I was the equivalent of a jig-dancing pauper on a street corner with a large cardboard sign plugging wireless services, pizza specials, or inventory liquidation.

Photo: Ben Romans

So when the early morning, coastal fog lifted to cobalt skies, I was presented with a bounty of rainbows and cutties, and what they lacked in size, they more than made up for with aerial displays of pool-jumping prowess.

Photo: Jay Humphrey

"As a kid I tagged along with my dad on an endless string of weekends on Montana's infamous rivers: the Madison, Jefferson, Bighorn, Missouri, and Yellowstone. In the early years I was too young to appreciate the waters and what it really meant to fly fish. But the seed was planted."

I had an Eagle Claw fly-rod-spin combo that didn’t work well for either. It was dabble fishing, so you didn't need much of a tool. You just reached over the bank and watched the trout smack it.

The fly's designer recommends a full sensory delivery: "In lakes, or slack water, you can strip him, but do it fast. Making high pitched mouse sounds and talking as though you're the mouse frantically swimming in the water, also helps."

Photo: Elam

Indeed amigo. Nobody hooks lakers on the fly in the middle of the summer. But I’m a dumb American, so I’ll take that bet and raise you a half rack of LaBatt’s with a back of Crown, eh?

Photo: Rob Elam

"Chalk one up for the girl."

Old "bluenose" tuna eating from the prop wash. Pensive moments with an angler named George and his partner Phyllis throwing down.