There should be little doubt as to the finest trout stream. It flows through paper birches and fern; through lodgepole pines and sagebrush; through the sounds of the drumming grouse and smells of a tamarack swamp. You drive there after work; you fly there every summer. It is where you caught your first trout, it’s where your children will catch theirs. It is your stream, and it’s the best trout stream in America.
When it comes to cults, fly fishing isn’t much different than most. Simply put, this means that enough is never enough. With luck you can reach a pleasant level of mellow fanaticism and maybe even hold down a regular job at the plant. But there is a trout bum that lurks in every one of us and I think we all secretly know that a sparse little lean-to under the bridge, say on Henry’s Fork of the Snake River, is never more than a cast away.
I told a lie the other day. I said that I’d caught a “bunch” of trout. What I should have said is that I caught a little trout that I named Bunch. There, I’ve confessed and now I feel much better.