Doing it the hard way

Doing it the hard way:
No short cuts except for the rich and famous.

In reflecting on the process we all go through as we become better anglers, I have come to the conclusion that the journey itself, with all of its successes, defeats, and frustrations makes the angler what he or she is. It is hard work. We all can think back and recall with shudders all of the myriad errors we made. We waded over fish, blew strikes, struck the wrong way, botched the landing, tied bad knots, chose the wrong fly or incorrect hook, tied dry flies that sank and wet flies that floated. We fell in the river, cast to the wrong water, misread the water, used improper or bad tackle, dunked our camera, broke a few rods, tumbled down a canyon, got buzzed by rattlesnakes, and even caught a few fish if we were paying so little attention that when the fish struck we were distracted enough not to botch it.

These memories are precious, and the process in which we realized we had goofed up and then learned and grew is the food that drives our journey. It should not be cut short.

Not all learning has to occur through mistakes. There are a plethora of good books and videos explaining the how-to’s.  Classes can be taken, lectures attended, or friends advise sought. In the end though, it is we alone with our own thoughts and with our own two feet that make the journey. Thinking and learning…

However, if you happen to be rich or famous, then it gets a lot easier.

If you happen to be rich, famous, or in some cases, just a good-looking young woman in the sport of fly-fishing, you can buy or be offered short cuts. We all know the rich angler who without the proper skill-set, buys himself a trip to the Dean River, and pays a guide to get him into the fish of a lifetime. The guide has to work hard at it too, since the guy can’t cast his top of the line rod and reel more than 30 feet. That guide is given gear by tackle companies for next to nothing, and gets his or her face on the cover of magazines that take advertising from the very lodges and outfitters they work for. Pictures on their blog abound with lobster dinners, piles of the most expensive tackle, and porn-shots of fish and locations most of us can only dream about. Some of these famous industry guides and tackle reps get free admittance to closed waters in storied locations because it helps to sell more bookings. The fish become a commodity.  The price of fame.

The rich man buys the fish.
The guide pimps it.
The tackle manufacturers collect the cash.

Meanwhile, most of us will never be flown to Atlantic Salmon rivers by film production companies. We won’t stay in expensive lodges, nor be guided directly to the fish. Instead, we will sleep at rest-stops, eat convenience-store chili-dogs, scrape another year out of leaky waders, and have to make all our memories the hard way through long hours on the water. I think it is better that way.

Not all guides, wealthy individuals or famous anglers do this. Fact is, it is the minority in search of fame or fortune that often stand out through self-promotion.

However, if you do happen to become a famous guide, please don’t put your logo on underwear and sell it.

A sort of life...

Real steelhead bums lead romantic lives. Lives spent in pristine temples of river and wilderness hooking fish only a day from the sea, and then eating barbecued steaks around the campfire and sipping single-malt. Lives showing wealthy anglers how to catch fish, and getting tipped to boot. A life of being payed to play.
The romantic vision is only an illusion Dorothy. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
Sure the wilderness settings are real, and these guys do catch a lot of fish, but reality intrudes with all sorts of draw-backs.
First of all, these guys just want to fish. In order to pay the bills even of a frugal and meager existence, they are forced to guide clients. Guiding is like being in a room full of the most beautiful women in the world, and being forbidden any contact whatsoever while trying to teach an uncooperative autistic child advanced symbolic logic.
ie; You rarely get to fish, and you have to watch the client that does flail away and blow opportunity after opportunity, which is as he will tell you, all your fault.
Dealing with this involves deep philosophical understanding, Zen, and booze. Mostly booze.
The photograph the guides have on their brochure is staged. If it wasn't you would be on the phone after you saw it, reporting a cross between a filthy mountain-man, and a dumpster diver in waders. My friend little Joe comes back from Alaska where he spends a third of the year guiding, sporting an enormous black beard half his size. (He looks good in it though.)
Instead of steaks, the real food often consists of canned alpo washed down with discounted and expired PBR tall-boys. Then it is off to sleep on a deflated air-mattress in a tent, or if lucky, in a pick-up camper. Get up the next morning with your perpetual hangover, drink coffee with an oily sheen on top that tastes like cat pee, put all your remaining earthly funds in your gas tank, and then pick up your client for the day; a rich millionaire who thinks he is gods gift to fly fishing, argues with you about everything, and can't cast past his boots. Miss lunch for the day, and instead discover a dubious squished twinky in your wading jacket. Eat it with relish. Dodge the creditors until you can get back to your small one room apartment above the town dive-bar filled with meth-heads, and find out your girlfriend has left you for good and taken your dog.
When the fish are not running the rivers you can tend bar or work at a flyshop for minimum wage.
I have been around enough steelhead camps to see all this for myself. Many of my angling chums are guides. There is a large contingent of ex-pat Wisconsinites guiding and fishing chrome in the Pacific Northwest.
Now it is not as bad as my tongue in cheek descriptions, but there is a reason that so many of the guides I know are now former guides. The life will wear you out. It is fun to live like this for a couple of weeks a year, but not for good.

I have had some memorable experiences on steelhead trips. The incredibly bad breakfast burritos at the Klickitat Traders definitely stand out. All the rattlesnakes and poison oak I have dodged. The epic food poisoning I got at the Rainbow tavern in Maupin on the Deschutes. Limping around on twisted knees from wading accidents. Entering a restaurant for that much needed meal of real food and seeing all the diners recoil in horror as you realize that sometime last week you ceased to be able to smell your B.O anymore. Visiting the toilet in the middle of the night when that blue plate special of enchiladas wants desperately to come out as a number 2, and finding that the retarded caretaker Lester has locked the door in fear of "Them highway Injins." Waking up at 5:00 in the morning when the temperature outside is 35 degrees and you have to leave the snug warmth of your sleeping bag, put on damp and smelly waders, and make it down to the run you wanted to fish, just to discover two guys from California had the same idea, and got up earlier. Camping next to a group of young drunken metal heads who party all night and don't get up until the evening bite is upon them. Discovering that in your sleep deprived mode and complete darkness of dawn, you accidentally used Preparation H instead of toothpaste, and what's worse, didn't notice until you saw the label afterwards.
Having all your underwear mysteriously stolen from your tent along with your luggage by desperate tweakers, and having to spend the rest of the trip in Wal-Mart clothing.

And catching fish... Lets not forget about the fish.
Ah...the things we do for love....