It’s one of those conveniences we forget in our rush to make the plane. Months of careful planning, itinerary, careful scrimping to get just the right package for a once in a lifetime fishing adventure…

… and the post-trip bill arrives from your cell phone company to the tune of $24,000?

I suppose that password feature that was never set would have saved the day, and us fellows prone to “butt dialing” enable that lifesaver at the first opportunity.

The “911” operators in my area have an APB out for both “Gluteus” and “Maximus,” – and if I get in a wreck I think I’ll opt to bleed to death.

As this Canadian fellow discovered, Ma Bell is less than sympathetic when a cell phone is lost or stolen. It’s just one more thing to consider in addition to avoiding the water.

I’ve got my share of adventurous and proximity to either coast gives exposure to the cuisine of many continents. I’ve happily crunched my way to obesity via chicken feet, raw fish, gelatinous stuff I can’t pronounce, dead stuff that I’d as soon forget, odiferous stuff that I can’t, and McDonalds – which extrudes lips, beaks, jowls, and gonads, through dye and onto little molds that resemble fish and chicken.

… well, after they breaded it and added sugar …

I never have developed a shine to fish eggs, likely because they’re bait. I don’t care what the price per gram is – a couple of decades filching Pautske’s and Balls O’ Fire out of a jug, builds .. associations.

Like the time you thought the goo in the bottom might be Strawberry flavored.

… by the time I finished spitting, I was a dry fly purist.

All of us have a pet gear peeve, hoping someday that space science, nanotechnology, or pixie dust will fix that silly component that’s plagued us for years.

For me it’s the venerable fly box, and despite metal springs, gimbaled doors, foam, clips, slots, fleece lined, or adjustable compartments, none of the boxes will hold what I need held. Extravagance isn’t limited to the rod making front, as I’d be the first to buy a brace of $700 fly boxes, knowing I was finally delivered from polystyrene hell.

Dyneema is one of many recent advances in ordinary fly fishing sundries. There’s still a problem or two with fast moving fish and traumatic amputation of fingers, but once the cost drops we’ll be discarding thick Dacron and piling on yards of braided razor blade.

I’ve never been accused of being a Luddite, but lately it seems like all revolutionary changes in fly tackle hurt like a sumbitch.

No? Attach your weight forward Sharkskin to a motorcycle – and after you finish blowing on your fingers to cool them, examine your fingerprints …

Scientists have discovered how to make a spider’s silk gland – and while you wonder how that pertains to our death wish,  they’ve added metal to the silk to make extremely strong fibers for surgery.

We’ll be blessed with 7X backing rated at 450 lbs, and fly tying thread that a beginner can wield to turn a 3/0 stainless hook into a knot. Both will cost a fortune, but we’ll send the kids to a year of undergraduate studies at the University of Burger King, and divert the freed cash to ourselves.

Finger guards will be replaced by chain mail gloves, prosthetics will be the darling stocks of Wall Street, and we’ll witness the demise of both wet fly and the married Salmon wing. Bass bugs will be made from closed cell foam, and the Elk Hair Caddis joins a long list of flies that can only be tied with the “old” stuff…

Tiny diameter will allow the silk to sever rather than bind materials, and mallard wings and spun deer hair will be exclusive to the diminishing stocks of “old school” – hoarded by white haired, vengeful geezers like myself.

My recollection is we’ve had issues with technology in the past. Prick your fingers with a handful of urine burned fox and it’s gangrene with a tetanus chaser, and Picric acid has killed or maimed untold hundreds of unwary fly tiers who swooned over the stunning yellow it created.

Just mention “chemically sharpened” and “sock feet” to a fly tyer and watch their face drain of color. Forged was bad enough, now the debris field under the desk is fatal.

With only hair-trigger reflexes keeping limbs intact, is fly fishing “a young man’s game” – and it’s technology that puts us aging starlets out to pasture?

“Media Day” featured an irresistible seminar on angling photojournalism and I couldn’t resist, as feeble photography and halting punctuation are two of many growth areas for me.

I’m scrubbed and coifed, sitting in the front row listening attentively to some eye-opening subject matter; which pastels clash best with bankside foliage, pink is the new green, and how judicious use of mouth to mouth can sustain a salmonid until the lighting is perfect.

Periodically, I’d raise my hand and ask about composition, post shot doctoring, preferred software to stretch a fish yet preserve aspect ratio, and why we reserve “Grip & Grin” for traditional fish, and the counter cultural “rifle” pose for anything else.

I got answers, and they were meaningful to my “toy” camera – chosen by waterproof versus optics, and I remained riveted by the discussion on f-stop and SLR focal planes. I caught up with the speaker at break to discuss composition, the subtle play of light and dark – and how the subject can be juxtaposed with it’s surroundings to convey meaning.

… all the really cool artsy stuff.

Prior to learning lighting, staging, and message, I would’ve simply snapped the pretty flowers and mentioned how nice it was to spy a hint of color on the landscape.

Now that I’ve learned the nuance of the cover shot, how to mix overtones with the piscatorial pinup, a vast new world has opened up.

Instead of editing the picture as before, I prefer the Grip and Grin pose to all else:

… and while the “Professor” was clueless, I’ve an inkling why Brownliners prefer the “rifle” pose …

Pop would see the gear lined up by the back door and hear us revert to “sporting speak”, clipped sentences punctuated by, “you bringing the …” and “did you remember…” and he’d gaze out the window, gauging the rainfall and comment to no one in particular, ” .. another goddamn fishless fishing trip.”

Naturally we were incensed, I’d retort with, “fish are always wet!” and older bro would mumble something unintelligible – as older brother’s are want to do, letting me bear the brunt of Wisdom’s cool gaze.

Pop was almost always right. Sometimes we’d catch fish and other times we’d catch cold, but we always sniffled defiantly while Ma spooned us Chicken soup.

Somehow we all learned what Pop knew; for some it was early, for others it was much later (if ever). One day it was us gauging the water spilling off the roof and we reached for the TV remote rather than the rod…

SMJ and I were headed North for the Season Opener, with the above weather forecast as backdrop.

Hardened Californio’s scoff at inclement weather, insist on camping outdoors versus moteling it, prefer “wife beater’s” imbued with wood smoke and mayonnaise – versus water resistant Poly-anything …

… at least we did in our 20’s, now that we’re nearing the Half Century mark – I’m not so sure old guys aren’t like a couple after their first spat, both poised over the phone refusing to be the one that wimps calls first.

Our womenfolk have witnessed this male ritual too many times to be fooled, yet endure our manly posturing like Pop did:

“It’s going to be snowing all three days, you guys are nuts!”

“Yea, it’s no problem, I’ll pack an extra tee shirt, unless Meathead wimps.”

She’s out of earshot usually, scribbling “Chicken broth” next to “NyQuil” on the shopping list, so’s when Dan’l Boone returns she’ll have all the proper restoratives close to hand.

I’m sure SMJ’s jaw was set like iron as he leaned over the phone expectantly, so I sent an email instead. Wisdom intrudes occasionally and like my Pop I’ve begun to recognize the crucial underpinnings of fishless.