On the Zen of Fly Fishing
Flyfishing Stories by Bob Lawless

As I grow older and more alienated from the modern world, I find even the simplest of things to be annoying. I mean, all I want is a little peace and quiet, maybe a small stretch of river to myself, at least a small hole.
Is this too much to ask, my fellow flyfishers, my dearest and only friends?
I need this quiet to transcend the horrible hubbub of human haranguing, hateful hollering, and the hurly-burly holocaust one finds everywhere these days.
But no, I’m not allowed this quiet. Take the other day for example. I was fly fishing (a number 14 Adams on a 7X tippet) in the upper mill hole, just below the third big rock, on the Skagit on or about 3:30 P.M. with the weather overcast, a small wind from south, maybe 6.5 knots, barometer at 30.07 milleabars of mercury, and a dog barking somewhere in the distance. I’m trying to forget my age, and the eternal footman who will someday hold my coat and make me afraid, and trying to block out all of the money that I lost in the stock market, all those slime who have reaped so much havoc upon my soul.
And I could go on and on my brothers and sisters. But let me just say that I came to this pool in the river to be alone, to be quiet, to sink into utter awe at my universe, to become one with all and all for one.
But then I noticed these four dudes across the river who were obviously following me. What? What is this, I said? Who? Who are these dudes? What? What do they want? Where? Where are they from? Why? Why, above all why?
Oleander, my pet pocket parrot was quiet in his pocket. Smolt, my tiny dog, my closest trueheart, was dozing in the other pocket of my vest. These animals seemed tranquil so why was I so upset? BECAUSE FOUR DUDES
FOLLOWING YOU ARE UPSETTING!!
They scampered one at time from bush to bush. Then they all hole up behind this one giant tumbleweed, thinking that I had not seen them as yet. So I checked my guns. My auto job was good for nine rounds and my big hog leg, my .44 magnum, was good for six. I thought about just spraying the bush from side to side with the auto and then up and down with the maggie. Sort of a checkerboard deal, if you know what I’m sayin’.
But then I heard these hoofbeats coming. Man, what the hell is this, I’m sayin’. So I duck under this big snag in the river, just below the third rock in the upper mill hole, on the Skagit in northern Washington. They JUMP over the snag and into the water and are gone in a flash up the other bank. "Wow!
What was that, I asked myself?" Could be most anything. Maybe a couple of escaped convicts, maybe a relationship that had gone sour, maybe just a couple of dudes who had wigged out or something, a bank robbery in
Marblemount. But wait, Marblemount has no bank. My razor sharp brain had come to my aid once again.
I was thinking about dusting off a few rounds after these horsemen since you just know they were up to no good and I had the guns primed and ready and all. But no, I held my fire because I didn’t want the gang across the river to know my exact position. You just know that they were armed to the teeth. I figured they were waiting for dark before they would make their move so I had to act fast. But what to do?
Oleander and Smolt seemed to want to run for it and I sort of agreed.
But first, I wanted to crawl away from the river to the willows on the bank behind me, keeping the snag between me and the dudes on the opposite bank.
Being an old veteran of the Viet Nam war (all duty in Europe, fighting mainly from the floor back to my bar stool), I was able to move like a snake along the rocks, keeping a low profile in case shooting might occur.
To my horror when I reached the willows, there were four more dudes ducking from bush to bush in front of me. I turned left--more dudes. I hooked a right---four more. Damn, I’m surrounded by these terrorists and yet I am unable to make a report to the police. My cell has batteries too low for a 911.
I roll to shoot up a red rocket from my flare gun, but as I move, I am jumped by this ski mask dude with the letters FBI on his back. I try to think as I fight with him (I get in a really nice blow to his sacred parts and Oleander nips his ears. Smolt start licking the man’s eyes, causing blindness). FBI?
Flyfishermen Being Ignored? Fly Bums from Illinois? Fly Boys Inc.? My razor sharp brain can’t think because the terrorist has me by the throat and my air is mostly gone.
Also, all the others who have been hiding now appear and begin belting me with batons. Where is Team Rugged when I need them?
"Why can’t we all just get along?" I shout this over and over, but the beating seems to get worse. I thrash. I kick. I scream out at the top of my lungs: “Can’t I have a little peace and quiet in my life?”
My sheets are kicked up over my head; the pillows bounce off the walls and my wife says, “Wake up, you old goat, you’re having a bad dream!”
“What," says I, "You mean I’m not fishing?”