Brownliners love all them barbaric male rituals, like football players we pat each other on the bottom after a good fish, like Indians we name each other after some act, deed, or singularity.

Mostly because of the limited membership – no one is willing to remain downwind of us, so we’ve overcome our fear of societal censure, that coupled with our boring cocktail conversation has us on the outs with the balance of the social scene.

Everyone else is too smart to accept an invite to fish with me, so I had to lure an “innocent” to go fishing. One of the lads at work is taking up the sport – and is untainted – at that rarified stage where he has no false idols, many bad habits, and hasn’t developed an inflexible opinion on anything. Fishing is still a source of mystery, and he hasn’t learned that the effluent water is anything other than great sport, better than sitting on the couch watching football.

He’ll learn the horrible sin he’s committed later, right now he’s a blank canvas upon which the Brownline stain is starkly visible.

Meet “Dances With Bushes,” the man who showed me a thousand landscaping tips for 5X tippet, none of which are sanctioned by the vendor.

DWB was a good sport despite the time spent punishing undergrowth, we all did it, some still do it – it reminds me of  sage advice my father gave on the eve of my first fly fishing trip, “Kid, you may want to leave the fly rod at home, you don’t want to learn casting while fishing.”

He was right, and I ignored him, thankfully I didn’t lose an eye – I just lost esteem, and most of the flies I brought with me.

Dance With Bushes landed 5 fish today, then promptly lost his Indian name by going golfing afterwards. Damn golfers – they never understand that if you lose a fly to underbrush you’re penalized a fish..

We’ll see you on the Brownline.

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