Fly Shop Man

“Where are you thinking of fishing?”

While Fly Shop Man and my dad chat, I pretend to study the merchandise. Something about Fly Shop Man seems familiar. Maybe the hint of pomposity under his politeness? His close-cropped curls? The way he stands?

I wander down another aisle. Fly Shop Man mentions that he used to guide on my favorite river.

It’s been twenty years, but I know who the man is.

---

I finally caught fish after three days of trying. Pink and silver rainbow trout, golden brown trout. It seemed like I couldn’t cast my line without hooking one. It was every bit as fun as Dad promised it would be.

My line drifted with the current. Suddenly, the fly rod jerked in my hand. Another fish. He raced away, the ziiiinnnnnng of the reel indicating the speed at which that fish pulled the line through the water. Almost before I could blink, the bright yellow line gave way to white.

“Dad? What’s this white stuff?” I called.

Laughs rang out up and down the river.

Dad splashed his way to me. “That’s backing.”

“Is that bad?”

“Think of it like a backup parachute. You don’t want to have to use it, but it’s there when you need it.” He paused. “I think that’s a big damn fish.”

My tired arm agreed. Dad coached me on what to do as I reeled the fish in, then let her swim away. Reel, run. Reel, run. Eventually, I brought the fish in close enough for Dad to scoop her up with his net. Pink and gold and silver scales sparkled when sunlight hit them.

Dad frowned when he tried to remove the hook from the fish’s mouth. Clear fishing line looped around the fish.

“Is she tangled in my line?”

“No. I got your hook out. Looks like she’s tangled in trash.”

I worried while he snipped and clipped. Please don’t let her die.

“Here,” Dad handed the net at me. “That should do it. Keep swishing the net in the water while I get my camera. I’m getting a picture of this.”

Dad snapped a few quick pictures, and I released the fish back into the river. She darted away, a flick of her tail splashing water on my arm.

“She just gave you the fish equivalent of a middle finger,” Dad laughed.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind me. I turned to see a man with close-cropped, curly hair approach.

“I hope you know that you just killed that fish by keeping it out of the water that long,” the man announced.

“I did?”

Dad intervened. “Actually, I think we saved that fish. She had monofiliament coming out of her mouth and, well, other parts. I was able to clean that up before we released her.” Dad turned to me. “Why don’t you go fish some more? She’ll be okay. Remember how strong she was when she swam off?”

I waded back into the river, grateful that my sunglasses hid my tears. Dad said something else to the man, then followed me.

“That man was just pissed because his clients aren’t catching anything. And you, a teenage girl, are out-fishing every man on this river.”

“I’m not giving him the satisfaction of quitting, Dad.”

As Dad waded off, I heard him say, “I should’ve hit the sonofabitch.”

---

I wander back over to my dad.

Fly Shop Man is saying, “That’s technical fishing up there. You have to sneak up on the fish.” He gets down on his knees right in the middle of the store. His right arm goes up as though he’s holding his fly rod aloft; his left arm supports his weight as he crabs forward. “You have to make sure the fish can’t see you approach. When you get just to the edge of the stream, get way down.” He flops on his belly, still waving his arm in the air.

I don’t look at Dad.

Fly Shop Man stands back up, and dusts himself off. “Not many people do it right.”

Somehow, we manage to keep straight faces until after we leave the store.

On the walk to the car, Dad asks, “Was that who I think it was?”

“Yup. Pretty sure.”

“I’m glad you didn’t let him ruin fishing for you.”

“Same,” I agree. “Just think, if he had, we wouldn’t have had the pleasure of watching him belly crawl around the fly shop today!”