Fly Fishing in Alaska Can you possibly imagine a native of New York City being named Bubba Bob? It just doesn’t fit. Maybe Byron, or Chase, or His Lordship, but not Bubba Bob (BB). Anyone from New York City named BB had to have had a father and mother with a somewhat warped sense of humor. I did some investigating after my experience with BB, and discovered that his parents were one of those rags-toriches stories. They had done extremely well in business and had managed to hold onto their wealth even through bad times. They seemed to hope that naming their son BB would help keep him grounded; more in touch with reality despite a big-city, East Coast upbringing. Indeed, BB developed a strong sense of business reality to him, as he was able to increase the wealth his parents had created and ultimately left him. Unlike so many others who had been gifted a financial head start, he did well on his own. That said, along with his financial success, he had developed a huge sense of self-worth. Everything he did or said was directed towards himself. He had to feel he did everything bigger and better than anyone else. BB made it known he only smoked Cuban cigars smuggled into the country, drank wine from his own vineyard sent to him whenever he traveled, shot the most expensive shotguns he could find, and fished with custom-made bamboo fly rods. That’s the BB I came to know. And, frankly, if you have done any traveling where you stayed in a hunting or fly fishing lodge, you have probably met someone like BB. I met BB as we stood at the bar of our shared Alaskan fly fishing lodge. He looked like he had just stepped out of a G.Q. ad. Everything was pressed and color-coordinated. His fishing shirt was tailored and cut from of the finest
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cotton, embroidered with a jaunty “BB” over the left pocket. As for myself, I looked like I had just stepped off a 12-hour flight (middle seat), which in fact was the case. BB had arrived on his Gulf Stream. I was on my fourth lodge scotch (to kill the pain of travel), while BB drank from a bottle of his private label California wine – a suitable pairing for his short and comfortable day of travel. As BB told me all about himself, I was saying a silent prayer that we would not be partnered together for the week. My prayer was soon answered; and the answer was not the one I wanted. (I figured the “no” answer was because of my lack of adherence to any religious beliefs for the last 20 years). I would be fly fishing with BB for the next seven days. Needless to say, I was less than excited; I can’t speak for BB. As we talked about our various fly fishing and travel exploits, we discovered this was the first trip to Alaska for both of us. However, BB informed me he had watched lots of DVD’s about fly fishing in Alaska, and he was sure he knew everything there was to know about catching big fish in the Land of the Midnight Sun. I, by now on my sixth Scotch, admitted to knowing nothing about much of anything. The next morning our pilot/guide, Mary Jane (MJ), loaded us into her float plane and headed out to the river that we would be fishing for the day. BB was quick to climb into the co-pilot seat, figuring that since he owned his own jet, he might be able to help out if trouble occurred. Of course, BB never thought to ask me if I had any flying experience, and I didn’t volunteer anything about my 1,000 hours of instrument-rated flying time. Some things are just better left unsaid. MJ managed to
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