly like the
ones that had been confiscated in Bozeman.
Figure the odds (I knew they couldn’t be
mine as, on close inspection, I found that
the tyer had crimped the barbs). They also
sold used waders. Great shop. ~ Frank Reid
About Frank:
Born and raised in Southern California, my mother
taught me to love fishing. I would fish from the
piers around Los Angeles as all my friends hung out
on the beach. At age 19, I joined the U.S. Air
Force to see the world and liked what I saw, so
stayed in for 23 years, finally retiring in 2000.
I’ve lived and fished all over the US and the globe,
from the deserts of California to the Philippines,
Germany, South Korea, England, beautiful Omaha,
Nebraska and about 1,000 other places in between.
These travels taught me to fish for whatever happens
to be in the local water. I now work in the Baltimore
area as a computer consultant trying to earn
enough to buy that next new rod or go on that next trip.
My wife is Brenda (who’s quilting addiction rivals my
fly fishing/tying obsession) and we have two lovely
daughters. ~ FR
Originally published August 15th, 2005 on Fly Anglers Online by Frank Reid.
Part 2
What is life if there is not laughter?
Welcome to the lighter side of flyfishing! We welcome your stories here!
August 22nd, 2005
Full Combat Shopping, Part 2 By Frank Reid
On my trip to beautiful Montana, I have
my tying kit with me, but after fishing
all day and rehydrating all evening, I’m
too tired to tie. So, in standard male
shopping mode (get to the store, purchase,
leave), we pull into West Yellowstone. I
need to buy some flies, get a Yellowstone
license and info on Slough Creek in the Park.
We hit the fourth shop on the main street
of town. We figure that you don’t want to
go to the first place you see, as they are
there to grab the truly desperate. So by
going to the 4th place, we’ll have weeded
out the places catering to the wanna-be fly
fisherman. Hmm, that brewpub is up the
street a bit. Maybe we’ll go there after
we get the stuff we need. This should only
take 5 minutes.
My fishing buds and I line up at the counter
to get our licenses. There’s a fan blowing
from the back corner of the store. A nice…
cool…breezeARRRGH! I can smell it! It’s…
It’s FEATHER PHEROMONES!
A shudder runs through my body starting at my
wallet. I.. must.. resist…I…am…in…
mall…uh, male shopping mode. Leave the store
NOW! But I can’t…A little switch has been
flipped in my brain. My fishing buddies have
seen this before and start screaming “INTERVENTION!”
But it’s no use. Jekyll and Hyde, Kent and
Superman, Parker and Spiderman. They’ve all
gone through it. I change. I am Fly Mall
Shopper Man!
I shake off their restraining hands as I’m
inexorably drawn to the back and sides of
the store. Bins and bins of flies greet
my eyes. Size 16 extended body grey drakes,
tungsten cone head laced Autumn Splendors,
even hair wing PMD emergers.
My fingers act on their own, pick up a gross
of little plastic cups and proceed to fill them.
Size 20 bead head pheasant tails embed themselves
under my nails. I ignore the pain and follow
the scent trail. There it is, the fan. It sits
in front of the hackle display, seductively
oscillating, calling my name “Frrraaaaannk,
Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk” in a susurrating
whisper. And next to the fan, the mother load.
The discount bins. Oh, you evil fiends!
My bleeding mitts paw through the bins. 10
packs of chenille for 5 bucks, pink raffia for
scuds, peach baskets full of half-priced hackle.
Bwahahahahahahah!!!
There is more. I move down the wall, grab
two empty peach baskets and start pushing
full skeins of variegated chenille into them.
Suddenly, I now have two fly shop clerks as
personal shoppers. They recognize the signs.
Two others are restraining my buddies by
explaining the Yellowstone fishing regs in
extreme detail. A fifth keeps pointing the
fan at me.
I turn the corner and confront a confused
6-year-old. He looks in my baskets. I can
tell he wants my stuff. “Mine, Mine, all mine!”
I gurgle as I get to the selection of plastic
nymph body forms. I clear the rack. The small
child follows. I run to the checkout counter,
trampling the young man in my haste. I must
put my scent on the items and mark my territory.
Ah, time for the plastic.
The clerk swipes my card as 4 registers ring
my purchases. I grab my loot, license and run.
I have the scent now, it pours from the other
shops. I run across the street and am struck
by a chevy with Florida plates pulling a 5th
wheeler. The bumper wraps around my thigh.
I’m unaffected. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
In the next shop, the story is the same.
The first shop has sent out the alert.
I’m greeted at the door by the whole staff.
Oval stickers with river names, a gourd with
trout painted on it, a wading staff that
doubles as a whiskey flask. I move on.
Ah, there’s the microbrewery. Time to rehydrate.
This also affords the local constabulary time to
put up road blocks for all the streets I’ll cross
and get the parade permit for my growing troop
of bearers.
I hit the streets again and find the specialty
shop that sells custom dyed hackle, caribou,
pine squirrel, even whole beaver pelts. As a
bonus, they’ve cornered the market on Zelon.
But no longer, its all mine. More peach baskets,
the plastic begins to smoke. Time to go, time to
rehydrate. Again and again, shop to shop.
Three hours later, the final shop, more flies.
And then, there they are. My personal Holy
Grail of Fly Fishing. Light falls on them
through the skylight. It’s a religious moment.
I approach, touch, fondle… A bin full of,
dare I say it, size 8 Kauffman’s golden stone
nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and
custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies
(hook barbs pre-crimped). The credit card bursts
into flame from the friction. My day is done.
(WARNING: This is a work of fiction.
It is a federal offense in most states and a
hanging offense in Montana to attempt to explain
the Yellowstone fishing regulations to another
person. Do not attempt this at home.) ~ Frank Reid
About Frank:
Born and raised in Southern California, my mother
taught me to love fishing. I would fish from the
piers around Los Angeles as all my friends hung out
on the beach. At age 19, I joined the U.S. Air
Force to see the world and liked what I saw, so
stayed in for 23 years, finally retiring in 2000.
I’ve lived and fished all over the US and the globe,
from the deserts of California to the Philippines,
Germany, South Korea, England, beautiful Omaha,
Nebraska and about 1,000 other places in between.
These travels taught me to fish for whatever happens
to be in the local water. I now work in the Baltimore
area as a computer consultant trying to earn
enough to buy that next new rod or go on that next trip.
My wife is Brenda (who’s quilting addiction rivals my
fly fishing/tying obsession) and we have two lovely
daughters. ~ FR
Originally published August 22nd, 2005 on Fly Anglers Online by Frank Reid.