Watching the fly fishing going on down at Lewis Creek is a little like box seats at the Bolshoi ballet. You might not even know what those old guys are doing, but dang they seem to do it well.

Long, sinuous casts out from the bank to the Lunker Hole. The Lunker, often dreamed, never caught, but our community would be the poorer without him.

“Fly fishing,” said Marvin Pincus, “is just another name for life.”

“Or love,” said our cowboy, Steve.

“Or frustration,” said Dud, who was about to shinny up a tree to cut loose a tangle made by his back cast. He wouldn’t have bothered, but that fly hanging down from that tall branch was tied by Marvin Pincus. And was therefore an objet ‘d arte, which we learned is a French term meaning darned cute.  But if left in that tree, it might cause death and suffering to a bird.

“It could be a metaphor,” said Windy, making a little scud fly skitter across the surface.

“Metaphor?” Steve said.

Windy shrugged. “Heard that the other day. Means somethin’ like that there, I think.   Might be a metafive …”

“Don’t think so, Windy.”

“Thanks, Doc. Jest cogmitatin’, you know, ‘bout life and when to use a dry fly or when to drag one a-them streamies along and temptationize them fish.”

“That’s pretty deep, Windy,” said Dud, nodding his head. 

“Don’t think so,” Windy said, “Last time I fell in ‘twas ‘bout three foot or so. I jest fly fish cuz it’s more funner than drownin’ worms.”

“You can say that again!”

“Okay, Doc… I jest fly fish cuz it’s more funner …”

Were you aware you can hear six men groan above the noisy chuckling of a creek?