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There was an electric sense of anticipation around the lodge in the evening whenever one of us fished the stretch of water where the big fish lived. Would this be the day that he was finally landed? The look on the guide's face as he drove up to the lodge usually told the story.

On one occasion I was blessed with a very talented fisherman, who had paid for a week of individual fishing. Not only did I have someone who could get the job done, but I also had the luxury of devoting all of my time and attention to him. I was convinced that this was the week that the big brown trout would fall.

We approached the fish on our hands and knees, supplicated, as if we were pilgrims entering the most magnificent of medieval cathedrals, for this was indeed "hallowed ground". We lay prostrate in the grass and watched the big fellow as he patrolled his home pool, making a circuit of the water he controlled and feeding at several choice spots before returning to his favorite place under the willow.

In the belief that the time spent watching such a fish was worth twice the time fishing to it, we watched all morning, then snuck away to fish somewhere else for the afternoon and evening, returning the next morning to watch again. We timed how long the fish spent feeding at a particular place, and how long it took him to take up his next station. The idea was to have the fly waiting for him, drifting drag free as he arrived. In this manner there was a minimal chance that we might spook him with a bad presentation or dragging fly. After several days of scouting, we were ready.

After all of the time we'd spent watching and scheming, the anticipation was unbearable. I can tell you quite honestly that we were both teetering on a razor's edge when the first fly was cast gently and perfectly onto the water. As I write this, I can close my eyes and still clearly see the big brown leisurely and confidently rise to the fly.

"Strike! Strike!" I yelled.

"What?" The fisherman said, responding to the screaming in his ear and jerking the rod up too late.

"God-damn-it!" I cursed, ripping the hat from my head and throwing it to the ground. "sh**!" I yelled, turning my back to the river and storming off.

I walked twenty paces down the beach before I remembered my friend and realized how he must feel. I turned around to see him standing motionless; head hung low and staring at his feet. "I was watching another fly." He whispered hoarsely as I walked up. "Just as the fish fed, I watched it fly away. I'm so sorry."

"No. I'm sorry... sorry for yelling like that." I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. "I was so caught up in the moment that I forgot that I wasn't the one fishing. It was as if I held the rod in my hand and had missed the fish myself. I was mad at myself, not at you."

"Jeez,what a fish!" He said with the beginning of a smile returning to his face.

"Yeah," I giggled. "And, we fooled him."

Today's painting is a watercolor titled, "One Last Look  Brown Trout". It will give you some idea of the fish we missed!

The first thing a good guide does upon meeting his client for the first time is to ascertain the fisherman's goals. Does this person want to be taken to good water and just left alone? Does he want to catch a lot of fish by any and all means? Does he expect to have his flies tied on and his fish released for him, or does he want to learn to do these things himself? Some fly fishers want the guide to spend all his time helping and teaching their spouses; ensuring that they'll have the best possible time. Others want to be put on the best water while you teach casting technique to their beloved. A good guide will do just about anything to assure that his client feels successful, even if that means loosing a few fish because of a not-so-perfect knot that the fisherman wanted to tie himself.

I knew a guide in Argentina who, after realizing that one of his fishermen would need the bulk of his attention, spent his lunch hour crawling along the bank marking big trout with small scraps of his red bandanna. After wolfing down a quick sandwich, he directed the more talented angler to work up river focusing his time on any water with a bit of red material tied to the trees over it. The guide went down river with the other fisherman. At the end of the day, everyone was happy.

Another friend of mine used to spend his after-lunch siesta- time on the water that he planned to fish in the evening. He'd aggressively fish either a wooly bugger or hopper with the hook cut off at the bend. Down the middle of the river he'd walk, casting first to one side, then to the other. If a fish followed the big wet fly out from underneath the willows, he'd quickly pull it away, mentally marking the spot. If a fish rose to his hopper, he'd give it slack line and let the fish spit it out... again marking the spot. Amazingly, his clients always fished better after getting their rest.

Often times a guide will have two fishermen of greatly differing abilities in the same boat. It's as painful for the guide to watch one fisherman catch all the fish in a day, as it is frustrating for the beginner. I watched a friend of mine, who was guiding on the Agulukpak River deal with just such a situation. After it became apparent that it was going to be a lopsided day, he moved the novice into the bow of the boat so that he might coach him more effectively. The more experienced of the two anglers sensing the advantage, used the situation as an opportunity to fish both sides of the boat, often taking good trout in the drift that his partner was about to make.

Whenever this occurred, the other guides on the river would look over at my friend and wince in pain. He suggested that they trade places, but the beginner kept missing strikes... he needed that extra bit of instruction to hook that first magic fish. The guide knew that it would only take one fish to turn the corner, and that the more experienced of the two friends wasn't about to take a minute or two out of his day to help it happen. With just a few moments left before the floatplane arrived to ferry them back to the lodge, the new fisherman finally hooked a fish, and a very good one by the sound of his reel.

"Let's just reel up and enjoy this fish." My friend suggested to the champion.

"Just one more drift." The hero said casting his line.

"What should I do now?" Screamed the beginner. "He's running out all my line!"

"Let him run." The guide suggested. "You have a lot more backing than you think. It'll be all right."

"I've got another one!" Bellowed the ace, as his line moved off down river and tangled with the novices'.

"Now what do I do?" Wailed the beginner.

"Just let him run, I'm on it." The guide said. He dropped the anchor to hold the boat, waded down stream to the tangled lines, reached up, and grabbed the mess. Then he looked back to the boat to see what color of fly line belonged to which angler. Choosing one, he bit it in two. "Take your time." He said calmly to the neophyte as he waded back to the boat. "Maybe you'll land both of them."

There are few bonds stronger than those between a fisherman and his guide, particularly when that friendship is based upon mutual respect and just a bit of mischief. There's little a guide won't do for a fisherman he likes, and even less that an angler won't do for a guide that he looks up to and admires. Sometimes, an interesting twist can occur when serious measures are called for.

When I guided in Alaska, the lure of choice for early season char was the Cast Master; a sort of skinny, chrome-plated spoon that must have looked amazingly like the outbound salmon smolt on which the char gorged themselves. One of the guides at the lodge had developed a friendship with a pair of older fishermen from Wisconsin. While one of the older fellows followed the guide's suggestion, put on a Cast Master, and was always catching fish, the other insisted on using his selection of old Dare Devels and groused all day at the lack of activity.

"By Gott, Norman... vie can't yoos catch no chars?" One of the old timers asked the other. "Vat in da hell kind o loor are yoos using, anyvay?"

"I'm using vat I alvays use." Norm replied. "I'm using da only loor wort fish'n ... my Dare Devels!"

"I can't talk you into using a Cast Master, can I?" Pleaded the guide.

"Yoos guys use vat yoos vant... and I'll use vat I vant! Dars no chars under my side of da boat is all."

The next morning the two friends tied on their lures as the guide motored out to a hot spot, the mouth of a river through which all the smolt must pass on their perilous journey to sea. The water frothed as char chased smolt to the surface and smashed them. Arctic Terns, and Bonaparte's Gulls dove wildly into the maelstrom, screaming as they wheeled in tight circles and plunged again.

"By Gott... today's my day!" Norm said taking a deep breath and then a mighty swing of his rod. CRACK! The line broke and his red and white Dare Devel sailed away, a distant "splush" marking its return to earth.

Lester tied on one of his guide's Cast Masters and had two fish to the boat before Norm had tied on his second Dare Devel. "Whoopee!" He said as he released the second fish.

"By Gott...I'll get dem now!" Norm swore as his second cast arched away from the boat... CRACK! The line snapped again. "By Gott un Himmel!" He fumed, just ahead of the distant "splush".

"Whoopee!" Cried Lester.

Over the next twenty minutes Norm lost every one of his thirteen Dare Devels... the last, a cherished Rocket Devel, designed for the heavy water of Canada's Tree River. "By Gott... vat now?" He asked to no one in particular as he scratched his whiskered chin.

"Can I talk you into one of these?" The guide said, holding out a box of his lures.

"Vell, Vie not?" Norm answered, and tied on one of the spoons.

"Whoopee!" The old friends cried in unison just a few minutes later.

That night, after dinner, Norm excused himself to rest for the next day of fishing and Lester asked the guide if he might buy him a drink.

"Two Schnapps." Said Lester to the bartender. "Und, leave da bottle."

"I hear that you two finally talked old Norm into giving up his Dare Devels today." Said the bartender.

"Ya shoor." Said Lester. "Yoos might say dat."

"How'd you do it?"

"Vell, Norman alvays brings tirteen Dare Devels vit him, yoost for luck. So late last night we pulled fifty yards of line off of his reel, und put a drop of super glue on the spool. When it dried, den we reeled in a few yards und put anoother drop... und anoother, until we fixed it tirteen times. Den ve joost let old Norman do da rest!"

"Prost!" Offered Lester, raising his glass.

"Whoopee!" Answered the guide.

The friendships that I've developed while guiding were for me, the best part of the job. You learn a lot about a person when you spend time on the water with them, and fishing usually brings out the best in all of us.

On Lisa's first trip to Argentina with me, we crawled through the grass, slowly pulled aside the willow branches and I showed her the Big Brown that as far as I know, had never been hooked.

"Why don't you just try to dapple a nymph to him from right here?" she suggested. I did, and the fish was hooked. It broke me off faster than I could have blinked. Whoopee!

Bob White ©2008

About the Author... Bob White is a tremendous artist and talented writer. Bob guided in Southwest Alaska and has nearly two decades of experience there as a fishing and wing shooting guide. He also guided sportsmen in Argentina for a decade, and continues to host fly fishing and wing shooting trips to Patagonia, Alaska, Kamchatka and other destinations.

His photography and art are easily found in many prominet publications, including Fly Rod & Reel Magazine, Gray's Sporting Journal, and Gun Dog Magazine.Bob also owns Whitefish Studio where you can find today's featured art, as well as many other beautiful works. Please browse around at whitefishstudio.com.