Flat Tire On His Inner Journey
I can only see him from the back. He’s little more than a shadow silhouette against a backdrop of falls rising three stories or so, but standing there with his fly rod poised and an invisible line preparing to deliver a fly into one of the pools that engulfed his waders nearly to his waist, I know he’s a fraud. First, he’s no more than thirty feet from my vantage point on the highway, and his LandRoverTM, faithful lapdog to the rich and famous, stands at the ready, waiting to whisk him away should he suddenly tire of the exercise. Second, he’s fishing in a spot accessible by anyone at any time. Had I driven by here earlier in the day, there is little doubt that I’d have witnessed a bait fisherman sitting on the bank watching his pole and drinking a beer—with the same lack of success, given the fact that the trout have finished their spawn and moved out of the river into the adjoining reservoir where they’d spend the winter. Third, and most important, his casting technique is amateurish at best, the resultant of too much money and too little dedication. He’s a dabbler… a doctor from Gillette or real estate developer from Casper perhaps, coming out to spend one whole afternoon in the wild, making sure he can be back to The Long Branch before Happy Hour is over, of course. There will be tales to be to be told of daring-do amidst the rapids, of the flash of a fat German brown’s belly gleaming in the fading sunlight, while he buys her yet another Appletini and injects his worldly savoir faire into her giddy misconceptions of him, forcing her to appraise his obvious charm and suitability for mating within the next hour or so.
Meanwhile, I’ll fix their drinks and lament his success, muttering under my breath as I cut limes, collect money for the till and remove dirty glasses, beer bottles and cocktail napkins from the bar. Maybe he’ll smile at me as they depart arm in arm… and, if I’m lucky, he’ll even leave me a buck. I won’t bother telling him who she was with earlier this afternoon.