It was ten o'clock in the morning on what looked to be a gorgeous day--a few puffy clouds, sixty degrees, no wind. There was little traffic, even for a lazy Saturday morning and, being on my way home from the Post Office, I was in no particular hurry.

Up ahead a kid pedaled a bicycle and I slowed even more. There was something about the way that kid rode, as if time and politics, or whether the breakup of Microsoft would save Netscape meant nothing to him as he pumped barely enough to keep his machine upright, wobbling a little as a slow-moving bicycle must.

There was no danger here; the highway is wide, a four-lane concrete ribbon through the small town. Curbs and sidewalks flanked both sides of the road and the kid rode far to the right, snuggled out of danger. Still, I checked my rear-view mirror and swung into the left lane, leaving a good fifteen feet between my fender and his elbow, eyeing the kid as I passed.

He wore no cap and straw-colored hair hung over his ears; some waved to the birds above, probably from a cowlick over his shirt collar. The sleeves on that flannel shirt were rolled to the muscles. Faded blue jeans were worn, but clean, and once-white sneakers looked as though they'd seen many a scuffle on courthouse lawns.

What caught my eye, however, was the break-down two piece fishing rod laid across the bicycle's handlebars. There was a spinning reel latched into place and monofilament line glistened from the eyelets.

A quarter-mile beyond the boy and bicycle and fishing rod, I crossed a highway bridge spanning a big river where cutthroat trout and whitefish and bull trout are known to run at certain times of the year. The boy was, of course, heading for this river and those fish. He could hardly have picked a better time, a better day, or a better place.

I pondered on that boy--was still thinking of him as I drove into my driveway ten minutes later. You reckon society need trouble itself about that kid?

Somehow don't you reckon a kid carrying a fishing pole and lazily pedaling a bicycle out of town on a sunny summer morning says something good about kids in general and America in particular? You reckon the D.A.R.E. program needs to trouble itself about kids who ride bicycles to fishing holes as much as the ones hanging around street corners late at night?

My wife Jane is tuned to the far-off stares and goofy grins of her sometimes trying husband, so she asked what I was smirking about when I handed her the mail.

"America," I replied, sprawling into a kitchen chair. "I've just seen it. What I'm talking about is every bit as much about America as firecrackers popping and flags snapping in the breeze. It's about God and motherhood and apple pie all wrapped up in a fishing pole lying across a kid's bicycle handlebars."

She poured a couple of cups of coffee, then laid the back of her hand upon my forehead. "Is going after the mail becoming too strenuous for you dear?"

 

THE GREAT PISCATORIAL DEBATE

 

Ah, enlightenment. 'Tis a grand and noble thing / one side has it, the other yet to bring / to all and sundry tables the sport of many kings.

What we're talking about here, friends, is the long and rancorous debate over whether to fish hand-tied flies for trout, or drown worms in pursuit of various types of low-bred, slimy, piscatorial creatures inhabiting warm-water stock ponds and algae-filled, slow-moving streams. Here's my analysis:

The truth is, the "ayes" have it. Spoken with certainty and forcefulness and aplomb, one cannot but be persuaded of its verity. Unfortunately both poles in the debate "aye" their own positions and condemn the other's. Thus to be persuaded, the ordinary recreational down-the-street angler is certain to also wind up confused. Further confounding the issue is that both sides seem composed of adherents that are entirely fluid in their passions. Worm-drowners routinely turn dry-fly enthusiasts on a daily basis and flyfishing purists reject their religion surreptitiously in order to eat a catch of walleye while hiding in their homes.

More careful examination is needed. let us begin with the average, run-of-the-mill flyfisherman. . . .

Okay, that concluded, let us move on to the worm-drowner.

What's that you say? What about the average, run-of-the-mill flyfisherman? We already covered the subject--there are none. Fly anglers, by definition, are elitists. They wear button-down shirts and shift stocks and bonds during lunch hours. They shop at Abercombie & Fitch and sneer at Cabella's. Pounds of fish versus dollars or time spent, or love of family, or Lord's Day worship is of no consideration to them. Their resumes include memberships in exclusive fishing lodges in pristine locations. They consider access to uncle Willy's farm pond beneath them.

Fly angling fraternities include Presidents and industrialists. Journalists write beautiful things about them and their art.

Fly anglers abjure standing shoulder-to-shoulder with commoners who cast, preferring nobility in piscatorial pursuit to indelicacy in worm-ology. If by chance the dry-fly guy snags a trout of low intelligence, he'll eviscerate the poor creature's stomach and analyze the contents to see what type of caddis might be hatching at the moment. And often, the elitist of the elite will tie a pattern then and there, and happily float the concoction all day, secure in the knowledge he is somehow uplifted and favored of God, whether he catches another fish.

And he'll stop at the fish market on his way home and buy a mess of the catch of day, and cook them in his basement and eat them in his closet. Or he'll lose his religion all together and go catfishing with Jim Bob on Lake Okeechobee.

The reason purified anglers use dry flies is not because the sport is uplifing or because trout are acrobatic, or because of skill demonstrated by the angler. The sole reason the angler is there at that moment is because trout occupy the highest quality habitat and anglers of breeding and refinement like to seek out just such kinds of places to get their heads screwed on straight.

Trust me--I'm right about this.

Worm-drowners? Patience, I'll get to 'em someday

Maybe.

 

Next week? A walk on the wild side.

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