The world of fly fishing has come a long way. The tweed and wicker creel, old white guy image represents vintage advertisements more than present reality.
Paul, while white, a guy, and older, never really fit the prototype for the angling catalog model. Truth be told, he had never owned a wicker creel. Two of his three rarely worn sportscoats, however, were indeed tweed. He had always fished his own way. He didn’t buy into the latest and greatest fly rods. He didn’t wear the high-tech clothing. He didn’t need a big SUV or pickup to work; so why would he need one to fish? Living on the stream, he observed that a lot of folks had more stickers on their rear windows than trout in their nets. He was part of the community. But he lived on the rougher outskirts.
So when the young man stood up and questioned the chapter’s conservation initiative, Paul was relatively immune to the oxygen deprivation that hit most in the room. There was an immediate awkwardness that Paul relished. In general, he enjoyed seeing the establishment with a finger in it’s chest. That was part and parcel of being from the rough side of the river. In this particular interest, he was also quite pleased to have a cobelligerent.