Professional has its moments, but if “Unwashed Bob,” who catches more fish than any human alive, is unbooked, wouldn’t he be equivalent to a smiling courteous staff?

“Professional” is as common as fish on ads for fly fishing outfitters, lodges, casting schools, waders, and accessories. Vendor coffers spew oodles of dollars to show beaming clients, pristine cabins, heroic guides, and crisp linen. Owners insist that their clean cut “professionals” are of different cloth than the hard drinking, eye patch wearing, womanizing brutes that made your last trip an adventure.

Is professional really so, and do we need it?

The foundation of fly fishing lore is some crusty local whose homespun wit and flies makes enormous fish do bad things. His secret is the unique color of the flea bit hound snoring on his porch, who might resent being awakened but doesn’t mind you yanking a handful of dubbing – unless it’s from a sensitive area. 

Miriam Webster defines a professional as, “participating for gain or livelihood in an activity or field of endeavor often engaged in by amateurs.”

That covers the full gamut – from part time guides to full time drunks.

Guides would be the first to complain, as full time guides are superior to part timers, and local full timers are seated next to the Holy Ghost hisself.

Using the same criteria, the little Sri Lankan gal tying Hare’s Ear’s for a dime a day – why isn’t she awash in certificates? She’s a professional, she lacks the free time to become the complete fly tier as we know them, but after tying 47,266 #14’s, I’d include her in any sweeping usage of the term.

Apparently there’s more than one kind of professional, and confusion lies in the small advertisement space, wherein the proprietor doesn’t have the print real estate to explain which kind of professional he’s employing.

If I’m engaging a bush pilot for the last leg to the lodge, I’d prefer the Professional professional, the fellow with a silk scarf that flew P-39’s with Claire Chennault, not the regular kind. If I’m fishing in bear country, serenaded by the roar of Grizzlies, I want the fat and slow professional, the fellow that wheezes after a single flight of stairs. If I’m learning to cast, certification is an aging yellow paper, I’d prefer the medical professional, as we’d both save money on the insurance.

Accommodations are professional, I want an empty ashtray, clean linen, and the professional steak; most steaks were actually cows, so they can’t be professional, I’m willing to take my chances with the stem cell variant.

… and for all else, I want them hard drinking homespun fellows from down the street. They ogled my daughter, swear at me for mistakes, and serve bologna for lunch – but the pictures I show the office won’t have any of that – just a lot of slab sided, dripping fish with me “making heroic” in the background.

Real professionals wear ties. They dress up to fish, invented the fly you’re using, and can add 60 feet to your cast just by uncrating the crystal dinnerware.