I’m always fascinated by the dynamic of same/different on the stream. One example is how I can be on a mountain trout stream anywhere in Appalachia, and there is going to be some geological similarities. But if my eyes wander up the banks, the foliage will be completely different north and south. Another is a Colorado trout in a feeding lie, watching natural bugs drift overhead may be a cutthroat. But I’m not thinking any species-specific thoughts when I’m casting to it as opposed to a brown exhibiting the same behavior. I’ll be happy catching either, and the experience will only differ a little. But the backdrop of the Rockies is wholly different than the rolling hills of the Mid Atlantic.

To give one more example: hearing a group of older men talk loudly on the streambank when you’re trying to fish can happen anywhere. Having it be in Italian, and on top of my guided trip, was unique to my current situation.

Especially since my guide was part of their boisterous antics. But that was just one more thing in an interesting day fly fishing, stile Italiano.

As the title suggests, this is the third article detailing an interesting cross-cultural angling experience. For maximum enjoyment, I’d read both the first and the second parts.

After leaving me along to fend off a mushroom-hunting octogenarian, my guide returned with a hearty “oh, yes!” and the promise/threat of impending company. His friends were all fly fishermen, and they smoked, drank, and carried on in an embarrassingly stereotypical fashion.

And I just continued to cast and mend, cast and mend.

I’d catch a fish here and there, and he’d hand his cigarette to a buddy to come down and offer to net the fish. One such exchange ended with a botched landing, and the sixteen-inch trout got away.

With incredulity that still baffles me today, he went from jovial to serious and critiqued how I played the fish.

Seriously.

But that appeared to wake him up. He hopped up on the bank, grabbed his smoke, said a few things to his buddies, pointed upstream, and then came back down. “Oh, yes. We’ll get you a big fish now. There will be some downstream where it is wide.”

Regardless of where the blame lay for that lost fish, I was pleased with this newfound vigor for getting me on a fish. Sure, it was going to be a stocked brown. At least the fish had been pretty and numerous. And he really wanted me to get one big trout.

He positioned me upstream of a deep hole, and tied on a thick streamer. With the heavy (traditional?) rod, flipped the fly out and stripped some line out to allow for a deep presentation. Sure enough, I felt a jolt on that first cast.

The fight was on, and it was a good fish. Even for such a broomstick as I was casting, the trout was putting a decent bend in the rod. My guide was giddy, and even got his camera out and began to film.

“Oh yes! Oh yes! Let him run!”

“He’s not really pulling any line, and he’s in the pool still”

“No, give him line – we will get him to jump. And I will film it!”

“I think I can land him up here on this gravel”

“Oh yes, but after a fight. I just need to film the… NO!”

“It got off.”

“What did you do?”

“I gave it line.”

“You let line get loose?”

I can’t remember precisely what I said, but I’m almost positive that he caught that I wasn’t too pleased with his advice for playing this big brown. I reluctantly gave the fish too much slack, and the barbless streamer hook just came out on a headshake or some other maneuver.

Briskly coming up to me, he looked at the leader and fly. The equipment was fine, but I think he was formulating his next move. He clipped off the steamer, and then went from being frustrated right back at me to almost apologetic.

“Oh, yes. It is no good to lose a fish. You see, I want pictures for my website.”

You have got to be kidding me. All of the “let him run!” and “give him line!” was so that I could help shoot marketing materials?

Now I know that you might be thinking that I’m insinuating too much. Or that I was being presumptuous and let some hurt feelings and failed expectations ruin what would otherwise be a fine day of fishing. That I wasn’t giving a man who would take an American tourist fishing at a productive fishery the benefit of the doubt.

Well, what say you:

“Oh, yes. I have plan.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied confidently, missing my dry attempt at something, “I will go get a rod and catch a fish for a good picture!”

There it is. No insinuation. No presumption. Mark the benefit as doubted.

So off he went to get a fly rod. To fish himself, on the trip I paid for. And there I was – and I didn’t even have a fly on my leader.

To be continued… here.