I’ve always respected fishing guides. I admire their skill, their dedication, and their lifestyle — all the hours they get to spend on rivers and in fly shops talking about trout and tactics. I know the work isn’t easy. A guide needs the patience of a licensed therapist, because not every angler is as well-mannered as the readers of this magazine. Some of those who pay serious money for an outing can be difficult to please. They expect a return on their investment. That doesn’t translate into beautiful scenery or a streamside gourmet lunch, either. It means fish, and they’ll accuse their guide of a multitude of sins if he or she fails to deliver.
Such clients test a guide’s resolve. I imagine it’s hard not to consider some sort of revenge, however slight. One guide I knew, thoroughly frustrated by a bully, led him on a three-mile hike up the side of a mountain to a creek that supposedly held golden trout. All the bully caught was a case of poison oak. Those kind of paybacks are no doubt rare, but there’s no denying that the world of guiding is fraught with various tensions. The best and funniest account can be found in 92 in the Shade, Thomas McGuane’s novel, where embattled guides in the Florida Keys not only vie for business, but engage in violent retribution. They like nothing better than poaching one another’s clients, and the infamous Nichol Dance, who once shot a rival in cold blood, resorts to blowing up the upstart protagonist’s boat to teach him a lesson.
At first I resisted the idea of hiring a guide, partly due to the expense. I might bow to their superior ability and technique, but I couldn’t suppress the desire to tackle a river on my own terms. It’s a character trait, or maybe flaw, I share with many other men, the same tick that prevents us from asking for directions when we’re lost on a back road, driving our wives and girlfriends crazy. The need to bushwhack rather than follow a map dates from the pioneer era, I suspect. We all like to think we’re Natty Bumppo carving a path through the wilderness. To be instructed how and where to hook a trout removes an element of mystery from the process, I believed. You’re also deprived of the ego boost that comes when you finally get it right and land a decent fish. An experience I had on the Fall River cured me of that attitude. It happened by accident, too, while I was fishing Hat Creek and struggling as usual. Along with the miserly Truckee, that stream always gives me fits. In fairly colorful language, I admitted as much to an angler 10 feet away. He looked up and laughed, and we got to talking. He turned out to be an aspiring writer, and when he heard I’d published some books, he asked if I’d read his manuscript. You’d be surprised how often this occurs. Nobody ever introduces himself as a reader. Anyway, I must’ve demurred or made an excuse, but he quickly recouped and sweetened the pot. What if he offered me a morning’s fishing on the Fall in exchange? He owned a pram with an electric motor and did a little guiding on the side. This was years ago, before fly shop pros were on the job, when most guides were freelancers.
I took the bait, of course. The next morning, a bright one in early August, we met at Island Road Bridge, the CalTrout access point. The Fall appeared to be even clearer than Hat Creek, and the water felt much colder, really frigid. An osprey hovered overhead as we launched the pram. We didn’t have to go far before we saw Tricos in great numbers, a cloud of them, all barely visible to my eye. The fly that my guide handed me was just as tiny, tied on a size 22 hook. I’d never fished anything so small. Left to my own devices, I’d have been baffled, but the guide anchored and told me to concentrate on short casts to keep from spooking the trout. Within 10 minutes, I’d picked up a fat wild rainbow. Two more followed before the hatch ended. I wished I could reciprocate, but his manuscript failed to reflect the same sort of talent his angling did. I’ve fished with enough guides by now that I can divide them into two general camps. In the first, you find well-groomed, college-educated, name-brand-outfitted types who carry the latest gear, discuss entomology with aplomb, know their cabernet from their pinot noir, and offer correction in a polite, scholarly way. In other words, they bend over backward not to be critical, while the guides in the second camp openly express their shock at your ineptitude. They’re old school, leaner and meaner, and seldom deviate from their routine. There’s nothing fancy about them. They go in for shopworn flannel shirts and cargo pants. If male, they often need a shave. They’re inclined to favor an occasional glass of whiskey.
I caught my biggest trout ever with the help of just such a harsh taskmaster. That was on the Yakima River, a tributary of the Columbia, in Washington. A Seattle friend had made the arrangements by phone, so we didn’t know what to expect. Our guide looked like a refugee from the pages of Soldier of Fortune, thickly stubbled and chewing on a stogey. Every aspect of his behavior showed a blanket disapproval of us wimps. After a bone-crushing handshake, we set off in his drift boat. He rowed in silence, the cigar never leaving his mouth. I felt as if he were studying my every move, eagerly anticipating my first mistake. The Yakima was no piece of cake, either — a “big Western river,” wide and flat in our section, with very little pocket water and hence tough for a newcomer to read.
We covered the first two miles in silence. It was July, hot and dry. There were some sporadic caddis hatches, but I don’t remember a single rise. In spite of that, we caught and released three or four small rainbows. That seemed to register with the guide. I wouldn’t say he was impressed. We’d just proved to be less amateurish than he feared. At any rate, he began to take an interest. He even began to speak, advising me to cast a Yellow Sally to a slick near the far bank where nothing — or so it appeared to me — was going on. But I was wrong. A 27-inch bruiser hit the fly as soon as it touched the water, and then the fight was on. I played the fish for 20 minutes while the guide maneuvered the boat. If he hadn’t been so expert, I’m sure I’d have lost that trout. He knew the Yakima and its moods so well that he was always in control.
I’ll close by relating the weirdest story about guides I’ve ever heard. The source was Robert M., a friend’s brother, who’d earned a modest fortune by setting up cell phone networks in India. Apparently everyone from Jaipur to Delhi insists on having a cell, and Robert was clever enough to cash in. That brought him to the attention of some industry giants, and they invited him to telecommunications conference in British Columbia. It was held in a lodge on a river, maybe the Fraser or Campbell, and salmon fishing was part of the package. The giants were all extremely wealthy. They spared no expense on the food and drink — thick steaks, bottles of rare Bordeaux, capitalism in extremis. They were also used to getting their own way, and they wanted the salmon to comply.
Some of the giants went out in boats. The less athletic, more well-fed were confined to casting from shore. Robert, though not well-fed, has a bad back that boating aggravates, so he joined them. He was surprised to see so many guides lined up, practically one per angler, although I guess they should properly be called ghillies. The word derives from the Scottish Gaelic for lad or servant. That’s how the ghillies behaved, according to Robert. They didn’t advise or suggest. They served. They waded into the river and herded the salmon toward the giants, then splashed back to effect a hookup. Robert swore he saw one ghillie grab a small salmon by its tail and use his free hand to plant a lure in its lip. He was probably exaggerating, but you get the picture. That’s how the one-percenters go fishing.
