Art and the sporting fraternity have an uneasy relationship, usually predicated on a spur of the moment artistic bent, followed closely by the threat of divorce.

There’s nothing sporting-neutrals fear more than a spouse bursting through the door, scanning the living quarters for an appropriate shrine, then nailing some gawd-awful dead thing to a living room wall.

Degas, Gogan, and Van Gogh knew there was no money in immortalizing his Lordship’s catch, so they cashed in on the portrait craze, occasionally painting some fellow bait fishing in the Somme, Seine, or Rhone, but that was pro bono work.

There’s a couple exceptions to the rule; duck decoys come to mind, but only because they depict something living, while the Big Game crowd and fishermen drag bloated carcasses into the living room insisting the lifeless stare of dead animals enhances Puce divans and ancestral china.

A pastoral scene featuring an angler casting flies can pass muster – but it’s unsatisfying as it lacks testimony to our personal skills, which is why the stuff we like hangs in the garage.

I’m thinking there’s a chilling message in all this. It’s unfortunate, but the living critters we’ve spent half a lifetime chasing are prettier alive – which is why the Bible insists Jesu Christo was a fisherman, but lacks a “grip and grin” sketch, no marble saints holding largemouth bass, and little proof other than he could walk on water – a skill only a fishermen would prize.

The DaVinci Code was a work of pure fiction, but is it too much of a stretch that the oppression we face in possessing sporting art might have some secret society at it’s heart?

… and in some dusty vault under the Sistine Chapel, a forgotten trophy might adorn a small alcove – proving John the Baptist was a fly fisherman – and the baptism ritual was developed because both the Tigris and Euphrates were a sumbitch to wade in sandals?

Thin. Really thin.

The whole religion thing has me wading a slippery slope, but after seeing the mosaic unearthed by Buster Wants To Fish might some canny fellow have retouched other relics under the direction of a shadowy splinter society?

Add the good nun, Dame Juliana Berners to the legend of the Holy Grayling – and I’m hearing black sedans in my driv

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.