A couple of summers ago, hunched over my tying vise high in the Caribou National Forest, I diverted from my usual Stimulator recipe and kind of went rogue. There were two reasons for my deviation. First, I realized that I’d finally reached an advanced enough age to where my eyesight — even with corrective lenses — was impacting my ability to see dry flies intended for the cutthroats I’d spent a couple of days chasing. Second, I’d just refilled a giant insulated cup with my third vodka and Sprite Zero cocktail, and my brain was just altered enough to consider something different.

I love fishing with really good anglers — anglers who possess those innate fly fishing traits that, while they can be taught, come more naturally to some than to others. It’s fun to watch a really good angler with a butter-smooth cast unleash a haymaker across the river. It’s enjoyable to watch someone with a lot of experience in the salt not only put the cast on the money, but then spend the next half hour battling a big tarpon to the boat.