The water walker is a dry stonefly that is usually made of foam and rubber knotted buggy legs. I once used it with a group of my friends on the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River. We were near Wilson on the Idaho side of the state line, but I remember being consumed by the beauty of the Yellowstone cutthroats that were rising and sipping my water walker. It was truly a beautiful ballet of piscatorial motion to see them rise from the depths of the mighty river and elevate to the bug, and the challenge was not trout setting in excitement before they had sipped.
I ran across a need to revisit my story “Big Baby Christ” and when I saw this fly known as a “water walker” pop up in my social media feed, somehow the Lord was the first thing I thought about. I wanted to tell the story of a person with a savior complex. Of course I am referring to my own complex. I wanted to save the club by “saving the fishing whole.” I read all kinds of theological understandings about Jesus walking on the surface of the water on the Sea of Galilee in front of a bunch of fishermen disciples. I also looked at what religious scholars thought about the nature of miracles in story. Because miracles cannot be scientifically proven they are outside something the historical method can examine. There are so many other things to think about, but I really wanted to dig in and understand this story because I had recently nearly gotten into an altercation inside a Lutheran Church on Rainbow Drive. Looking back on the evening it would have been rather miraculous to have swayed this group about a conservation ethic.
When I walked through the doors of the church the past President of the fly club said, “I don’t appreciate what you said about my church.” In my last substack about the E.O. Wilson club I had cited “church differences of belief.” I did not mean that I truly had theological problems with this denomination of the church. I meant I was pissed that there were philosophical differences I had with the other board members about the bylaws and the designation of conservation as a purpose of the club. I told him that “I think you may have misinterpreted that.” He surely took me for an arrogant prick.
When I arrived at the Rainbow Fly Fishing Club on Thursday evening there was considerable tension in the air. Apparently, one of the board members was a language arts teacher before she retired, and for her, the words in this sub stack had somehow offended her sensibilities. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. We had a terrific meeting but it felt as though the room was against me. At least some in the room were against me. I had brought the speaker and several guests to hear Hank Hershey discuss sporting art. Then I made the mistake of mentioning the bylaws because I hoped to tell the room where I stood on the issue. I am unsure why as President I wasn’t able to use my platform to lobby for conservation. But, as soon as I tried this, a board member began waving what it appeared she thought was some kind of smoking gun. My heart dropped. My friend, Frank Roden, saved my tail from getting whooped by a nearly eighty year old past president and his wife, the Treasurer. They were hurt that I had referred to “the dumbfuckery of stocking rainbow trout” in Black Creek. In some ways I thought this was a bit ridiculous since I don’t really understand the insult to be that big a deal. We all make mistakes. We all do dumb things. Furthermore, in all my forty years I have never known a person to be articulate when they are fucking, so it is not just sophistry to say we are all “dumb fucks.” There I said it.
I walked out on the club. It is an end to a chapter in my life. I have certainly inherited my father’s disposition for fighting windmills. I hope to make the E.O. Wilson Fly Club into something for which the state can be proud.
You're killing it, brother. Keep going.
I have no doubt it will be a great club