The excited catcalls and snarling gears suggested I’d better hurry if I wanted to watch the kid get stuck.

Rubber is pretty ineffectual when the “Bones of the Old Girl” are exposed – ocher clay, equal parts mud and Vaseline, with a veneer of gravel that lures the aggressive into complacency. Offroad tires and wading boots are equally ineffectual – and only the cautious remain dry.

It’s a female six cylinder Ranger making a “spawning redd” on the far side of the creek, the eight cylinder male is winching her out of the hole, and as I gain the crest – camera in tow, the high pitched squeals of anger and blame hush as the kids point in my direction – then vanish in a roar of mud, snapping timber, and giggles.

Some father is sleeping uneasily, replaying the scene of his darling handing over his SAT scores…

Further upstream I’m peeking through the foliage eyeballing the first smallmouth bass of the season, a pair of large fish cruising carelessly in shallow water. High pitched motor whine terminates in the “whump” of collision – as grape colored “female” and pursuing male crest the dunes upstream like T-55’s crossing the Suez Canal, slip-slide their way through the center of the river sending a rooster tail of mud and crap flying in all directions.

Steam hissing off manifolds they plow upstream and out of view –  and my fish are lost in the roiled ocher mass coming from upstream. 

The Carp Hole is occupied with the ATV subgenus of outdoor youth, and the approach of a portly scowling Brownliner with a couple days of stubble sent them scampering for the far bank.

I watched Carp chase each other around for a couple minutes; full mating ritual so I knew they weren’t hungry. Faced with the prospect of a forced march back – I sat and watched the kids climb aboard and disappear.

A couple of Pikeminnow broke the surface gobbling spinners, so I restrung the rod with 5X and a dry fly and waded in above them. The first couple of casts were ignored, and as I’m pondering something else to try the roar of approaching ATV has me wondering whether to pack it in completely…

It squeals to a stop behind me, and a voice asks, “..excuse me sir, are you fly fishing?”

The “sir” part was uncommon and I turned to see a couple of young fellows, replete with “Tat’s” and piercing’s – American flag emblazoned on one pectoral, possible White Supremacy sign on the other … but the look was sincere and the “sir” thing got me.

“Hell yes,” I says, “mostly I’m walking around looking impressive, but occasionally I throw flies in anger.”

I’d been retrieving a weighted nymph while chatting and a lonely Pikeminnow obliges me by eating it. I land the fish while basking in their apparent awe, and the kid harsh’s my awesomeness with, “you ain’t going to eat that shit are you?”

“Nope.” I let the fish go and back out of the water. The first fellow has a barbell through the lower lip, one eyebrow, and a nostril – and the second is a Texican, proudly wearing their flag engraved on his back.

“Sir, I just bought this fly rod, but haven’t had any lessons – and am learning how to use it, can you show me?”

Norman Rockwell and his ilk suggested it’d be some crewcut child chewing a wheat stalk – some Angel Baby, good grades – sings in the church choir, and as I’m watching the kid rigging his fly rod, I can’t help but smile at the picture.

“I’d be thrilled, unlimber that Beast and I’ll show you how to imbed a hook solidly in your partner there.”

Pierced Boy chimes in quickly, “no way, Dude – that shit hurts!”

Texican is looking at me expectantly with a sample of Big 5 wet flies, ” I bought these, which one should I use?” I crack open my box and hand him a fistful of weighted nymphs and streamers.

“No way!, Dude – you want a beer?”

Respect for elders, appreciation for the outdoors, and the all important iced suds. I spent the next 30 minutes drilling “10 o’clock – 2 o’clock” into the 2010 version of Norman Rockwell, while they hung on every word.

I can imagine the cover of Fly Fisherman in twenty years, and can only hope the Steelhead hides the Swastika.