The Competitive Tablescaper

My first guide trip was absolutely freaking terrifying.  I’d worked a year and a half in a fly shop for this day, and I felt like I could pass out at any moment because I was so nervous.            

Every prior decision was the end of the world—do I have enough gas?  Did I pack enough drinks?  Are all of my flies in my pack?  What color shirt should I wear?  And the most ridiculous—do I wear makeup or not?            

Four years later I can’t believe that makeup caused such a dilemma on my first day of guiding, but it did.  I’d always dressed up for work in Texas, but what was professional dress on the river?  I eventually decided on mascara only—I would look like I cared, but not like some sorority girl the shop had pulled off the street.  That would turn out to be the last time I wore makeup on the river.  The fish really don’t care. 

I showed up early so I could pick out flies, grab some leaders, and maybe even get the chance to calm down a little.  No such luck for me—turns out the group of about 50 bankers were already there!  I almost pooped my pants.  The guides split up to find clients, and I ended up with two women who were acquaintances from opposite coasts.           

The first things I noticed about my clients were their Chanel sunglasses, Chloe bags, and two-inch purple fingernails. They weren’t natural fly-fishers, to say the least.

 It was hard finding waders and boots to fit the (large) ladies, but we eventually made it work and headed down to the river after a lot of moaning and groaning.           

I’d scouted hard earlier in the week and carefully selected somewhere to fish.  For a little bit I thought our luck was improving, because we got there before someone else did.  It wasn’t.  As they were struggling to get their waders on, one of the ladies informed me that she’d just had a hip replacement.  This was steadily getting worse, and we weren’t even on the river.           

Shepherding two older, overweight women with glue-on fingernails and a hip replacement across the Big Wood River wasn’t exactly what I had pictured guiding would be like.  Getting them to the first pool took most of the strength I had, and they hadn’t even casted yet.           

One of the women picked up casting pretty quickly and generally understood what was supposed to happen, but the other was anything but a natural.  While she was flailing flies near my face, she started telling me about her hobby as a competitive tablescaper.  For any boys reading, competitive tablescaping consists of setting a table. Competitively. Really.                 

Ms. Tablescaper did manage to catch a fish.  She handed over her camera, proudly exclaiming that her physical therapist and tablescaping friends wouldn’t believe she was fishing in Idaho.  I proceeded to drop the camera in the river.  This was before waterproof point-and-shoots, but I had the same camera as she did and knew how to dry it out and get it running again in 30 seconds.            

She was still pissed.  The women were cold, tired, and out of their element.  Honestly, I was too.           

I managed to get them home without any more incidents, and they double-tipped me.  I should have been happy—instead, I went home and cried.  I’d given up on a career in academia and had moved nearly two thousand miles away from my family when I’d decided that I wanted to do this for a living.            

Fortunately, that first trip was late in the season, so I had all winter to contemplate my decision and take another try.  I did, and now I’m looking forward to my fifth season on the water.  It turns out that very few clients are competitive tablescapers.  Better yet, most let you know about their hip replacements before the trip, and I have never seen another purple fingernail. Chanel even polarizes their shades now.            

It was worth giving up a “normal” life.  My job is to make people happy, and that makes me happy. 

Morgan R. Buckert thinks using her M.A. in history is overrated, so she guides, chases trout, powder, and clean climbing lines in Idaho.