The Contemplative Angler

You walk from the yellow glow of one lamp to the next, careful not to stray too far into the smoke. You can feel the room is crowded but the figures hunched at each table are barely discernible. Cries of anguish drift to you through the eddying smoke, the intensity of the sufferer's agony measured by the volume and length of their imprecations. Voices of the damned...for a moment all is quiet, then with the snap of a thread, a low grunt of profanity ripples forth.

It's another Wednesday evening fly tying session of the Andover Fly Fishers, circa 1962...

Oh, Dorothy, how true -- if you mean the fly fishing media gurus. Of course, to suggest that professional fishing writers would prostitute their talents is to do them a great disservice -- they also pimp. It's the new era of full-service "servicing" available through a fly fishing magazine near you...