There are a lot of tense moments on the stream. Seeing a trout rise, and hoping that it – like most trout – didn’t see you the moment after you saw it. Making a bad cast to a spot you know holds a fish, and gritting your teeth knowing you screwed up. Hearing crunching in the underbrush that sounds very un-squirrel-like behind you in the backcountry. But none of that compares to the utter anxiety that accompanies those moments on the approach to the pull-off for your favorite spot. Will there be a car there? Will there be, heaven forbid, two cars there?
You begin to assume the worst, and then begin to rationalize: Maybe it is a scout troop cleaning the roadside. It could just be some teenagers making out. Hey, I’d be content in skirting some shady drug deal. As long as nobody has fished through my holes.
In fly fishing, there is real community. The fly shop is a social hub. The bar at the lodge is filled with kindred spirits. Message boards are generally pleasant, if not just a bit guarded with the information that you really want. But notice that all of these places are not on the steam. No one can catch my fish whilst leaning on the counter of the local bait and tackle. No one is going to spook my trout by asking questions about chest packs online.
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