Dan Parson 
My clients were two old friends. Buddies since college, they had lived in the same city for more than 30 years. From the constant stream of inside jokes and semi-raunchy stories it was clear they had shared a lot of life
The little discoveries and successes made on each outing were magical, and my young mind suspected there could be order in the chaos of this underwater world if I only looked for it hard enough, not unlike like the famous scientists I idolized.
What are we to do? Stand in line like we were at an amusement park and wait for a hole to open up?
On the 90-minute drive home we talked the whole way. Fishing, college plans, girls, next hunting season, video games. We never even turned on the radio.
It has recently become clear I am dangerously close to the “Old Curmudgeon” stage of life.
It was dark when we met, and cold. Lee and Shane were already in waders, clouds of breath fogging their glasses, bundled up in layers hoping to keep the frigid temperature from seeping in.
As I have thought back on past outings I find myself thinking about the advice most commonly offered to clients, and perhaps this is an indication these are all things we could use a friendly reminder on.
“Rocky Mountain Bone Fish”, “Ghost Trout”, “Smokies”. They shit in your boat, slime up your hands, smell funky and destroy good flies; Yet I must admit I love whitefish.
I get to meet interesting new people every day, float down a river I love, share my knowledge and passion of the sport with others, and see beautiful stuff like otters and sun rises and crap. But there are down sides to it as well. It’s work.
Here are my “7 deadly sins of fly fishing in general.” Don’t take this to seriously folks (see #3).
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