It was the title that seemed out of place, “Escape to Montana’s Firehole Ranch for a Romantic Fly Fishing Getaway.”

I sat and pondered, scratched my chin and still came up blank – romance and fly fishing just doesn’t fit in the same sentence, I get the same nagging discomfort as if I’d ended a sentence absent a preposition ..

Divorce and fly fishing rolls off the tongue as if made for one another, and while “romance of fly fishing” is lyrical – it’s still unsettling. I just can’t figure how two predators can make nice long enough for a second date.

Naturally I’m thinking of the neo-primitive-archaic flavor taught to us by Mom, who stressed all the old school pointers; hold the barbwire down so she can trespass easily, look attentive when she’s attempting to talk over the roar of the fast water, try to smooth the boot print off the beef jerky before offering her some, and for that special  moment – intertwine arms when lathering on bug repellant.

I’m hoping in-stream romance has been updated since Ma gave me the basics, as I’m at a loss whether to throw an elbow when racing her for the pocket water, and the proper epithet to hurl when she says her fish was this big, and I’m convinced she lying.

Any gal I’d want to date would have a vocabulary of a Longshoreman, would shower almost as often as I did, might get squeamish if a limb was missing, and have the ethics of lukewarm toothpaste – why else would I take them fishing?

Then it hit me …

I, like you, would’ve proposed after she said, “I love fly fishing” – and if she didn’t laugh outright – we’d be newlywed’s – I could throw elbows, call her an outright lying SOB, and toss rocks at fish in front of her.

The theory is sound but the reality could be a profit oriented gamble, the Firehole Ranch might be gearing up for same-sex marriage traffic, and as I’m unfamiliar with their courtship ritual, it could be a cash cow..