A Gentlman Fly Fisher
Flyfishing Stories by Bob Lawless

A gentleman fly fisher. First, I must say I have never been a gentleman as I had holes in my socks even as a kid. Poverty does not lend itself well to being a gentleman so I had to wait until I had matured sufficiently well to change my economic status. Even then, it requires more than simply money to become a gentle person, particularly a gentle fly fishing person. So I thought maybe I could get the right clothes, affect the proper attitude, create the best circumstances, and then make my debut as a gentleman. I chose the Methow River as the scene because it is the most gentlemanly of all of Washington’s rather elegant rivers. Then I would dress in the attire of a spey man, the clothes of a spey man, though I wasn’t sure what these might be, and the snobbiness of your average Englishman to pull off my ruse.

I had trouble buying spey boots as I don’t know if there are any such things. So I got some knee length, lace up leather boots, the kind that were popular about 100 years ago. In fact, I got the boots used and they could well be more than a century or two old. I got these pants that were made for fancy horseback riding, the kind that puff out on the upper part of your leg. They were made in England so I knew I had something there. My tweedy sport coat was a used Harris Tweed from Scotland of a rather brilliant yellow - green plaid. My shirt was orange plaid, and the tie was a simple, yet daring red. My hat was pure tweed, the kind golfers wear, and are sometimes referred to as an asshole hat. A large, white ostrich plume set off the whole outfit.

Looking in the mirror, I thought I saw a very dashing figure, a sportsman in the truest sense, and most certainty a gentleman.

I picked my time carefully. Opening day. A large crowd of men had gathered in the parking lot for lunch. I had this huge spey rod, and I approached them with a bit of a swagger, sort of a guru of spey flies and spey fishing, and spey casting, and spey lunching. I though they would gather around me, seek my advice, sort of fawn and bow and scrape and make fools of themselves.

But no. When they saw me, all mouths dropped wide open. They leapt into their trucks and in a cloud of dust, they were all gone, leaving me all alone, the dust settling upon my finery. Is there no place left in fly fishing for a gentleman? And, oh yes, I forgot. I didn't think smolt with his health problems could be used to set up the proper atmosphere of a gentle fly fisher and certainly Oleander, with his rude tongue, would be offensive. So I left them both at home. I was in tears as I drove off.