It could be tangential, as is being discussed in a round about way, but then again I was out on Big Spring one evening with a friend of mine who had just been made president of a fly fishing club. We were at our cars getting ready to take our rods down when a conservation officer pulled up. It was one of those multiple opening days that they have now in Pennsylvania, and he had come from a day of angling tomfoolery: kids wandering into the run with night crawlers, clandestine snagging and a few fellows who indulged in more alcohol than would seem healthy. Now I will say that a nip or three of nice bourbon over the span of an afternoon, can really enhance a day on the water, but that’s not what our fish cop friend had been dealing with.
So a few words about my buddy. He is a meticulous angler who prefers to start his day with dry flies if he happens to see a single midge in the air, never mind if the water is high and the trout are hunkered on the bottom. When he changes flies, he opens his box and always seems surprised what’s inside, even though he ties his own. He’s very generous, by the way, with his flies, which are flawless, and his advice, which is not. Mainly, though, he’s very prepared. But not on this occasion.
We are standing outside the officer’s truck and we (mostly the fish cop and me) talking about the old days at boiling springs, and especially Ed Koch, who ran the fly shop when I was a kid and had a reputation for being a little on the anti social side. Turns out my new officer friend did some yard work for the old author of Fishing The Midge and recounted a few stories of doing things to provoke the old man. The one that I remember involved the future wildlife officer killing a pretty long snake and putting it in a place where Ed would find it. Ed found it as planned and, by the account explained to me and my friend, the new president of a fly fishing club, hilarity ensued.
My friend and I fully expected to go through the ritual of having our licenses checked, but 45 minutes of dialogue with my friend offering the occasional “I remember that,” and a little nervous laughter, convinced the officer that we hadn’t been using bait and were on the up and up.
It was nearly dark when the conversation ended and we started to break down. My friend, who had an appointment with his wife (a real sweetheart, but far be it from me to wander down a tangential trail), so I didn’t think twice when he put his rod in the car without breaking it down and left still wearing his boots.
Time was on my side so I disassembled and changed into civilian clothes at my leisure.
I was about a mile off the lot when my phone rang, though they really don’t ring anymore so much as chirp or quack or chime, but I wouldn’t want to go into a side part of the tale.
The call was from my friend, which seemed odd since we had spent as much time flapping jaw as casting to trout. And it was reflected in our low to-net totals on the day. I picked up, thinking it was a butt dial. We talked for about 15 minutes, but I’m not one to prolong a story by adding in macguffin side details and such, so it’ll suffice to say my friend wanted to share a laugh because he had forgotten to buy his Pennsylvania license before our trip (the season being new and all).
This explained his uncharacteristic lack of conversational contributions to me and the warden.
So you can call it a tangent when someone tries to make every conversation about the evils of a component of fishery management that causes his tail to get wrapped around an axel, or you can enjoy the repartee and do what you can to steer things in another direction.
Just remember, brother anglers, we are among friends here, so we will be at our best when we try to understand each other’s differences of opinion and recognize that we all want what’s best for the sport, the fishery and the camaraderie made possible by sharing our stories.
