DROP\SHOT: 7.30.23
Subterranean Homesick Trout Punk.
Headin’ West
I think I’ll head west.
Shed suburbia like old skin and chase the sun.
There’s an old cabin out there that needs a fresh coat of paint and a few shingles, and shooing away the skunks that wintered under the porch. The old timer will cock his hat and crack a smile and hand me the keys and leave a cloud of blue smoke behind when he speeds off for Alaska.
A fair trade. One we both need.
Sure, there’d be an adjustment period.
It’d take a season or two to time spring runoff and tame the tigers of fear.
But soon enough my boots would have a spot by the door and the rod would sit on wooden pegs all summer and at night I’d tie shiny black beetles and grey drakes and salmonflies and plop them in my whisky to see how they float and laugh at the thought of getting the cutthroat drunk too.
I’d have a stool at the diner.
Sheila would fill a thick ceramic plate with fried eggs and toast and the bacon just the way I like it and slide it over the counter as I climbed on it and the coffee would be hot and black and bitter. We’d trade town scuttlebutt and I’d leave her a cash tip and take a coffee to go and maybe a sugar donut and tumble out of town before the breakfast crowd and the tourists show up.
Down the cool dirt road to the river damp with dew and half hidden by grasses heavy with summer and swaying to a light breeze and Nat King Cole as he croons through time and the cracked door panels of the truck.
No need for waders or a pack.
Just a little Perrin fly box and spool of tippet in one breast pocket of a heavy flannel shirt and a cheap pair of nail clippers from the counter display at the hardware store.
Barefoot and pants rolled up to my knees I’d find a patch of sand with my toes.
I’d tie on something fresh from the night before.
Bounce it off the bank.
Bingo, I’d almost say out loud.
Ease her from the gut of the run and slide her headfirst into my hand hidden in the clear cold water.
Fly’s out and she zooms back to hide in the undercut and for a moment it smells like fall and where did summer go?
Back home by noon to water the garden and split a few more barrowfuls of wood.
Sappy and sweet. Honeybees buzz around me and I am careful not to crush them as I stack.
And later, even from behind my desk and deep into another draft I can hear them droning on about how long winter is up here in the mountains.
IN A MOOD
A One-Scene Play
False Bottom
A bar. Dimly lit, but not cozy. A few guys are playing pool in the back, the clack of balls shattering across the table mixes with the buzz of a neon beer sign hanging over the bar which is worn and losing its varnish in places. Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer” starts playing from unseen speakers.
Outside a summer storm howls around the poorly hung door. ANGLER sits in a small booth off to one side, his coat on, drumming his fingertips on the table, not impatiently, but like something is building inside of him. He checks the time on his phone and slides it onto the table facedown.
The door swings open, a blast of cold air.
BIG WADER walks in, brushing rain from his shoulders. He spots ANGLER and smiles, all teeth. He strides into the bar, slowly, self-assured. The walk of a man who runs conversations like this for a living. He reaches the booth and shakes ANGLER’s hand – a little too hard – and drops into the booth opposite him. The faux leather seat wheezes under his weight. A waitress sees him enter and comes by the booth, ready to take their order.
ANGLER
(Politely, but with a kind of brittle finality.)
Two pints, please. Whatever your local seasonal is. Thanks.
BIG WADER
(Feigning concern but showing a touch of bother for having had to come out in bad weather.)
So what’s up? Your texts seemed a little curt. Something on your mind?
ANGLER
(Beat. Avoids eye contact at first.)
Look. I’m going to cut to the chase, here.
(He exhales, leans forward slightly, eyes sharpening.)
We’re unhappy with the way things have been going.
(Beat. He shifts in his seat, testing the tension.)
We appreciate everything you’ve done for us, but—
BIG WADER
(Leaning back, spreading his arms wide like a man who’s never had to take bad news seriously.)
Buddy. Let’s not be hasty, here.
(Chuckles, shaking his head as if this is just a misunderstanding.)
I know we had a rough Q4, but things will rebound in the spring. You’ll see. Besides, we’re such a good team.
(Leans in, toothy again.)
Remember that big buck brown in September? You remember. It’s the best performing post on your Instagram feed. Course you remember.
(Waves the waitress over without looking at her.)
Miss? Yes, hi. Can we change that drink order? Let’s do two single malts. The…
(Scans the bar’s top shelf like he’s shopping at Whole Foods.)
Lochrannach Sixteen. Neat. Water back. Oh and scratch the beers. Put it on this card, please. Yeah, thank you so much.
ANGLER
(Dryly. Not reaching for the performance.)
I’m not really into—
BIG WADER
(Overriding, chipper, with salesman gloss.)
Oh you’re gonna love this whisky. The peat is local to their distillery land and they still practice floor malting. They age it in casks on this island in the Hebrides for two decades. They say you can taste the salt of the sea. It’s like $50 an ounce but totally worth it. Costly, not expensive, you know?
(Leaning in now, more intimate.)
Anyway, let’s talk about what’s bothering you.
ANGLER
(Sits back, folds his hands once before unfolding them. Quiet.)
Can I be honest with you?
BIG WADER
(Smiling big. Full confidence. A man with no contingency plan.)
Of course you can! We’ve been together for forty-plus years. That makes us simpatico. You can tell me anything. What’s on your mind?
(The waitress delivers the single malts. ANGLER nods, smiles in thanks.)
ANGLER
(Leaning forward again, voice flat but not hostile.)
OK. Look. The bottom line is that we’re just not getting the bang for the buck that we used to, and with the price of everything going up, we feel like we have to get serious about where we’re investing our money.
(Shrugs slightly. Honest but firm.)
Let’s face it, the factory guarantee isn’t worth the thousand-dollar price tag, especially when you consider your fidelity rating…
BIG WADER
(Sits upright, tone clipped.)
Fidelity rating? This is the first I’m hearing of it.
ANGLER
(Nods. Calm, but a trace of bite under the surface.)
I’m not surprised. It’s a metric we’ve been tracking internally for about a decade now.
(He leans back now. Letting it land.)
The last few years have seen a steep downturn in reliability. I’ve got several reports on my desk right now of failures within the first week of ownership.
(Beat.)
Overall, your ratings are down, and our people are starting to look for alternatives. Surely you’ve heard about wet wading…
BIG WADER
(Chokes out a laugh. Disbelief.)
Wet wading?! Hah! You had me worried there for a second.
(Slaps the table gently, still laughing.)
What a joker! I should have expected it from you. You really had me.
(Suddenly pushes a glass across the table with a little flourish.)
Wow. Here, try this scotch. Prepare for your mind to be blown.
(Beat.)
(Pauses, watches ANGLER.)
(Voice drops slightly.)
You’re… serious? You can’t be serious. Wet wading?!
(Sits forward, more agitated.)
You know how cold that water is in winter. Hell, even the tailwaters in July are ice cold. I’ve seen you put foot warmers on in September.
(Points with his glass.)
Besides, you’re what, forty-five now? Wet wading is a young man’s game, and even then, those kids are all jumping back in with us when the mercury drops.
(Sits back again, gesturing to the scotch.)
Whaddaya think of that scotch? Smooth, right?
ANGLER
(Takes a sip of the scotch.)
Forty one.
(Nods once, then lowers the glass back to the table.)
It’s nice, thanks.
(Sits a little straighter.)
You know, I feel obliged to let you know that we’ve entered into talks with Hip Boots as well.
BIG WADER
(Recoils slightly. Then scoffs.)
Now I know you’re kidding. Hip Boots! A total has been. They haven’t had steady clients since the ‘90s.
(Snorts.)
Talk about out of touch. You gonna start fishing in jeans and a an old button-up again too?
(Leans in again, aggressive optimism.)
Gimme a break! Besides, we have some really cool things coming down the pike this year that I am sure you’re gonna like. We’ve got a brand new coating that’s going to revolutionize breathability and waterproofness. And we’re offering waterproof pouches with welded zippers again. Built in, sized to any smartphone. No more additional purchase just to keep your valuables safe.
(Speeds up, excited.)
And did I mention the new flexion knee design with ergonomic memory foam pads? Grip and grins for days with this new tech. All for a small uptick in pricing; those tariffs are really doing a number on us.
ANGLER
(Shrugs. Steady.)
I’m sure the new features are great.
(Beat.)
But that’s not really what we’re looking for any more.
(Hands open now, explaining more than accusing.)
We just want dependability. Most of us can barely justify the expense of fly fishing as it is, and spending more than a thousand dollars on something that might last you a season — two if you’re lucky — just ain’t cuttin’ it anymore.
(Slight pause. Lowers voice.)
And then there’s the other issue. You know the one I mean.
BIG WADER
(Interrupting. Fake casual.)
Ooo, I like this latest pic of you. Why didn’t you tag us? I am going to repost.
(Doesn’t look up from his phone.)
There.
(Suddenly perky.)
Did you see our blog post about teaming up with Winton & Blagg?
ANGLER
(Sits back, tight jaw. Controlled.)
They’re called forever chemicals for a reason.
(Quietly now, like saying it out loud matters more than being heard.)
And the board has gotten uneasy about the whole thing. We turned a blind eye to overseas production. We tolerated the all but nonexistent customer service.
(Beat.)
But PFAS are a tough one for us to get over. To be honest, we feel duped.
(Sharpening.)
Some of the guys are talking about greenwash—
BIG WADER
(Holds up a hand. Cuts him off.)
We don’t use the G-word. Or the P-word for that matter.
(Sighs like he’s explaining to a child.)
Look. We’re a large company. The fact of the matter is that whenever you try to do things at scale you have to make some concessions. We’re not perfect, but we’re always trying to get better.
(Suddenly chirpy again.)
Let’s talk about something positive; isn’t your winter fishing trip coming up? We always have a good time on that one.
(Smiles.)
It’s all about the hang, amiright?
ANGLER
(Calling softly to the waitress.)
Miss? Hi, can we get the check?
BIG WADER
(Startled. Trying to reel it back.)
Woah, woah, slow your roll, hombre. We’re just getting started.
(Forced smile.)
Besides, I put it on the company card. Let’s get another round. I just have to tell you about our new Guide Series.
(Sits up straighter.)
Ripstop GORE-Tex. In urban camo. Optional front zip is just another $239.99.
(Muttering now, speeds up.)
Zipfer nrm covd hmmd wrrntee…
ANGLER
(Frowning slightly.)
Sorry, you mumbled that last bit. Zipper isn’t what?
BIG WADER
(Laughs too hard.)
And they come with a clip for your forceps so you can go super stealth!
(Puts both hands flat on the table, grinning.)
We’re calling them — wait for it — TROUTFORCE GX. Pretty cool, huh?
ANGLER
(Quiet. Final.)
Listen, I have to run back to the office. We’re standing up a new maintenance and repair department.
(Looks him square in the eye.)
I’m sorry it had to come to this, but things are changing. There just isn’t a compelling enough reason for us to reinvest with you this year.
(Beat.)
If things change on your end, feel free to reach out.
(Turns to the waitress, handing her cash.)
Here you go, miss. And keep the change.
BIG WADER
(Sits in stunned silence. Then calls out, voice rising.)
You can’t be serious.
(Beat.)
You’re serious.
(Leans back, trying to reassert control.)
Well, your call, chief. But don’t come crying to me in December when you’re freezing your ass off.
(Shrugs. Bitterness creeping in.)
You’ll be back!
(Softer now, almost to himself.)
They always come back. You’ll see.
A gust of wind punches the door inward as ANGLER exits. The pool players in the back don’t look up.
BIG WADER drains his scotch in one long pull. He pulls out his phone, thumbs something. Maybe a text, maybe a tweet, maybe a spreadsheet promising rebound and market share.
He laughs once; sharp, joyless. Half threat, half prayer.
From behind the bar, the bartender eyes him. Says nothing. Wipes down a spot that doesn’t need wiping. The neon buzz intensifies. One of the bulbs flickers, dies.
A truck engine outside sputters, turns over. Headlights sweep through the window and cast long, distorted shadows of antlers mounted on the wall. BIG WADER leans back. Alone now. The booth across from him empty. Still warm.
Fade to black.
Time Capsule
Some Like ‘Em Wet
Vogues of fly fishing come and go. Used to be that a swung wet fly was a sure way to break a slump. Sadly, most people don’t even know how to fish a wet fly today, and classic patterns like the ones pictured below are fading into oblivion.
Challenge: Go into your local fly shop and see if they have any of these patterns, or any wet flies for sale at all. I’d be surprised if they did.
Challenge #2: Go tie some up and fish ‘em. You might be surprised at what you find. Need a primer? Start here.
The Agony of Success
In his first book, Fly-Fishing the High Country, John Gierach wrote that the best anglers “try not to make the same mistakes over and over again; instead, they strive to make new and interesting mistakes and to remember what they learned from them."
As anglers, failure takes many shapes. It can be small, like a bad knot that fails when you need it most. It can be technical, like a sloppy cast that spooks your quarry.
Failure can plague a much anticipated trip and make all your planning seem pointless. It can drive you mad when they start rising and not a single fly in your box will solicit a strike.
Failure is the refusal, the ‘good fish’ that comes unbuttoned at the net.
Failure is the one that got away.
Fishing is a purposeful act. We go to catch fish. We can dress it up however we want — beautiful places, friendship, time for reflection — but even the most enlightened among us know that all the beauty in the world can’t match the experience of being tied into a fish. Fishing without catching is just casting, and you can do that in your backyard. Yet I don’t know of another pastime where the odds of success are so stacked against the practitioner.
Growing as an angler means wading through failure and keeping your head up. I call this the Agony of Success, the bitter teeth-cutting process of learning the hard way over and over again until that day where all those lessons fuse and you get it right.
Failure isn’t a four letter word. It’s the catalyst. We’d do well to remember that.