We rendezvoused with Seifer and Anders back at the Suburban and Seifer could tell from the look on my face that things hadn’t gone well. “Tough day?” he asked. I just nodded. Nobody said much as we headed back to the lodge.
My fallen spirits revived somewhat when we sat down to another exquisite dinner, this time with a main course of roast duck breast in a cherry and cognac sauce, and more wine—a Freedom Hill pinot noir with a handsome salmon-fly label from the Lange Estate Winery in Dundee, Oregon.
Comfortably stuffed, Seifer and I retired to the great room where we took the same chairs in front of the fire. Anders already had it going and this time he brought us a pair of whisky glasses filled with an ancient single-malt Scotch, served “neat,” without ice. Its color reminded me of the fourteen-inch brown trout I’d released. Then he brought out the humidor and we each took another Cuban cigar.
I’d thought Seifer probably would want to talk about the day’s fishing, but he soon made it clear he had other things on his mind. “I mentioned there were some things I wanted to talk to you about,” he said behind an aromatic cloud of cigar smoke. “I’ve read some things you’ve written and was impressed by your thoughtfulness and reasoning. I didn’t always agree with everything you said, but you strike me as someone who’s given serious thought to fly-fishing ethics—the way we value trout and the ways we fish for them. I want to pick your brain about some of these things. I think we can learn from each other.”
I remembered Dalton had said Seifer was interested in angling ethics. I wondered if that was the reason for all the homilies about honesty posted around the lodge. Offhand, however, I couldn’t remember having written anything especially profound on that topic, or anything other writers hadn’t said before. “Why are you so interested in angling ethics?” I asked.
“Well, do you realize that fly fishing in one form or another has been around for probably at least a couple of thousand years, maybe even longer, and it’s still a sport without any rules?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean nobody knows exactly what fly fishing is. We’ve never codified it. We’ve never defined it. You can’t really explain it to anybody because nobody knows what it is.”
“That’s not true. There are plenty of rules. Just check the fishing regulations. Nearly every state has regulations that define fly fishing.”
“Yes, many states have regulations, but they aren’t definitions. They don’t really clearly define fly-fishing tackle or fly-fishing tactics, if they even try to explain them at all. Most so-called regulations are nothing more than a list of things a game warden can use to write you a ticket. They’re all different, too; no two alike. And most are more remarkable for what they don’t say than for what they do.”
“I’m still not sure I follow you. What’s the problem?”
“I’m surprised you’re not tuned into this. I’m sure you read all the stories in your magazine and probably those published by your competitors as well. Hasn’t it ever struck you as odd that some of your writers seem to naturally assume it’s okay to fish with strike indicators? Many people would agree, but many others—perhaps even more—do not. There was a story in your most recent issue where the writer seemed to take it for granted that it’s okay for fly fishers to use split shot on their leaders. Some people think that’s absolute heresy and that it goes against every fly-fishing tradition. Some of your writers also seem untroubled by the notion of fishing over spawning fish, but that troubles me a lot; I think it’s about as low as you can go. So do lots of other people.
“One of your competitors had a story recently about using 3-D printers to make trout flies. What are the implications of that for the future of fly tying and fly fishing? I’ve also seen articles about flies that glow in the dark. What are the ethics of that? And nearly every magazine, yours included, has stories about smartphone ‘apps’ for fly fishers. You might not know the difference between a Dobson fly larva and a Green Drake, but you can find pictures of both on your smartphone along with suggested fly patterns. You don’t even have to be able to think.
“You used to have to learn all that stuff, and learning it was one of the great pleasures of fly fishing. Now everything has been dumbed down and made easy. Fly fishing is under assault from all sides. Its history and traditions are in danger of being lost, and the deck is being stacked more and more against the trout. We don’t have any rules to protect the sport. You see what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I think so.” And I did see. “But I guess I don’t understand why this is a problem. Shouldn’t fly fishing be broad-based enough to include all sorts of different approaches?”
“No, I don’t think it should, because all these ‘different approaches,’ as you call them, are nibbling away at the edges of the sport. Where does it stop? Is it okay for someone to troll a fly? If an angler never casts—doesn’t even know how—is he really fly fishing? How much erosion of the sport has to take place before it disappears altogether? So many things happening these days are in total conflict with the ancient traditions of fly fishing. Our forefathers didn’t use any weight on their lines or their leaders because they wouldn’t have been able to cast if they did; their equipment was too primitive. They didn’t use strike indicators. They didn’t troll. They didn’t use electronic fish finders or GPS systems or 3-D printers. All they had was their skill. That’s fly fishing at its very purest, and we’re losing it rapidly. It’s time—way past time—that we define what fly fishing is, and just as important, what it isn’t. It may be the oldest sport in the world without any rules.”
I was having trouble believing what I was hearing. Here was a man whose software was running on half the world’s computers, one of the great technological innovators of his time, a man with an unlimited vision of the future, and he was worried about preserving the ideas of the past, the ancient history and traditions of fly fishing. What a paradox! “I guess I still don’t see why it’s such a big problem,” I said. “Why don’t fly fishers just get together like they did when they adopted fly-line standards and come up with a standard definition of fly fishing?”
“Forget it. It’s been tried. It failed because nobody could agree on anything, and I doubt that’s going to change.”
“So then what can you do about it?”
“I’m not so naive as to think we can ever come up with a definition that everyone will buy into. It would always be changing anyway because fly fishing is a continually evolving sport, and I don’t want to try to stifle that creativity; that’s not what this is about. So, instead of trying to write a definition, I think we should try to adopt a sort of philosophical declaration, a mission statement, if you will. It would say that anglers who choose fly fishing must be willing to accept self-imposed handicaps designed to assure that the contest between the angler and the trout is always on a level playing field. Trout have only their instincts to guide them, so fly fishers should be willing to rely only on their skills. That’s the only way the contest can be equal—no gimmicks, no gadgets, no ‘apps’.
“That means keeping the ancient traditions of fly fishing in mind, thinking before you act, and always trying to do the right thing. In other words, before you pinch split shot on your leader, stop and think: is there another way to get the fly down to the fish? Using your own skill instead of some convenience your forefathers never had?
“That’s what I call the ‘Seifer Solution’: Trying to be as honest with yourself as the trout are with you. That’s one of the things I hope to achieve with this lodge. I plan to engage every guest in this conversation and at least get them started thinking about this. It won’t solve the problem, won’t bring order out of anarchy, but at least it may be a step in the right direction.
“And you, I hope, will be my first convert.”
We sat quietly while I tried to make sense of what he’d said. Something about it bothered me. I glanced upward and saw Hiapo leaning over the balcony this time, keeping an eye on both of us. He grinned and wave
d.
Eventually I figured out what was bugging me. “It seems to me,” I ventured, “that there’s a suggestion in what you just said that maybe I am not what you would consider an honest angler. Or am I misunderstanding you?”
Seifer drew on his cigar. “No,” he said, “you aren’t. Not entirely. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to start with you, because in your role as an editor, I don’t think you’re being quite honest with yourself. Or your readers.”
I could feel my temper rising. “You’d better explain that,” I said crisply.
“Sure. The last issue of Salmo has your story about that steelhead camp in Southeast Alaska. You made it—both the camp and the fishing—sound like Las Vegas and Disneyland rolled into one, better even than this place. Well, I’ve been to that camp too, and I know what it’s like—the food, the accommodations, the staff, especially the fishing. They aren’t even within light years of what we’ve got here. And you know it. You knew it when you wrote the story. It was a free trip, wasn’t it? And your highly favorable story was the payoff. Isn’t that right?”
I felt as if I’d been hooked. Or maybe gaffed would be a better term. He had just managed to rip the scab off a wound I’d always tried to conceal. I couldn’t escape the guilt I felt over that story about the steelhead camp, or about all the other stories from all the other free trips I’d taken. I had known as I wrote them that I was being deceitful—hell, I was downright lying—and purposely misleading readers. I knew I was doing something that made me ashamed of myself. But I had always tried mentally to sweep such feelings under the rug and put them out of my mind. I knew other editors and writers were doing exactly the same thing. I’d even talked to some about it; we always ended up rationalizing our behavior on grounds that free trips were just an additional form of compensation, because most of us got paid so little.
But I didn’t really believe it then, and I didn’t now.
“All right,” I said. “You’ve exposed a very raw nerve. You’re absolutely right, and I plead guilty.”
“Good, that’s a starting point. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I know a lot of this stuff goes on in your business. But you’re in a position to make lots of other people think about things like this, about doing the right thing, so I need to get you on board first. To make an honest editor out of you. To make you start doing the right thing.”
“I’m listening.” What else could I say?
“Let me begin by posing a question for you. Have you ever met a fisherman more honest than a trout?”
“What kind of question is that? How can a trout be anything but honest?”
“Precisely my point. They can’t. They have no choice. They’re incapable of making moral judgments. We humans, unfortunately, are capable of making them, and we often get them wrong. As fly fishers, the only way we can fish for trout is to deceive them. To cheat them. Are you familiar with the famous quote from the Roman poet Martial? ‘Who has not seen the scarus rise, decoyed and killed by fraudful flies?’ That’s the earliest mention of fly fishing in literature, even preceding Aelian’s ‘Macedonian way of catching fish.’ Of course, we don’t know what a ‘scarus’ was, but maybe it was a trout. In any case, the operative word in the quote is ‘fraudful.’ We’ve been cheating trout ever since the earliest times by offering them ‘fraudful’ imitations.
“That means even the best of us can never be as honest as a trout. But we can limit our dishonesty to that one thing, using a fly to deceive the poor innocent trout, and try to be honest about everything else we do—not only in fishing, but in editing magazines, writing about fly fishing, dealing with other people—everything.
“That’s what I’m now asking of you. I want you to give me your word there will be no more free trips and no more deceptive stories. I want you to swear to me that next time you get a story from a guy who uses strike indicators or fish finders or split shot, you’ll send it back and ask him to go out and try it without any of those, then come back and write a story telling how he did it with skill alone.”
I was losing my temper. “Who the hell do you think you are, the pope? Can’t you just forgive me if I say a thousand Hail Marys or something? Who are you to judge?”
Seifer’s bushy eyebrows sharpened into a steeper-sided V and he sat back in his chair. “I see I’ve offended you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to do that, and I don’t presume to be your judge. I’m just trying to get you to judge yourself. You admitted you felt guilty about the free-trip stuff. What I’m suggesting is a way you can rid yourself of guilt, not only by upgrading your own ethics, but also by insisting upon more ethical behavior by the people whose work you publish. Look, I know we’re never going to stop people from cutting corners in the way they fish, but if we can at least make them think about their behavior, maybe we’ll be able to preserve the essence of the sport for another generation or two. That’s all I hope to do. And I hope you’ll help me.” His eyes glowed with intensity.
I finished the Scotch in my glass, which had already been once replenished by Anders. He was quick to reappear with the bottle and give me another refill. I took a healthy swig of that, too, then tried to match the intensity of Seifer’s gaze. “Okay,” I said, “but what you’re asking is impossible. If I stop accepting free trips, my boss will fire me in a New York minute. You know magazines are struggling because the Internet has taken so much of our advertising, and my boss is very bottom-line oriented. He has to be, because he reports to a bigger fish up the corporate food chain—a shark, not a trout. Those free trips I take are trips he doesn’t have to pay for, and that’s no small consideration. If I say I’m not going to do that anymore, I’m toast. And if I start trying to get our writers to do things they don’t want to do, just because you want them to do things differently—well, same result.”
Seifer was quiet for a full minute. “Well,” he said at last, “all I can ask is that you think about it. I know you’d feel better if you didn’t have to compromise yourself any longer.”
I was relieved because I’d thought he was going to say “prostitute yourself.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “sleep on it. Maybe you’ll feel differently in the morning.” He stubbed out his cigar, finished his Scotch and left the room.
I stared at the fire, now only a pyramid of glowing coals, and sipped the rest of my Scotch, alone with deeply troubled thoughts.
It was one of the worst nights I’ve ever had. There was no hope of sleep; all I could think of, through my alcoholic fog, was that Seifer had called me out as no one else ever had. He had exposed the guilt I had tried so long to conceal, even from myself. He’d made me feel ugly, dirty, and dishonest. He’d also left me with a terrible dilemma. I had to decide whether I could face him in the morning and vow I’d never take another free trip or write another dishonest story; either that, or tell him I couldn’t accept his terms. If I did that, I would be admitting my own dishonesty and, in effect, promising to continue it. Under those circumstances I couldn’t possibly remain as a guest at Troutwaters Lodge, and I doubted very much if Seifer would dispatch a jet to fly me home.
Tangled thoughts assailed my mind and I tossed and turned while I tried to weigh my choices. I liked my job and wanted to keep it, but the price seemed painfully high. If I told Seifer I was going to stay with business as usual and therefore could no longer remain his guest, should I offer to pay him for the time I’d spent at the lodge? But why do that if I also admitted I’d be accepting more free trips?
I thought about the first free trip I’d taken as editor of Salmo, nine years ago. It was at a Caribbean bonefishing lodge, and I supposed it cost the lodge owner around $5,000 or $6,000 in lost income and direct expense. Not an inconsiderable sum. Figuring I’d taken three or four free trips a year ever since, and some had probably cost twice as much as the first one, then over the years I’d probably had something like $150,000 to $175,000 worth of free trips, maybe more. Lots of congressmen and judges have been sent to prison f
or accepting lesser bribes—for that’s what they were, bribes—in exchange for writing stories that never contained a discouraging word.
But I also had to admit I’d greatly enjoyed most of those trips, and I didn’t want to contemplate a future without them.
All things considered, I thought I’d have to tell Seifer I couldn’t accept his challenge, even if it meant dishonoring myself. I began mentally trying to compose what words I would use to tell him, but each approach I came up with sounded weak or selfish.
Suddenly, completely unbidden, an old familiar quote popped into my mind, something the great outdoor humorist Ed Zern once said: “Fly fishermen are born honest, but they get over it.” It made me chuckle. That was one quote that surely wouldn’t be on display around Troutwaters Lodge. Yet the more I thought about it, the more I realized it didn’t apply to me. I had been born honest, but I’d never gotten over it. That’s why I was feeling so damned guilty about some of the things I’d done.
Which got me thinking about how much better I’d feel if I expunged my guilt and told Seifer I would renounce free trips and all that other stuff. And that made me start conjuring up words I’d use to tell him. Again, they all seemed inadequate.
So it went, back and forth, back and forth, all the interminable night long. After the alcohol wore off, it got even worse. I still hadn’t slept when the first pale gray morning light came through the picture window of my beautiful, luxurious, spacious, absolutely free room.
Trout Quintet Page 12
