Pretty Fly for a Trout Guy
A guide to outdoor hipsters, part three.
He’s back folks, donning a dirty flannel, dirtier beard, fresh Chums, Smith sunglasses, Simms waders, and a Sage fly rod—all of which were purchased last week. This season we bring you one of Bozeman’s most popular: the too-fly fisherman. You’d be hard-pressed not to encounter one on a springtime stroll around town, so you probably know exactly who we’re talking about. Just in case you don’t, look out for the fellow who does the following:
Wears Simms. Head to toe. And Patagonia, in a pinch. Loves that pro deal from his guide buddy!
Owns two rods—both Sage, one a standard five-weight and the second an unchristened spey rod—but his Tacoma has two four-slot River Quivers.
His Instagram, @RippinLips406, is all grip-and-grin shots of big fish.
Aforementioned grip-and-grins are frontal only, because sideways shots are so 2016.
Chooses where to fish based on “Instagramability.”
Laments to nearby anglers that it was only a 10-fish day, eight of which were “pointless” whiteys. Posts photos of every fish caught before returning to the truck.
Often references “No-Tell-’Em Creek” as his favorite water, but uses geolocation on all his posts.
Berates others for spin fishing. And sometimes, for nymphing. Go dry or go home, bro.
Is obsessed with the Montana Grand Slam—“the Slammy,” as he calls it: catching all species (and subspecies) of trout in one season.
Throws out words like “fluvial” and “thorax” in casual conversation. (He doesn’t actually know what they mean, but he’s usually close enough to avoid scrutiny.)
Brags that his buddy is featured in this year’s fly-fishing film tour. Turns out “buddy” only means that he saw him in the bar.
Kisses trout upon landing them.
Reveres the native cutthroat trout. Rainbows and browns are all right, but nothing compares to the wild cutty. He’s never caught one.
Goes on a grayling vision quest every year. Talks about it every week.
Wants to go on a bull-trout vision quest, but “the stars haven’t aligned, man.”
Carries a creel, but has never eaten a trout—and never will.
Wears waders in August. And in the driftboat, even though his feet never touch the water.
Never unhitches the driftboat from his truck. Gets to the Murray early enough to park in front
Can’t back up the trailer properly—has to straighten out and “give ‘er another go” several times per launch.
Insists that one will never understand fly-fishing until learning the art of the double-haul.
Swears that he’ll never leave Montana, brother, despite having moved here from California two months ago.
