Five Rivers Lodge


	Sitting there with my photographer/fishing buddy, Tom Prettyman, surrounded by a milling herd of fly fishing catalog clones clutching cordura-covered travel rod cases like Marine Corps swagger sticks, the reality hit hard. In the few short years I had been away fly angler numbers had exploded like a blizzard caddis hatch. I once spent long conversations trying to explain that fly fishing was not fishing for flies or fishing with little imitations that hover just over the water, enticing trout to mump for them. Then it was not as common as daily commuting on an LA freeway or choking down killer quantities of fast food. Now I was reduced to just another pollutant particle on what appeared to be a, "Fly Fisher's March on Montana." "Good grief! Why have I returned to this?" I asked Tom. "I'm sure anyone with good sense would ask the same," he smiled. At least my friend was dressed differently, wearing a photographer's vest, but then a guy sat down across from us wearing the same one-and I had another just like it in my luggage. What's happened? In Missoula our chafed knees were mercifully released from two hours of 'many fish in a small can' confinement as we were prodded from the jet into a writhing mass of safari hats and flailing rod cases. Then, miraculously, the confusion cleared and there, standing alone in the maddening crowd like a human oasis, was Jay Burgin. < previous - next >
		Fly Fishing Magazine Printable version here

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