When my friend Tommy told me he’d decided to hire a guide for our next fly-fishing trip, I gave him a hearty slap on the back. “At last,” I said. “Now maybe we’ll actually catch something.”
Tommy and I love to fish, even though we aren’t very good at it. We’ve been casting lines on Oregon’s rivers since the summer we graduated from high school, nearly five years ago. Tommy got lucky once and reeled in a huge steelhead, but he hasn’t caught much since. Neither have I, unless you count the old can I hooked while fishing the Deschutes last year. So I was pretty excited to have an expert along for our next trip.
The morning dawned sunny and mild as we bumped along the river road in Tommy’s truck. “The tackle shop should be just a few miles ahead,” he said. “The guy’s name is Sam. He’s supposed to be their best.”
“Cool.” I pictured a grizzled old dude with a beard, someone who’d spent his whole life on the river.