I’ve always keenly followed angling in Europe as a portent of what we can expect. Our brethren “across the pond” have had an extra thousand years to civilize their landscape, and many of their practices and restrictions are headed our way … with time.

Fascinating to me is the concept of named fish – and how carp anglers will flock to a certain impoundment knowing that “Old Breadcrust” – when last caught weighed 87 pounds, has packed on a few kilograms more.

Many years ago, one of the fellows I fished with had names for specific fish in a specific run he’d fish nightly. Hearing the score card was a little creepy, ” I caught Alan and Chad, foul hooked Bob in the arse with a Little Yellow Stone, right after breaking off George.”

A voice from one of the other cars in the darkened parking lot, “Oh, you finally broke it off with George?”

Me, I peel waders innocently counting on darkness to hide my grin.

I’ve named quite a few fish in the dirt water – most because of distinguishing characteristics; unnatural lust for a certain fly, missing body parts, or something similar – but mostly I’ve always thought of the practice as reason to fish somewheres else.

“Legendary” fish gives an interesting slant – provided the names are appropriately evil, desperate, or vicious. “I busted a cap in TinkerBelle’s ass.” – could lead to another darkened parking lot exchange – or tears streaming down the face of a child, and both should be avoided.

It certainly makes explaining “catch & release” easy, how the fish gets bigger if he’s allowed to live. Perhaps we’ll get to stop preaching and spend more time practicing that concept.

As we migrate to private impoundments and association-owned stillwater, it’ll offer the proprietor a steady source of revenue – as care and maintenance should influence growth, thereby making his fish notorious and worthy of a multiple hour drive.

When the world record dies of old age, we’ll get dozens of “Loch Ness” sightings; pre-dawn monsters seen by the red rimmed eyes of grizzled locals – hushed whispers in the parking lot over cold thermos coffee, while the distraught dogwalker asks had we seen Fluffy…

“Hey Bob, bet ‘Old Razorblade’ is burping up a dog collar …”

As always there’ll be some uniquely American slant to the affair so we can claim we invented it, my bet is we’ll eschew the “boilie” concept in favor of the single, artificial …

… Deep Fried Twinkie.