Six Fish Limit: Stories From the Far Side of Fly Fishing

PREFACE

ARNOLD GINGRICH, late editor and publisher of Esquire magazine, once observed that fly fishers and symphony orchestra conductors have extra-long lives because they get so much upper-body cardiovascular exercise waving fly rods or batons. Now that I have reached an age that proves the truth of his assertion, I’ve also discovered it has a downside: Long-lived fly fishers eventually reach a point of such decrepitude they can’t fish much anymore, if at all.

Being unable to fish is bad enough, but for someone who writes about fly fishing, as I do, it’s even worse; it means I no longer have a ready source of new nonfiction material. When that happens, there’s only one thing left to do, and that’s start writing fly-fishing fiction. I’ve done that once already in Trout Quintet, a collection of offbeat but mostly upbeat fly-fishing stories. This book, however, is a little different; it’s perhaps a little more offbeat and a little less upbeat, more about some of the things that go on in what I call the far side of fly fishing—things that don’t usually get into books.

Fly fishers, it seems, have always considered themselves an elite group, consigning those who fish by any other means to a hopeless proletariat. There’s some justification for that feeling because fly fishing undoubtedly places greater physical and intellectual demands on its participants than any other type of angling, but that doesn’t necessarily make fly fishers any more pure in heart than the rest of humanity. There are, I regret to say, some professed fly fishers who have forgotten the cautionary advice of Dame Juliana Berners that the sport is not for making or increasing your money, but rather for your physical and spiritual health. Those who ignore this advice often do so because they have succumbed to the temptation to use fly fishing for other reasons, usually personal gain. Others use it for self-aggrandizement, trying to build reputations they couldn’t achieve any other way. Still others start with the most unselfish of motives only to run afoul of the law of unintended consequences. You’ll meet all types in these pages and learn some of the strange, funny, and sometimes tragic things that happen to them. Let me add hurriedly, however, that all these stories are strictly fictional and the characters, places and situations they describe are all figments of my fish-filled imagination.

There. That should keep the lawyers happy.

The first character you’ll meet here, in The Bonefisherman’s Dilemma, is Freddie Woodson, who planned to write a story about his visit to the Sugar Cay Bonefish Resort, sell it to a fly-fishing magazine and use the income to pay some of the trip expenses. But he didn’t count on drinking too much rum, falling asleep in a hot tub, meeting a cute native girl, or losing the only bonefish he managed to hook. Now he’s engaged in an increasingly acrimonious debate with his accountant: Freddie thinks the trip expenses should be deductible from his income tax even though the trip produced no income; his accountant disagrees. Just when a rupture appears inevitable, Freddie comes up with an ingenious but legally questionable way of deriving some income from the trip. Don’t try this on your tax return.

Welcome to the Stub Mountain Fly Shop, the next tale, introduces Vicki Brightman, who just inherited a financially struggling fly shop from her father. Realizing the shop is now her only means of support, she begins a desperate search for ways to rebuild the business, deciding finally that what works for fish—catching them with artificial flies—might just as easily work for fishermen. With that in mind she cooks up a wild scheme that even she thinks is crazy, but in the absence of a better idea she goes ahead with it—and it succeeds beyond her wildest dreams. Just so long as she doesn’t dream about ethics.

This is followed by The Fishlexic, a much shorter story featuring Dr. Timothy Hardhorn, an internationally prominent geneticist who also happens to be a fanatic fly fisher. Having just won a Nobel prize and married a glamorous supermodel, it seems Dr. Hardhorn could hardly desire anything more, but he still dreams of having a son who will grow up to become his lifelong fly-fishing companion. Since he’s a geneticist, it’s only natural that when his wife becomes pregnant Dr. Hardhorn decides to rearrange the embryonic genes to assure his son will grow up to be a fly fisherman. When young Rodney Hardhorn is born, his father’s wish at first appears fulfilled, but as the boy grows older Dr. Hardhorn begins to notice a few things about his son that don’t seem, well, quite normal. Finally he concludes that, thanks to his genetic manipulation, Rodney has an unusual form of dyslexia; he thinks every fish he catches is much larger than it really is.

Genetic manipulation: something you shouldn’t try at home.

Next up is Diary of an Unknown Angler. Here we meet Andrew Royster, a college professor who teaches classes in fly-fishing history and literature and owns a small bookshop specializing in classic fishing books. When he discovers an old diary that appears to hold the solution to one of fly fishing’s greatest mysteries, Royster is more than delighted; he sees a chance to secure his own immortal place in the annals of fly-fishing literature by publishing the discovery, only to learn something he should have known all along—that after history is made and literature is written, it’s very difficult to change either.

The Man in Black Waders started out short but eventually grew into a full-fledged novella. Here you’ll meet Clint Steele, the most famous fly fisher in the world, as seen by an ambitious young reporter assigned to cover Steele’s trial. The famous angler is being sued by Mickey Cutter, a retired teacher and author of a single obscure fishing book, who alleges Steele plagiarized his work. For Steele, the stakes couldn’t be higher—he could lose not only lots of money but also his well-cultivated reputation, his livelihood, perhaps even his chosen way of life. When the jury returns its verdict, Steele does something entirely unexpected that appears to confirm the jury got it right.

The final tale is the whimsical, tongue-in-cheek real story of the first words ever written about fly fishing. Those words—I have heard of a Macedonian way of catching fish and it is this—are attributed to the Roman scribe Claudius Aelianus. But where did he hear them? Well, where else but at a meeting of his local fishing club? OK, so that’s probably not the way it really happened, but who knows? Maybe it was. In any case, the first words ever written about fly fishing also are the last words written in this book.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories. I certainly enjoyed writing them, although I’d rather have been out fishing.

—Steve Raymond

THE BONEFISHERMAN’S DILEMMA

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Sugar Cay trip expenses

March 19

Hi Andi—

Thanks for your email about the business expenses claimed on my income tax return for the trip to Sugar Cay Bonefish Resort. It reminded me why I’m so fortunate to have you as my accountant. I know you’ll check everything thoroughly and I won’t have a thing to worry about with the IRS.

Anyway, the expenses break down this way:

I didn’t claim expenses for the flies I bought for the trip because I might use them again and, unlike some people I know, I never fudge on my taxes! You wouldn’t let me get away with it anyway.

I trust this answers the question in your email. Let me know if you need any further information.

Warmest regards,

Freddie

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Sugar Cay trip expenses

March 26

Dear Andi:

What do you mean I can’t claim the Sugar Cay Bonefish Resort trip as a business expense? As you know, I’m paid to write fishing stories for outdoor magazines. I have to travel to various fishing destinations to gather material, and that costs money. I’m sure you’ve heard the old expression that sometimes it’s necessary to spend money in order to make money; well, that’s how it is with us outdoor writers.

Actually, there are a lot of guys who do this, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t nose that around; the competition is tough enough already. The IRS also might get suspicious if it received too many claims for fishing trips as business expenses.

In my case, however, there’s no doubt the trip to Sugar Cay was a legitimate business expense. There’s no other way I could have gotten material for a story.

I trust this will put your doubts to rest.

Cordially,

Fred

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Sugar Cay trip expenses

March 30

Dear Andrea:

I have your most recent email. In response to your question about where the Sugar Cay bonefish story was published and how much I was paid for it, the answer is that there was no story. The truth is I didn’t catch a single bonefish.

Sometimes things just turn out that way: You travel a long way to fish and either the fish don’t cooperate or the weather is miserable or something else goes wrong. But that’s one of the charms of fishing; you never know what’s going to happen.

I know some outdoor writers who think nothing of making up lurid fish-filled stories even if they don’t catch anything, but I would never do that because I consider it unethical. I’m sure you feel the same way. Nevertheless, the Sugar Cay trip is a legitimate business expense because it was undertaken as part of my work and certainly would have resulted in a story if I had caught any fish.

Sincerely,

Frederick

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Sugar Cay trip expenses

April 4

Dear Ms. Brinker:

Here it is less than two weeks before filing deadline and I can’t believe we’re still quibbling over the expenses for the Sugar Cay trip! Frankly, I doubt the necessity of the request in your last email for a full explanation of why the trip did not result in an income-producing story. I can’t imagine why either you or the IRS needs to know that. It makes me wonder if I made the right decision hiring you as my accountant.

Nevertheless, in the interests of settling this matter in the time remaining before the April 15 filing deadline, I have decided, albeit reluctantly, to comply with your request. Here is a full account of what happened at Sugar Cay:

Monday: After checking in, I met my guide, Nelson, and we headed out on the flats to look for bonefish. Do you have any idea how hard it is to see a bonefish? It’s tough under any circumstances, but on this particular day the wind was blowing, the surface was choppy, and we couldn’t see anything. Nelson is an expert at spotting bonefish, but even he admitted it was impossible. After several hours we gave up.

Tuesday: I woke up with a killer headache and an upset stomach. Possibly it was due to the local water, or maybe the three rum punches (or was it four?) I had before bed. I can’t believe it was the rum punches, though; they were s-o-o-o-o good. Anyway, feeling as wretched as I did, I told Nelson to take the day off.

Wednesday: I got up early, raring to go, then fell asleep in the hot tub. By the time I woke up, Nelson had gone home, so I couldn’t fish. But the day wasn’t wasted; I took a walk into the village and met a cute little native girl named Sallie.

Thursday: Nelson pounded on my door at 5:30 a.m. but before I could say anything Sallie hollered at him to get lost. There was nothing else to do but stay in bed.

However, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the fact that I didn’t claim an expense for the necklace I bought Sallie.

Friday: I met Nelson early in the morning and we headed for the flats. Conditions were perfect. We hadn’t been wading long when Nelson pointed and said, Bonefish, mon, 2 o’clock. I thought my cast was right on target, but the fly disappeared in a big swirl of mud and Nelson told me the fish had spooked. We resumed searching and Nelson spotted several other good-sized bonefish, but they all spooked when I cast. Finally, Nelson said, Dis time, mon, try to lead de fish a little.

The next fish we saw was a real whopper, maybe the biggest bonefish I’ve ever seen. I remembered what Nelson had said and dropped the fly a few feet in front of the fish. Strip, strip! Nelson whispered, then Stop! I stopped. Now strip again! I resumed stripping and felt resistance. The bonefish was on! It ran like its tail was on fire, peeling line off my reel at an unbelievable rate. Boy, was I excited!

Then suddenly the line went slack; the fish was gone. I reeled in and discovered one of my leader knots had failed. I suppose it wasn’t a very good idea to start tying leaders after all those rum punches. Oh, well, live and learn.

We didn’t see any more bonefish after that, so that’s why there was no story. I trust this explanation will satisfy both you and the IRS.

Yours very truly,

Frederick Woodson

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Sugar Cay trip expenses

April 11

Ms. Brinker:

I strongly disagree with your conclusion that in the absence of an income-producing story of the trip, the costs of the Sugar Cay expedition cannot be claimed as a business expense on my income tax return. However, the question is irrelevant because now I can declare some income resulting from the trip.

After reviewing our correspondence relating to this dispute, I decided to submit the whole works to an outdoor magazine for publication. It was accepted and the magazine has just sent me a check for $600.

In the sincere hope that this will get both you and the IRS off my back, I remain

Disgruntledly yours,

Frederick N. Woodson, Esq.

WELCOME TO THE STUB MOUNTAIN FLY SHOP

IT WAS well past 11 p.m. when the last person left, an old, drunk fisherman who bumped into the door frame on his way out. Vicki Brightman sighed with relief as she watched him stagger away. It had been the longest evening of her life.

She’d thought having a wake for her father would be a good idea, a nice party for his fishing and fly-tying friends and customers at the Stub Mountain Fly Shop. She invited everyone to come at 4 p.m., but two hours later she was beginning to think she’d made a huge mistake. The crowd was by far the largest ever to jam into the shop. Nearly all were men; the few women who showed up departed hurriedly after extending brief condolences. By the time the last old fisherman stumbled out the door, they had drained a full keg of beer, offered innumerable slurred toasts to her dad, Curly Brightman, and suffered through what seemed like dozens of maudlin speeches and teary reminiscences.

It had been a helluva party, that was for sure, and Curly probably would have enjoyed it had he been able to attend. But now she was the only person left in the shop, and as she looked around she saw it was a shambles. A lot of beer had been spilled on the floor along with empty paper cups, fractured remains of potato chips, clots of dip, fragments of bread, meatballs, cheese and cold cuts, all mingled in an ugly slush. The smell of spilled beer even overwhelmed the perpetual fly-shop odor of mothballs. Some of the plastic trays filled with flies were covered with breadcrumbs and potato-chip fragments and several dry flies were floating on top of the spilled beer. Vicki suspected at least a few flies had also departed in the pockets of celebrants, along with a couple of bottles of dry-fly dope, packets of feathers, boxes of hooks, and God only knew what else.

And she was left alone to clean it all up.

But that, she decided, could wait until morning. Heaving another deep sigh, she went to the counter, took out a marking pen and made a sign that said, Shop Closed Until Further Notice. She taped the sign to the front door, locked the door, pulled the shades over the windows, then let herself out the back, locked the back door and trudged uphill to the old frame house in the woods behind the shop. It was the house where she had spent all forty-two years of her life with her dad. She could barely remember her mother, who had been taken by cancer when Vicki was only seven years old. Now, with Curly gone, too, it seemed like the house was empty of spirit.

She climbed the steps to her second-floor room, washed her face where several celebrants had planted beery kisses, undressed quickly, pulled on a nightshirt, and tumbled into bed. Exhausted as she was, she expected to fall asleep quickly.

But she didn’t. As had happened so often in the nights since Curly passed away, her mind seized on the frightening realization that she was now sole owner and proprietor of the Stub Mountain Fly Shop, her only means of support. That was the scariest part; she’d known for years the shop’s business was declining. Her father had patiently taught her to tie flies when she was barely into her teens until she got to be at least as good as he was—and he had been very good indeed. Then he asked her to start taking turns behind the counter or helping customers when he was otherwise occupied, and she learned the location of everything in the inventory and mastered the fly-fishing jargon of the shop’s customers.

So it was easy for her to see the business start going downhill.

The shop’s location had once seemed ideal. It stood right next to Route 206, the last stop before the Powder Horn National Forest and its wealth of fly-fishing waters—Glint Lake, the Powder Horn River, Buck River, Te-Hoosh Creek, Misty Lake, and the five fertile lakes of the Stairstep Chain. Anglers headed that way stopped at the shop to buy licenses, and once inside they almost invariably remembered something else they needed—leader material, mosquito repellant, maybe a new fly line, certainly some flies—and all those purchases added to the shop’s bottom line, making it financially healthy for years.

Then the number of drop-in visitors slowly but surely began declining. Partly it was because the state went to an online system for ordering fishing licenses, which meant anglers didn’t have to stop at the Stub Mountain shop to get them anymore. Partly it was because the sons of many of the shop’s old customers stayed home playing video games instead of going fishing with their dads. And much of it was because competing shops marketed their wares aggressively through printed or online catalogs, which meant anglers could conveniently stay at home, order anything they needed, and have it shipped right away.

As Vicki witnessed the shop’s business decline, she tried everything she could think of to help her father keep it afloat. When he started trying to sell