He said he owned a stream. A stream with big trout in it. His plan was to charge a daily rod fee for the opportunity to fish in his stream with big trout in it. That was why he was in the fly shop. To see if we would advertise his stream and the trout. And the associated fee, of course.

I wasn’t authorized to make decisions on which other business ventures we endorsed in the shop. I was a college kid. I folded shirts, spooled up reels, and took people out to the parking lot to ooh and aah at their hero casts. What did and didn’t get pinned up on the bulletin board was above my pay grade.

What I could do, I told him, was show them to my manager when he was in. I’m sure that he had heard this before and saw it for the diversionary tactic that it was. So as I went into no-commitment mode he shifted into hard-sell mode. He asked me to come and check it out. I could fish any day I wanted to, and it would be on him. Then, he said, I could tell everyone about the big trout. Presumably, how the big trout would be worth the daily rod fee.

Promoting his business really wasn’t my decision. I wasn’t taking advantage of him. We were in an urban environment, so a half-hour drive for private fishing piqued my interest. Plus, my time wasn’t particularly valuable. And I wasn’t about turning down big trout. He didn’t seem too murdery, so I said yes.

The next week I headed to his property. Finding it wasn’t easy. It was a pre-GPS age, and things weren’t marked well. Thankfully I had a gazetteer that I was able to cross-reference with printed Mapquest directions and his zealous description of the stream. I found his land. In his zeal, he neglected to mention that it was an active construction site. My little sedan was in danger of falling sideways into the muddy ruts that comprised the whole of his driveway.

The “road” dead-ended at a picnic table. To my left there was a single-wide trailer. Albeit, a nice one. To my right was a muddy ditch. No stream was evident. Before I could get out of the car, he came bounding out of the trailer. I’m sure he meant his “you made it!”  as a welcoming colloquialism. It could have just as easily expressed his surprise that I a) found the place, b) didn’t get stuck in his driveway, or c) actually showed up at his weird construction site/trout stream.

The muddy ditch, it turns out, was the trout stream.

As I rigged up, he told me his plans. A cabin. Creekside fishing huts. A fire pit. Stream improvements. A small self-service fly shop. He rattled off a few hundred thousand dollars worth of plans. There was no mention of sod or grass seed, but I assumed that was somewhere on his list. Everything seemed to be one or two steps into realizing his vision. It was grand – the vision, that is. And then the fish. They were in there, he said. He just had them stocked last week. Thousands of dollars worth of long, fat rainbows, browns, and brookies. They should be in there, even though the rain had washed things out for the past few days.

I looked at the high, muddy water. He looked at the high, muddy water.

I didn’t believe him; I don’t know if he believed himself. But I began to fish. Going five casts without a trophy trout didn’t bother me. His expectations were apparently higher. He apologized. He said he’d stop bothering me. He stood there for another five minutes, silent. Then said he’d stop bothering me again. I reassured him that he wasn’t bothering me. He still said he’d give me space to fish, and went up to his trailer.

Ironically, I hooked up within a few seconds of hearing the door shut behind him. It was an obese rainbow that took a little white streamer. The fish didn’t fight so much as actively sink. I heard a commotion behind me as I quickly played, landed, and released his fish. I turned around to see him standing there, camera in hand, dejected. I unintentionally ruined his photo-op. I’m not above grip and grins, and I’m not above having my likeness used to sell something. I just was unawares of his intentions.

We talked a bit about the fish, the steam, and his plans. He wanted to create an idyllic destination within view of the city skyline. I got the sense that he thought the money would inevitably roll in. I got the sense that he knew he was in over his head. Back then I didn’t have the greatest grasp on the dollars attached to moving earth, permitting new construction, and covering liability for outdoor activities. Still, I perceived that he didn’t quite get it either. He also apologized that there wasn’t a whole lot of fishable water at the moment due to the construction debris, mud, and generally unfishable water.

I’m a Chicago Cubs fan, so I get the concept of “next season.” Building  and figuring things out takes time. Few things in this world are as easy as inserting tab A in slot B. Few things in this world cost what you think they’re going to cost. The problem is that people love fly fishing, and people take notice of the amount of money that goes into fly fishing. Optimistic dreamers assume that those two things are all you need to make money in fly fishing: passion, and the cognizant acknowledgment of half of the ledger. Business startups, even side hustles, need more than gumption and moxie and elbow grease. The tired joke about being a millionaire in fly fishing applies here (to be a millionare you just need to start with two million dollars). This guy was hoping this season was when things would take off and turn around. This venture, which will remain nameless, didn’t have enough capitol, direction, and frankly – fish, to make it another season.

I caught another, smaller rainbow before calling it quits. He watched, but didn’t need any pictures of fourteen-inch trout. It had been a few hours. Traffic was on my mind. I said a genuine thank you. He apologized. It wasn’t necessary, I assured him. He promised I could come  catch a fat trout on a private stream. He delivered, so there was nothing to apologize  for. I did ask if his truck could help if I got stuck backing out of his driveway. Puzzled over my question, he said probably.