Most have participated in similar rites of passage, wherein a casual watercooler conversation makes an impression, and now one or more of your coworkers really-truly wants to go …

… which always takes you aback, given that you didn’t expect your recital of heroics would appeal to the metrosexuals listening, and what was an idle conversation has now become a huge liability. Largely due to your story that picked the venue and set the itinerary, and the balance being all the hot air you laid on so thickly when you guaranteed everyone enormous and hungry fish …

Worse is Poppa’s sage warning echoing in your ears,  “… one guy is a fishing trip, two guys is half, and three is no fishing trip at all …” – and instinctively for the workplace crowd that goes double.

A short time later you’re engaged in a work related issue when a questionnaire lands in your Inbox …

On a scale of 1 to 7 with 7 being the highest, you need to rate the following requirements for a 3 night fishing trip:

1. Catching an adequate number of fish which I peg at 6 or 7 per day –

Response

fish·ing

1. the act of catching fish.

2. the technique, occupation, or diversion of catching fish.

3. a place or facility for catching fish.

I would have to bow to the dictionary and make this a Seven. If we equate what you do in sexual terms, we’d have to describe it as, “traveling great distances to escape responsibilities and family, to play with ourselves and get muddy.”

“Fishing” as defined by the rest of us, is the heroic deeds associated with dominating a watershed, extincting anything tasty or large, and giving the balance a sore ass.

       2. Opportunity to catch a trophy trout ( 17 – 20 inches) –

I would have to give this a Seven. If I wanted something other than the largest fish equipped with the biggest teeth, I’d go to a pet store and torture goldfish.

1. Scenery (Lake Manzanita and Yosemite are nice places with Gunfire Lake not offering much scenic beauty)

Again with the Seven. I want a stunning postcard-worthy vista, so I can scorch most of it with a campfire, and tear the rest out freeing my flies from tree limbs.

1. Number of &%#%(  people fishing in my personnel space. –

ONE. I don’t feel obligated to share anything with the Human Race, despite their attempts to share empty beer cans, water bottles, used diapers, and discarded condoms, with me. None of those make a campsite homey, nor add to the woodsy ambience I seek.

5.      Available showers –

ONE. Only pussies and rich boys shower. In fact, you can’t appreciate the woods without smelling like armpit and wood smoke.

6.      Clean bathrooms –

ONE. Do Bears S*it in the woods? If so, you should be thrilled at the sight of a discarded Doritos bag and a handful of Poison Oak. Only Pussies s*it in toilets. Toilets were invented so that dumb SOB’s wouldn’t get any on their feet, are you a dumb SOB?

7.      Fees to access private lakes –

ONE. If I wanted to pay fees I would shop Safeway. You are not a PREDATOR is someone s*its fish into the mud, so you can snag them. That type of fishing is for guys that need showers and flush toilets, not us lean and hard Outdoorsmen …

8.      Float Tube opportunities –

ONE. Float tubes are for Pussies. If God wanted you to float about a beautiful lake while finning comfortably from a sofa, he would have made you a discarded water bottle.

9.      Driving Distance In time from Woodland / Davis….3 hours is reasonable with 6 hours out of the question –

ONE. Distance from Woodland or Davis is not the issue, distance from the closest beer is what matters..

10.     Dry fly-fishing options –

ONE. Dry Fly Fishing is merely an excuse for you to borrow flies from me and never pay me back …

11.     Rock hopping small creeks –

Seven. If you outfish me – I can chase you upstream and throw rocks at you..

12.     Lodging facilities (camping or hotel) –

ONE and SEVEN. Occasionally I like to s*it too.

13.     Meals…I don’t enjoy eating beef jerky for lunch and dinner –

ONE. What we’ve eaten in the past isn’t a meal so much as a room temperature abomination. Meals (in the woods) come from “greasy spoons” on cracked plates carried by gum chewing high school girls adorned with a poorly disguised scowl reserved for Old Dudes or their Dad.

14.     New destinations –

SEVEN. You outfished me at all them other places, let’s go somewhere I can catch something..

15.     Native fish and not recently planted by the D&FG truck –

ONE. Remember the excuse we rehearsed on our return? How “…it don’t’ matter we got skunked, just getting out is what’s important …”

(Hopefully that hygiene thing will scare ‘em ..)

As I grow older I find it easy to identify with the Sith Lord, versus the insufferably righteous and preachy Jedi crowd.

For us fly fishermen the lure of the Dark Side seems more appropriate given how close the downward spiral that is fly fishing, mirrors that of intravenous drug addiction.

The eventual homelessness resulting from too much fishing differs from other forms of dissipation only because the fishermen can boast of better dental hygiene, his dilution of conscious mind and productive spirit being quicker than a frontal lobe dipped in opiates.

Both share the same dingy blanket, the same zip code, the same fortress of cardboard ensconced in some darkened alley, only in the depths of their depravity is real distinction possible; one unfortunate sold his parent’s car because he needed to score drugs,  the other stole his roommate’s Sage because he simply wanted it – and both crossed bridges never taken lightly.

Itemizing decades of self-destructive behavior and the eventual chilly, “stone-pillow” finale to some fresh-faced Jedi hopeful can never aid a Dark Lord in his quest for fly fishing converts. These details are best revealed after taking a fisherman’s measure, ensuring your plebe has the courage and fortitude to finish his training …

When they inquire as to whether conversion to the Righteous Path will hurt much, I omit the sobbing spouse, hungry children, and bounced checks, rather I’ll focus on their resolve in spin, bait, or fly terms, using the same time honored milestones used on me …

Like knowledge of the Outdoors version of the Prime Directive, Do you eat what you catch?

This is an easy question for a true sportsman. A floating softball that can be smacked clear of any fence, or whiffed so badly as to bring a rush of blood to the cheek. There are hundreds of possible answers, yet there is only a single correct one:

The Prime Directive:

If by act or deed I am successful with rod, gun or steel-belted radial, and my quarry lies bleeding and lifeless at my feet, or is hemorrhaging and not long for this mortal coil, I will dispatch it in all haste, and endure the consumption of its flesh … with wrinkled nose, and with as much ketchup as is possible.

While other answers exist, involving lofty ambitions like catch and release, respect and care for an adversary, and serenading with harp music, the ugly truth is that at some point the hook is so large or so deep that we’ve kilt our foe, even if it was an accident.

With special regulations and “no kill” zones, obeying the Prime Directive is made more difficult, but in the recitation of his answer a special gleam enters the eye of the fish-hating-plebe, as he recognizes a crack in an Immutable Law of the Outdoors, and will make haste to exploit it.

Like a World Series of Poker player, a Sith Lord notes these “tells” and is unmoved.

Loopholes are for the 1% to covet at tax time, or for lawyers who make their living unearthing them, not for the sporting fraternity in their element, where only the Prime Directive and an unopened Twinkie truly matter …

If a spin, plug, bait, or fly angler insists, “… the only fish that passes my lips are Gorton’s or Filet O’ Fish ..” – then you know this acolyte unworthy, his training to end in the pyrotechnics of Force-based petulance.

For those that pass the Prime Directive, the last great hurdle is calling the fisherman on his bluff. Does the thought of an opened jar of Powerbait baking in the airless interior of their car sends them careening about in an “ew-Ew-EW” dance?

Each area of the country likely has its own  odiferous, disgusting, or life-threatening  bait, used to distinguish real fishermen from wannabe’s. In my youth, and for the Greater Bay Area saltwater crowd, that would be provoking an angry Pile Worm …

… Pile Worm, able to sever a man’s finger in a single bite, possessed of thousands of cold, slimy feet, capable of strangling unwary beach combers in a many-footed embrace of constriction,  or so we thought.

They were the Miracle Bait, the Super Expensive Bait, only slightly better than their evil cousin the Blood Worm, which sent us young anglers screaming in fear, as unlike the Pile Worm, it had two sets of razors sharp talons …

Any fellow contemplating learning to fly fish shouldn’t break rank at the prospect of steel hooks entering extremities either under power or uninvited. Nor should he wince at the thought of the thousands of slimy feet in his waders should he lose his footing and ship some inboard, or whether ten fingers are better than nine …

… and why all this suddenly matters is my promise to escort a noob into the brown water Friday, and his insistence that a set of borrowed fly tackle is no problem due to the Force being strong within him.

An earlier interview failed him spectacularly on both the Prime Directive and the Pile Worm test.

… so I’m prepared for another episode of blisters, tears, and force based petulance, meaning I should carry a couple six packs of Go Girl and additional Twinkies …

… I just hope this time I don’t have to carry him back to the parking area like the last guy.

“ I know it smells bad, Luke – but you’ll still need to cover your face with it so the fish don’t see you.” – Darth teaches his son to fish …

We ignore charities only because our readership doesn’t know the first thing about the social graces, joining the Human Race only long enough to cash the occasional paycheck.

It’s not that we’re some form of hideous beast, merely we spend our weekends with lost causes. If it’s not the fish then it’s the watershed suffering, and while we’d adore curing cancer we know all the fly fishing traffic in the world would stand around expecting the other fellow to pay. Most blew their check on new graphite, what’s left of that paycheck can’t find each other in the same pants pocket.

Which is why most social niceties are reserved for outside the Intertubes. I get to keep the pages free of orphans, puppies, and lost causes, while donating a sawbuck or some time at work.

Instead, I’ll focus on baked goods, as any charity worth its salt knows it can pry dead presidents easily once a mug of coffee begins to look lonesome on the desk, and the rumor spreads of sugar in the break room, where Lemon Bars sleep at night – and cupcake frosting is fingerprint free.

… what they don’t know is that my preference for the rare, “Antarctic Lemon” is not because of their enhanced flavor, rather its the only plausible explanation on why my Lemon Bars show a faint tinge of Blue Dun.

I was tired and thought the pot on the stove was the Lemon filling.